Hell's Encore: A Post-Apocalyptic Survival Thriller (This Dark Age Book 2)

by John L. Monk

  Early one morning, late-December, Dylan woke to automatic gunfire sounding faintly in the distance. He couldn’t tell if it came from inside, far away, or outside up close. To find out, he ran out the emergency exit and onto the tarmac.

  “What the …?”

  Lined up along the shore of the Potomac were about twenty powerboats. Way off to the left in the direction of Terminals B/C, kids were crouched behind the big aircraft wheels and airport trucks, shooting in the direction of the terminal. Aaron and his friends were firing back. Between them, near the wall, were the shipping containers with the remainder of the FEMA bars. Aaron still kept them there because he was too lazy to relocate them.

  Clearly, someone had figured that out.

  Dylan’s eyes widened and his breath caught. The nearest invaders—about ten of them—were pointing his way. When a couple of them began shooting, he ran back to the emergency exit and frantically ripped off the tape they used to keep it from locking.

  “We’re being attacked!” he shouted after rushing inside.

  The little kids screamed and ran to their assigned hiding places, and the older boys and girls grabbed rifles and pistols, according to their preference. Some of them knew how to work the rifles, but hadn’t fired more than a few rounds outside to test them. Nobody really believed Aaron would try anything with so little to gain. After all, both sides had enough food to last for years.

  The attack, such that it was, quickly fell apart when Aaron’s AVs showed up with kids up top blazing away at the attackers. Over the next few minutes, half of the invaders lay dead. Another minute and the rest were fleeing back to their boats under a hail of bullets.

  After the attack, a truce broke out between Terminals A and B/C.

  Dylan didn’t trust Aaron, and Aaron clearly didn’t like his rival, who he openly called “King Twerp.” But the truce was real. Nobody knew if those kids would come back, or what they’d bring with them next time. They’d had mostly hunting rifles and pistols. Next time, they might have automatic weapons of their own, or even grenades. Or maybe a different group would attack.

  Against that day, Dylan asked Aaron to run shoreline patrols in one of the AVs. Aaron said yes, so long as Dylan’s group provided the diesel, obtained from the countless airport service vehicles through great effort. Both groups, however, took turns at the front entrance—mingling and gossiping at every shift change—and that’s when Dylan discovered where Aaron’s guns and armored vehicles came from. They’d raided the Pentagon, which had been hardened into a military base in the early days of the Sickness. They’d even found night vision helmets on dead guards still at their posts.

  One day it started to snow … and snow … and snow. The AVs were moved to the parking garage, where they were spun up occasionally for fun during the long winter days with nothing to do. Which was fine. If anyone wanted to attack, it wouldn’t be by boat, what with the river iced over almost to the middle. Dylan watched the shore anyway, just in case, but nothing happened.

  When the weather began to clear, Dylan took advantage of the sliver of trust between the two groups and called a meeting.

  Aaron was waiting in front of Legal Seafood surrounded by his friends. Ridiculously, they were all dressed in ill-fitting army uniforms. Aaron even wore medals and insignia on his chest. Stolen from a dead officer, no doubt.

  “You can’t be serious,” Aaron said, puffing his chest out to show off his medals. “You want one of our super Jeeps?”

  That’s what Aaron and his friends called the AVs. Super Jeeps. They weren’t even Jeeps—they were Humvees, but they didn’t care.

  Dylan spread his arms wide, palms up, the way he’d seen his dad do a bunch of times on TV. “We don’t want it for keeps. Now that the snow’s melting, we want to help out more. That way, fewer of your people need to be up all night.”

  A couple of Aaron’s goons nodded their heads at that, only to be glared into submission by Aaron.

  The real reason Dylan wanted an AV was because Aaron’s so-called patrols spent the whole winter watching from the airport windows and not going out. Before the snow, they wasted good diesel joyriding and then expected Terminal A to replace it. It wasn’t fair, and their laziness would get people killed.

  In the end, an agreement was struck: B/C would receive some of the cooler guns taken from the mobile armory, and Terminal A would take over all shoreline patrols and night duty at the front entrance. Dylan considered it a victory. Now they only had to refuel their own AV, and they’d provide better security for the airport at the same time.

  The unsteady alliance nearly tore apart when a fight broke out between both groups, starting with fists and ending with guns. The already larger numbers in B/C prevailed, and when it was over, two boys and a girl from Terminal A were dead. A sobering moment for Dylan, who knew it was only a matter of time before Aaron would feel confident enough to strike.

  Sometime in late March, a sailboat approached the airport in the middle of the night. One of his closer friends—a girl name Sharon—reported by walkie-talkie that there was only one kid on deck. A few minutes later, she said someone else had come up from below. When she drove out to intercept the craft before it could reach shore, the sailboat took off in the direction of D.C.

  “Get in the boat and follow them,” Dylan said. “Don’t let them see you. I’ll finish your shift.”

  “Awesome,” she said.

  The “boat” was a flat-bottomed Jon Boat with a small motor that Sharon and Dylan had snagged from a nearby marina. FEMA bars would keep them healthy and full, but they were boring to eat, and after a year of no fishermen, the river was suddenly overflowing with fish. Most of the other kids didn’t like fish, but Dylan did, and Sharon did, and the way they saw it: more for them. Also, in the back of his mind, he figured if he needed to get away in a hurry, he could take the little boat and just go.

  Dylan cursed himself for not telling her to bring a walkie-talkie. As if he had to remind someone of such an obvious thing. With nothing to do, he stewed in the AV with a kid named Leroy—Sharon’s gunner—for three hours waiting for her to return.

  “There’s five of them, best I can tell,” Sharon said when she got back.

  “Girls? Boys? How old?”

  “All old, like us. Two girls, three boys. One of the boys is chunky. Isn’t that funny? He wasn’t in charge, though.”

  “Could you tell who was in charge?”

  “Uh huh,” she said. “Some other boy. He was pointing at the bridge. You know the one that goes flat across?”

  He knew the one. “How come they didn’t see you?”

  Sharon smiled. “I pulled up to shore and watched behind a rock. Could have just sat on it. They didn’t even look, they were so busy. They pulled some girl up the pole like a flag.” She shook her. “Craziest thing I ever saw.”

  “Are you messing with me?” Dylan said. “Because if you are …”

  Sharon laughed. “Nope, that’s what they did. Sent her right up.”

  “Then what?”

  “It was kind of hard to tell, but it looked like they tied the boat to the bridge.”

  “You are messing with me.” This was getting weirder and weirder.

  Sharon yawned loudly and shook her head. “I need a nap.”

  Dylan thanked her and let her go rest. He puzzled over her story. A sailboat? Really? The ones who’d attacked the first time had powerboats. And that stuff about climbing up the mast—totally crazy. Whatever they were doing, it didn’t seem particularly dangerous, at least not to the kids living in the airport.

  But they had approached the airport.

  Ultimately, that’s what settled it. He had to know who they were. And despite how tired he was from being up all day yesterday, all night, and now all morning, he and two friends armed themselves, got in the boat, and motored toward the bridge.

  37

  The Banshee’s crew of two gave up without a fight. They threw their hands up and surrendered when Dylan’s friend
s pointed their weapons at them.

  The boy’s name was Andrew, the girl’s Chelsea.

  “We were fishing,” Andrew said.

  “While we waited for our friends,” Chelsea added.

  Pretending not to notice the hard stare Andrew threw her way, Dylan pointed at the bridge. “Why’d you tie it up like that?”

  Andrew seemed surprised by the question. “Uh … because we didn’t want to use the anchor?”

  Dylan didn’t like forcing them off their boat, but he needed to remain suspicious. Just because they acted innocent didn’t mean they were. As if proving the point, a quick search of the boat yielded two rifles, a pistol, and a few hundred rounds of ammunition … and fishing poles, granted. But as his dad sometimes said: “No one tells half the truth better than a total liar.”

  He sent back a bunch of kids in the AV to lie in wait for Chelsea and Andrew’s friends to return. If they had to defend themselves, fine. Otherwise, no shooting.

  When he got back to Terminal A, he found Aaron and his goons waiting on the tarmac.

  “Who the hell are those assholes?” Aaron said, glaring at the prisoners.

  “That’s what I’m trying to find out,” Dylan said. “Why don’t you go back to your side and we’ll call if we need you?”

  Aaron hocked a lugee in their direction, though not far enough to hit anyone. Some of his friends had weapons out.

  Aaron said, “You’re supposed to tell us if you see someone in a boat. Otherwise, you can give us back our super Jeep right now.”

  Dylan would have ignored him under normal conditions, but everyone was watching. And as much as he wanted to brush him off, Aaron had a point—there had been an agreement.

  “We’ll do it next time, okay? Now, if you don’t mind …”

  Shaking his head, Aaron blocked his way. “Put ’em in that jail cell you have.” At the look of surprise on Dylan’s face, he added, “Oh, we know all about it. One of your little snots fessed up when we beat his ass.” He pointed at Chelsea. “We’re gonna find out why they’re here, where they came from, and show them for good what happens when they mess with us.”

  At first Dylan was confused. Messed with us? Then it dawned on him. “Oh … You think these are the same kids from last time.” He laughed out loud. “Dude—they had a sailboat. None of those others had sailboats.”

  “Whatever,” Aaron said. “Jail or the pit, you decide.”

  To emphasize the point, he pulled a pistol from under his shirt like a gangster and racked the slide, causing kids on both sides to aim their weapons at each other. Feeling sick to his stomach, Dylan stood between both groups and held his hands up for peace.

  “Fine,” he said. “We’ll lock them up. But if they’re not lying, they get to go.”

  Aaron snorted. “Of course they’re lying. You’re so gullible it’s cute.” When he put his pistol away, the others lowered their weapons. Then they got back in the AVs and left.

  “Why’s he so mean?” Chelsea said, wrinkling her nose.

  Dylan shrugged. “Mom didn’t hug him enough. But I gotta throw you in jail now. It’s actually not so bad. There’s bunks with cushions built right in. No one’s sleeping there because of the guns. Guess we’ll have to move them. Help out and we’ll find you some pillows.”

  “I don’t wanna go to jail,” Andrew said, shaking his head.

  “And that’s a healthy attitude,” Dylan said. “Now, come on—just through that door.” He pointed the way.

  That afternoon, the people he’d sent to the bridge returned with troubling news. The prisoners’ friends had come back all right—armed to the teeth and firing weapons. A teacher’s son named Shane reported this. An odd kid, he was constantly fiddling with the military rifle Dylan had given him, and had shot it more than anyone else.

  Dylan watched Shane’s face for signs of deception. “How many were there?”

  “Like five of them. But they were shooting at us.”

  Andrew had said they were waiting on three friends to return. Either he’d been lying or Shane was.

  “Five?” Dylan said. “Really?”

  Shane nodded.

  “Did you try talking to them? Hide behind the AV and call truce?”

  Shane looked at a spot on his sleeve and said, “Totally. But they shot at us first. Then hey, get this: four of them jumped right off the bridge.”

  Dylan blinked. “You shot one?”

  “Some stupid girl. Jesus, stop griefing me already. Acting like my mom …”

  Dylan raised his hands for calm. “I’m only trying to understand.” He thought quietly while Shane fiddled with his rifle. “Does Aaron know about this?”

  “Don’t think so. One of them at the gate asked what the shooting was and I said we were just playing.”

  “Good,” Dylan said, and for the first time approved of the boy’s behavior. “Okay, go eat. But hey, wait a minute—did you put gas in the AV?”

  Gassing up the AV was a chore everyone tried constantly to get out of because they had to find a truck with diesel and drain it.

  “Wasn’t full when we got it,” Shane said grumpily.

  Watching the other boy walk away, Dylan’s next thought surprised him. I really need to get out of here.

  That night, Aaron arrived at Terminal A with a new prisoner, who had a cut lip and a puffy eye.

  “Who’s this?” Dylan said, even though he knew. One of the kids Sharon had seen was chunky and black, and this kid was both.

  “You know damned well who!” Aaron shouted. “I wanna show his friends. Bunch of spies!”

  Tony snorted. “I ain’t saying shit, white boy. Ain’t so tough, got your girlfriends to fight for you.”

  Aaron’s eyes flashed angrily and he pointed his pistol at Tony’s head. “Say it again.”

  Tony didn’t reply, but he didn’t cower, either.

  Dylan reached out and lowered Aaron’s gun … and for a moment, Aaron looked like he might shoot Dylan instead. Then he seemed to relax, and even smiled.

  “We done it your way too long,” Aaron said. “Come on, guys.”

  There were about ten of his goons with him. Dylan’s own people looked uncertain for the first time, and he knew why. They thought Aaron was right—that these kids had come to attack, like those others had. They were scared, and Aaron seemed like he had a plan.

  Dylan followed along behind them, biting his tongue the whole way. It wouldn’t look good if he asserted his power and they ignored him. Then he’d really lose face—show everyone once and for all who was really in charge and who wasn’t.

  On entering the police office, Aaron wasted no time—he told Dylan to unlock the cell. When it was open, he blew Andrew’s brains out right in front of Tony.

  Tony screamed and fell back. Then his eyes went crazy and he launched himself at Aaron, only to be kicked down and beaten by the grinning circle of goons for his efforts.

  Dylan was speechless. He’d never seen anything like that before and never wanted to again. Scared for his life, he stared with new eyes at his murderous rival.

  “Tell me everything,” Aaron said to Tony. “Who you are, where you’re from. All of it. Or I kill your other friends too. Then I start shooting pieces off of you. Got it?”

  In a lifeless monotone, Tony started talking. They’d come from a place called Big Timber, way out near another place called Front Royal, right off I-66. Aaron quizzed him about their numbers, their supplies, and their plans, and Tony told him that too. The way he flatly laid it out, Dylan could tell the kid wasn’t lying. But when he finished, saying, “We didn’t come here to mess with you. We were just fishing,” Aaron called him a liar, knocked him to his knees, and pointed his gun at the kid’s head.

  That’s when Dylan found his courage.

  “Dude, stop!” he said, stepping between them. “He told you what you wanted. Doesn’t cost anything to keep him alive.”

  Aaron smirked. “Out of the way, twerp. I’m saving us some food.” He raised his
gun and leaned over as if to fire around Dylan.

  “But what if he’s lying?” A desperate ploy.

  Aaron’s eyes narrowed, and he shifted his aim from Tony to Chelsea. “Well? Is he lying? You really from way out there?”

  Chelsea looked terrified, shocked, disgusted … and sly, Dylan thought.

  “I … I don’t really remember,” she said. “I don’t remember much.” She giggled nervously. “Guess I was daydreaming when we left.”

  Aaron snorted derisively. “Stupid girl.” He holstered the weapon and eyed Dylan. “If he’s lying, he’s dead. You too, far as I’m concerned. Guys—throw the twerp in jail.”

  Dylan struggled briefly, but he was ten to one outnumbered. They took his gun and tossed him in while his so-called “friends” looked concerned but didn’t help him.

  “I’m in charge of everything now,” Aaron said to them. “You work for me. Anyone who tries to free King Twerp here gets dead like that piece of shit.” He pointed at Andrew, then turned to look at Dylan through the bars. “Better hope they ain’t lying, twerp. Or I’m sticking you in the pit with your useless daddy.”

  38

  Of course Jack wasn’t Hitler. Lisa knew that, even if he acted like it. The whole “join us or else” thing was a bit much. But still, she recognized the difference.

  The Sickness was a disaster so awful it could hardly be comprehended, and a lot of kids out there were in trouble. Someone needed to do something, and she’d much rather have a leader like Jack in charge than a real tyrant, like Blaze or Carter. She’d never tell Jack that, though. He needed to doubt himself—to carefully guard his conscience. Gassing those kids … wow. Looked at objectively, Lisa thought that was way worse than feeding her enemies to chickens.

  As upset as she was about her brother—and she was angry, no doubt about it—she’d been playing it up a little. Jack’s way of dealing with Greg’s absence was to pretend everything was just peachy, based on nothing more than his say-so that her brother could look out for himself. Well, Jack didn’t know Greg like she did. Greg was an idiot. He wasn’t a sailor, and he wasn’t a fisherman. And running off with Tony? She liked Tony, but he was the last person she’d pick to watch her brother’s back.