Event Horizon (The Perseid Collapse Post Apocalyptic Series)

by Steven Konkoly

  “I’ll check the front door on my way upstairs,” said Kate, patting her father-in-law’s shoulder.

  He leaned his M-14 rifle against the wall and hurried after Kate, catching her before she turned down the foyer hallway.

  “Don’t do anything we’ll all regret. If they’re alone, we’ll talk to them at the door. The last thing we need is the entire Sheriff’s Department pitched in against us. We’ll lose everything.”

  “What happened to the ‘I smell a rat’ speech?”

  “Let’s sniff them out a little closer. Trust me on this,” said Tim.

  ***

  Eli Russell crept to the edge of the tree line, pushing the underbrush out of the way, until he had reached the point where he couldn’t go any further without breaking concealment. Brown eased into a position behind the thick tree to his left and nodded, staring straight ahead. Dense, unkempt bushes forced the use of a compass to stay on a due-west heading. The Fletcher compound remained obscured by heavy rain until they reached a point roughly fifty feet from the edge of the clearing, reinforcing his assessment that it would be nearly impossible for anyone in the house to detect their arrival. Unslinging a pair of powerful binoculars, he rose on both knees until he had a view of the house and the surrounding area.

  Through the rain-splashed lens, he saw that they had arrived on the left side of the house, from the perspective of someone standing on the front porch and facing the front yard. They had agreed that all observations would be recorded relative to the viewpoint of this imaginary observer. Continuity of perspective was critical to recreating an accurate diagram of the compound.

  Most of his view consisted of the eastern side of the house. A single window on the ground level facing them indicated that he was looking at the garage, which probably housed his deceased nephew’s SUV. Further examination led him to suspect that they had boarded up the window from the inside. He could see wood through the rain-splattered window. That was all the evidence he needed to bring back a squad or two of soldiers.

  “Well, looky here. A surveillance camera,” said Eli.

  “Got it,” said Brown. “Along with that motion-activated light up on the second story. The camera looks stationary. Do you think any of that shit works, with the EMP and all?”

  “Unless they replaced it all, I highly doubt it.”

  “Do you think they could see us if it worked?” Brown asked.

  “I highly doubt it. Even if those are quality cameras, the image will be grainy. Throw in the rain, and we’ll be washed out. Those windows up there are a different story. Someone with a pair of binoculars might be able to pick us out. Keep an eye on them for movement.”

  “Roger that, sir. Did you notice the screens have been removed from the windows?”

  “Good eye, Mr. Brown. They’re ready for action.”

  He panned right to a partial, long view of the back of the colonial-style house. A bulkhead door protruded from the foundation, next to a covered screen porch containing a table and some of that fancy outdoor furniture he saw in his ex-wife’s Pottery Barn catalogue. He couldn’t be certain, but the table looked like it had been abandoned in the middle of a meal—unless they were slobs. Five table settings and what looked to be like the remains of sandwiches. Definitely an open bag of chips. Five was one more than the neighbors reported to be living out here.

  Set back from the house, a red, two-story barn with roof-mounted solar panels materialized between sheets of rain.

  Damn. These people have it all!

  “Looks like we just found our new headquarters. Did you see the solar panels?”

  “Yeah. This looks like a completely self-sustaining operation. The vegetable garden behind the house nearly stretches to the trees. That’s enough square footage to feed several families, and if you squint between rainsqualls, you’ll see that they’re growing a sizeable plot of something way in front of the house. Some kind of grain.”

  “Shit. I might have to keep a few of them alive to tend the crops and keep the boys happy,” he said, finishing his sentence with a barely audible mutter and a grin. “Be a fitting life sentence for these bitches.” He studied the layout for another minute. “What are you thinking in terms of tactics?”

  “Definitely bring in the primary breaching team behind the barn,” Brown said. “They’ll probably have cameras back there and some motion-triggered lights, but at that point it won’t matter. Once we have control of the barn, we can suppress them from the northern tree line,” he said, pointing beyond the vegetable garden, “and move the team right up onto the screened porch and in. Probably keep another team right here. Be easy to suppress those two windows and move a group across once all of the shooting starts on the other side.”

  “Damn. You read my mind, son. Were you Delta Force or something?”

  “3rd Ranger Battalion, sir.”

  “No shit? 101st Airborne. Screaming Eagles.”

  “Airborne!” they said, pumping fists in the air.

  ***

  “Are you seeing this shit?” said Kate, standing several feet away from the leftmost window, staring through binoculars.

  “Cops, my ass,” muttered Linda.

  “I can’t pick them out of the forest on either screen,” said Samantha, over the handheld, “what are they doing?”

  “Reconnaissance. If they were real cops, they’d ring the doorbell and state their business,” responded Kate.

  “Maybe they want to make sure it’s safe to approach.”

  “They drove up to the gate and pressed the intercom button. I’m pretty sure they would have driven their cruiser right up the driveway. Not exactly the safest approach. Hold on—they’re leaving,” Kate announced. “No way this was legit.”

  “I’d probably be cautious too if no one answered,” stated Samantha.

  “But why leave once you checked the place out?”

  “I guess it doesn’t matter if they’re leaving,” the radio squawked.

  “If they’re leaving. Let’s verify their departure. They should hit the sensors on the way out.”

  “Got it,” said Samantha.

  Kate let the binoculars hang and grabbed the rifle leaned up against the wall next to the windowsill. She sat on the edge of her in-laws’ bed and wiped the sweat from her face. “So, what now?”

  “How many sandbags did they get filled before lunch?” asked Linda.

  “A little short of two hundred. Moving them into the house slowed down the process. We have enough to make five positions as described in Alex’s diagram, or two of the safe boxes.”

  “I’d almost rather have the firing positions than the bunkers. We can give ourselves full coverage. Five positions, five adults. Keep the kids in the basement if all hell breaks loose,” said Linda, still watching the tree line.

  “Until the rain stops, and we can fill the bags with something other than mud, I think this is our best plan. If they’re really leaving, we’ll have time. Looks like we’ll be working with the mosquitos tonight.”

  PART III

  “A Bridge Too Far”

  Chapter 12

  EVENT +57:14

  42 Orkney Rd

  Brookline, Massachusetts

  The first sound of distant thunder drew Ryan to the open window facing the street. He leaned on the armrests and craned his head, examining the sky. The light gray cloud cover had thickened, replaced by darker clouds, but the real menace clung to the western horizon. A purple-tinged, charcoal gray band hugged the skyline, slowly creeping in their direction.

  “How long is the rain supposed to last?” he asked.

  Chloe stopped fanning herself long enough to answer. “Most of the afternoon, but that was the forecast Sunday night, from what I can remember.”

  “Take a look at this,” he said, stepping back from the chair.

  She didn’t look thrilled to get up, and he didn’t blame her. Without air-conditioning or any semblance of a breeze, the apartment sweltered from the unabated heat wave suffocating
New England. Daytime temperatures had remained steady in the mid-nineties since his arrival at Boston University on Saturday. High humidity compounded the misery, especially once the power died.

  The window air conditioners in Chloe’s apartment had barely kept up with the demand, but it beat the hell out of his dormitory. He had somehow missed the part about no air-conditioning in Warren Towers and spent most of Saturday night awake, sweating through his mattress. He’d nearly cried walking back to the Chestnut Hill Avenue station Sunday night after respectfully declining Chloe’s offer to let him sleep on the couch. At least the subway had air-conditioning. He’d contemplated taking the “B” train to Lechmere station and back.

  She wiped her face with a damp towel and joined him at the window, giving the sky a quick look. “It’s gonna pour. If it lasts long enough, it might drop the temperature.”

  “Do you think we should wake my dad?” he asked, nodding at the couch.

  “Why?”

  “I think we should take off during the storm,” said Ryan.

  Chloe wiped her face and stared down at Alex.

  “Good luck waking him. I’ll start filling our water bottles.”

  Ryan examined the filthy, disheveled man sprawled on the oversized couch and shook his head. He’d seen less realistic-looking zombies in The Walking Dead. Covered head to toe in a crusty, foul-smelling layer of muck, Alex Fletcher hadn’t stirred since falling asleep in mid-sentence. While arranging him on the couch, they discovered numerous congealed cuts and scrapes on his face and hands. A tightly wrapped, rust-color-stained bandage peeked out of his left sleeve and completed the picture. He’d gone through hell to arrive at their doorstep. Ryan almost felt bad waking him.

  “Dad. Dad!” he said, nudging his exposed shoulder.

  Alex mumbled and turned away from the sound. Thunder boomed closer as Ryan tried to rouse his father from a near catatonic state.

  “Try this,” said Chloe, appearing behind the couch with a half glass of water.

  He reluctantly took the plastic cup and held it over his dad’s face. A loud clap of thunder reinforced the urgency of their situation, and he dumped the water. Alex came to life, flailing his arms and knocking Ryan to the floor. A thunderous boom shook the windows.

  “What happened?” yelled Alex, sitting up and grabbing for the rifle Chloe had hung on one of the kitchen table chairs.

  “Dad, everything’s fine. I just dumped some water on your face. We’re fine,” said Ryan.

  The room darkened, filled by another round of approaching thunder. His dad glanced around, still confused.

  “There’s a big storm coming, Dad. We could take advantage of the heavy rain to reach the bridge. At least get us into place for tonight,” said Ryan.

  “What time—how long was I out?”

  “It’s 2:15.”

  “You should have woken me earlier. I needed to check in with—never mind,” he said, shaking his head and rubbing his eyes.

  “Everything’s been fine. You needed the rest.”

  “I know, but I can barely move right now,” Alex said, straining to lift his right arm.

  “What happened to your arm?” Ryan asked. “And your wrist?”

  “I’m fine. Nothing a thousand milligrams of ibuprofen can’t fix. Grab the medical kit out of my rucksack. It’s near the top. How big is the storm?”

  A powerful round of thunder answered his question before Chloe could respond.

  “The news Sunday night showed a massive system moving across the Midwest, but you know how these things can go.”

  “Yeah. This could last fifteen minutes, leaving us high and dry—”

  “Or it can last all afternoon,” said Ryan. “We should be able to move faster in a heavy rain, right? Two miles? We could be there in thirty minutes if we bust our asses.”

  “It’s tempting. Have you seen any militia activity on the street?”

  “Nothing. It’s been quiet.”

  “That’s not always a good thing. How long until the two of you are ready to move?”

  “We’re waiting on you,” said Ryan.

  “Chloe, the smartass gene runs in our family, on the mother’s side. Let’s be ready to walk out of the front door as soon as the heavy rain hits,” he said, extending a hand.

  Ryan took his father’s filthy hand and helped him off the couch. Alex grinned at him for a few moments.

  “Look at you,” said Alex.

  “Dad, we’ve been apart for like three days…”

  “Long three days.”

  A refreshing wind swept through the apartment, billowing the front curtains and sweeping a map off the kitchen table.

  “Here comes the rain,” said Alex.

  Chapter 13

  EVENT +57:16

  Harvard Yard

  Cambridge, Massachusetts

  Ed Walker sat on a folding chair in the battalion headquarters tent, dozing off. Heavy thunder jarred him awake, nearly toppling him from the chair. He glanced over at his unofficial “escort,” a perpetually irritated marine corporal talking into a headset, before burying his head in his hands. The marine never acknowledged him. Nine hours on this chair, broken up by two escorted trips to the “head” in Hollis Hall and a single MRE—unceremoniously thrown at his feet. Every time he felt like screaming and running out of the tent, he reminded himself what Alex said: “Stay with the marines.”

  He’d been right. Despite the surprise attack on the headquarters and open hostility displayed by the marines, he felt safe here. Perimeter security had killed fourteen “hostiles” within the span of thirty seconds, repelling an attack that Lieutenant Colonel Grady assessed had taken “insurgents” over twenty-four hours to coordinate and launch. Grady felt confident they had sent a strong message back to insurgency leadership: Attacking marines was a bad idea.

  He propped his head in his hands and stared vacantly through the mesh window at the red brick walls beyond the command tent. At least they hadn’t stuffed him in a guarded dorm room. He could deal with the concept of house arrest, as long as he stayed in the command tent. A single raindrop streaked across his view, followed by another. Moments later, the pounding din of heavy rain masked the marine’s chatter. Ed glanced from the mess of wires and power strips littering the sand-colored modular flooring to the battalion sergeant major sitting next to Lieutenant Colonel Grady, waiting for the command that would convert the headquarters tent into a sauna. The sergeant major stood, having no doubt made the same weather observation.

  “Secure the tent flaps!”

  Several enlisted marines left their stations, methodically lowering the windows.

  “Colonel Grady! Durham Three-Zero just transmitted. I have the transcript,” said the corporal.

  Grady removed his headset and walked to his corner of the tent.

  “How we doing, Sergeant Walker?”

  “Could be worse, Colonel.”

  “Now you’re catching on,” said Grady, taking the corporal’s notepad. “Looks like they’re taking advantage of the weather. They just stepped off from your daughter’s apartment.”

  “You don’t look too enthusiastic,” said Ed.

  “METOC predicts periods of heavy rain and thunderstorms for the next three hours.”

  Ed thought about the bridge at Milton Mills. A heavy downpour had camouflaged their approach until it was too late for the militia. Alex knew what he was doing.

  “That’s a good thing, right?”

  “Periods of heavy rain. Meaning this could stop five minutes from now and continue an hour later. Alex is taking a big risk. He should have waited until nightfall.”

  “He’s not convinced you’ll be here when he gets back, especially after last night.”

  “If that’s the best the insurgency has to throw at us, we’re not going anywhere anytime soon,” said Grady.

  “What if that wasn’t their best? What if it was a probe?”

  “Damn costly probe, Sergeant Walker. They didn’t have to lose fourteen he
avily armed insurgents to figure out we have this placed locked down tight. That’s amateur hour by my book.”

  “You’re not worried that they managed to assemble and coordinate an attack by more than twenty…insurgents?”

  “I’m concerned by the high number, but not worried about their capabilities. They could have assembled one hundred of those idiots, with the same result—except we’d have a higher insurgent casualty count.”

  “I wish I shared your optimism.”

  “Stick around long enough, and it’ll start to rub off. Do you think I can trust you not to swipe any more of the battalion’s gear, especially the kind with embedded crypto? If one of my marines ‘accidently’ took one of these radios home, they’d face a protracted interrogation session sponsored by NCIS, followed by a general court-martial.”

  “I promise not to take or touch anything that doesn’t belong to me.”

  “I can live with that. Corporal, Mr. Walker is no longer your responsibility. I still want you to monitor Durham Three-Zero’s transmissions,” said Grady.

  “Understand, sir. Thanks for behaving, Mr. Walker,” said the corporal, breaking into a grin.

  Ed shook his head. “I didn’t think you cared enough to notice.”

  “Corporal Maguire notices everything, and you have him to thank for your release. I take his word seriously,” he said, showing Ed the notebook.

  A short note scribbled at the end of Alex’s transmission read “Recommend Sergeant Walker be released on his own recognizance.”

  “He’s been a public defender in Lawrence for two years,” added Grady. “Follow me.”

  “One surprise after another,” mumbled Ed. “If you don’t mind, I’d like to stay in the command tent. It’s about the only place I feel safe.”

  “You’re not going anywhere. I just need to give Maguire a break from your ugly mug. Bring your chair over to my table.”

  “Am I still under house arrest?”

  “No. More like grounded.”

  “I can live with that,” said Ed, folding his chair.

  “Let’s see if we can steer Alex in the right direction before the storm grounds my Ravens.”