Kingdoms of Sorrow

by JK Franks

  “Look, I get it,” he said at one point. “You want to know how it is that I’m not infected. My medic said I was asymptomatic, immune.”

  She never even looked up. “Commander, would you say your sleep pattern has been worse or the same in the last few weeks?”

  “Ugh,” he gave up and continued to answer. “The same.” The unnamed doctor would not be answering any of his questions. She had her orders. Once the interview session was over, the exam began. If anything, it was even more in-depth and intrusive than the interview. No part of his body was overlooked. Vial after vial of blood was taken; X-rays, hair samples, and stool samples were extracted. He did not care to dwell on how they got those. Many of the procedures he endured he could not even fathom the purpose of.

  After several more hours of being poked and prodded everywhere, his patience was exhausted. He reached to put on his clothes and stand up. The doctor looked at him in mild amusement, then he saw what was in her hand. The Taser barbs punctured his bare chest, and immediately every muscle in his body contracted. Two men, orderlies who had been helping the doctor during the exam, picked Skybox up and placed him face down on the exam table. He felt something fastening him tight to the table.

  The blonde doctor held up a large needle, and Skybox realized she was going to stab him in the back with it. He struggled to get free, but the assistants had bound him to the table tightly with restraints. He felt the doctor’s fingers in the center of his back, almost as if she were looking for something. Then the prick of the thick needle entered his spinal column. The pain was intense and then, almost immediately, numbness took over.

  She removed the syringe, now full of a milky fluid, and took it back to her work counter with the other samples. One of the assistants removed the restraints, but Skybox still could not move. What in the fuck is happening? He could kill the two orderlies, but the doctor might have training; she looked imposing. Also, he couldn’t fucking feel the bottom half of his body. That, he decided, was going to be a severe hindrance to any escape plan.

  He looked up just as she approached the table again and gave an involuntary shudder. “Now, Commander, you can get dressed. You will likely have a rather intense headache from the spinal tap. You will find pain relievers in your room.”

  With that, the exam was over, and she was gone. At least he didn’t have to try and kill her now. At this point, he’d had severe doubts about the likelihood of success. The orderlies waited silently while the numbness faded.

  He reached down to his pile of clothes, but a massive headache and wave of nausea hit him. He wretched and lay back in agonizing pain. Clutching the sides of his pounding head, he vaguely noticed that one of the men was holding out a wet towel. The other was retrieving his clothes.

  It took a while, but the combined effort of all three men finally succeeded in getting him dressed. He stumbled down the corridor to the cabin he had been assigned. Seeing the two pills and a bottle of water on the nightstand, he threw them in his mouth, downed the water and collapsed onto the mattress.

  When he came to, he could see light, but his eyes had crusted shut. Other parts of his body seemed unresponsive now. He had no idea how much time had passed, but he knew he was hungry. Skybox attempted to rub the sleep from his eyes, but once they were open, everything remained blurry.

  After several minutes the room began to come into focus. Sunlight was streaming in the small porthole. Across the cabin, Wei Xiou sat on a stool watching him. The captain said, “I see you survived the exam. The doctor is quite gifted, isn’t she?”

  “Yeah . . . I’m guessing she trained under Josef Mengele.”

  Wei looked briefly puzzled while he placed the reference and smiled. “Ahh, yes, the infamous Angel of Death. She’s just doing her job.” The captain held out a cup of coffee and two more pain pills. Skybox accepted the coffee but shook his head to the meds. Shaking his head made the pain unbearable, though, and he weakly reached his hand back out to accept the pills.

  Chapter Twenty-Nine

  Near Monticello, Mississippi

  The temperature had climbed into the upper seventies, signaling that spring had officially arrived. The day was spectacular with a light breeze, a cloudless sky and the earthy smell of freshly tilled soil. Scott Montgomery sat on the ground against the wheel of his Jeep Wrangler. The useful 4x4 had essentially become community property in the months following the solar flare. Bartos and his buddies had made some modifications to it over time, including a reserve fuel tank mounted in the back, run-flat tires and steel armor shielding in critical areas. His old enclosed motorcycle trailer now sported solar panels across its roof, along with several long radio antennae. Inside the trailer, changes were more dramatic. A small cookstove, water purification system, impressive medical station and a weapons locker had been added. The county tags had been removed from both as well. The Jeep and trailer were now primarily used for recon and supply collections. Today, Scott was using it to reach out to a group almost a hundred miles from Harris Springs.

  They had stopped five miles short of the group’s base camp. Bartos and the big man-boy, Abe, had been with him until a half-hour ago. The value of the Jeep, trailer and contents were such that they would be irresistible to any road gang. Now, when they went into potentially hostile territory, they did so with sniper cover. Scott scanned the small field and the road ahead, waiting for the signal that his overwatch was in place. He took a sip of lukewarm water and thought back to how simple life had once been. Okay, it wasn’t that simple, but it was easy. You didn’t have to worry about being killed when you went to find food . . . They had been through a lot, but they had survived the winter, and now the new normal was settling in.

  Angel had told Scott about this group: a farming community looking to trade crops for fuel, medicine and likely nearly anything else.

  Scott remembered a large commercial grower that used to be in this area. Along with a large public farmer’s market, the farms supplied everything from fruits and vegetables to flowers and sod to retailers and grocery stores across the country. Angel had heard them broadcasting one night and made first contact. This small initial trade of fuel for an early crop of tomatoes, corn and beans would hopefully be the first of a long relationship.

  The radio in his hand emitted a small chirp. The kid was already in place. Several minutes later, two chirps were heard. That was Bartos. There was no sign of trouble, or they would have broken radio silence and told him immediately. Scott climbed back behind the wheel and headed onto the road toward the contact point.

  For once, things went according to plan. The six drums of diesel fuel were rolled out of the trailer, and in their place, boxes and crates of fresh vegetables were loaded. The farmers were wary and lean looking but seemed eager to trust. Their primary concern was ensuring Scott wasn’t one of the Messengers. They knew the group's crusade was heading eastward. While they were also not very forthcoming about where they were from, Scott assured the group that he and his people were no threat and would even like to set up something more permanent in the way of a trade relationship.

  The farms here were in the heart of rich floodplains but too remote to be a useful trading partner to most surviving groups. Scott's eyes had noticed a set of old railroad tracks heading south, and he again thought of the abandoned train and railcars they had been using for supplies. In time, this farm could be a remarkable addition to their trading partners. Angel deserved a lot of credit for persuading them to venture out this far.

  Scott asked the man if he would be willing to trade for seeds. “We probably have enough for this year’s crops, but after that, we’ll be in trouble. Nearly everything we have is hybrid stuff, GMO seeds, and from what I understand, you can’t use the seeds from those crops as they won’t produce the same crop when replanted.

  The old farmer laughed, “Yeah, we got plenty o’ seed. A percentage of all our harvest is set aside as seed crop. If you tell us what area you’re in or what crops grow best, we can set y’up . .
. as long as you keep trading with us, that is.”

  Scott agreed enthusiastically, “We will,” he smiled. “Our soil is more sand than clay. Corn doesn’t do well, nor any of the cereal grains, but beans, tomatoes, peppers, potatoes and peanuts all do great.”

  “So, you must live over near the coast,” the old farmer said.

  Scott smiled. “No comment. Are your crops based on non-GMO seeds?”

  “Hell, son, everything we grow is genetically modified, most has been for centuries. We call it hybridization. Without it, corn would still be just a weed growing on the riverbanks o’ South America. GMO’s taken on a bad rep. Yeah, some o’ the science lab shit with the patented frankenplants is a bit much. They go in n‘air modifying and manipulating them genes o’ parent plants, and who knows what other crap they affect? But look, every farmer cross-pollinates and develops strains o’ crops to give the best yield. At its core, that’s what farming’s all about. Potatoes and tomatoes were poisonous in their ’riginal state! Without creating hybrids, we wouldn’t be able to safely eat much of what we do today.

  “We got drought-tolerant and pest-tolerant varieties, so yes, our seeds are technically hybrids and may or may not be able to reproduce exactly that same variety year after year, but they are what you want. Otherwise, you’ll be losing more and more o’ your harvest to disease, pests and other problems. Tell us what you want, and we’ll have it ready by late summer . . . assuming we’re still here, that is.”

  Pushing in the crate with the last of the produce, they closed the doors, and the farmer extended his hand. “Thanks, Scott. Hope to be seeing a lot more o’ you guys. You can tell your spotters to come on down and meet you now. No need to make ’em hike back so far.”

  Scott laughed nervously, “So you knew I brought company?”

  “Hell, son,” the old man laughed. “We woulda thought you were a complete fool if you hadn’t. My guys tell me the one with the dog . . . well, he must look like a boxful of serious, and how in the hell do you feed that other one? They say he’s huge. No way you could hide him.” The man patted Scott on the shoulder with a kind smile as Scott got in and cranked the Jeep. As he turned around for the return trip, he keyed the radio. “Overwatch, you have eyes on?”

  “Yeah, we see you. All looked good.”

  “Agreed. Good people, but, my secret Ninjas, they had you both spotted long ago. Ya’ll head on back toward the small rise just ahead. I’m gonna pull over and see if I can reach anyone on the radio.”

  “Roger that.”

  The afternoon was slipping toward dusk, and the light was beginning to fade as the men regrouped. Abe had opened the trailer and was marveling at the stacks of food while Scott tried repeatedly to reach his brother, Bobby. He had thought that since he was a hundred miles closer to where Bobby was, he might get lucky. Part of the reason he was on this trip instead of Jack was so he could spend some time listening out for his brother with the stronger radio in the Jeep’s trailer. He had spent weeks analyzing the signal direction and knew this outpost was in Bobby’s general direction.

  Bartos walked over. “I noticed a commercial antenna on a hill several miles back. Why don’t we head there and camp for the night? You can hook the radio into the aerial. With that, you should be able to hear the hair growing on my balls.”

  Scott nodded, “Lead on, Mr. Ballsack.”

  “That’s Mr. Hairy Ballsack to you, bud,” Bartos growled.

  It took Scott a while to connect the ham radio in the trailer to the large antenna towering above them. Bartos and Abe got busy making supper and securing the campsite. They all felt like sitting ducks on top of this hill, but Scott wanted to chance it. Fewer and fewer gangs seemed to be around lately. The winter had killed off large numbers, and there just wasn’t that much left to steal in such a sparsely populated place as this. Everyone assumed that most of the stragglers and scavengers had signed on with the Messengers. The occasional highwaymen remained a problem, but Bartos and his recovery crews had devised some rather successful tactics to deal with them.

  “Any luck?”

  Scott looked at the Cajun and shook his head. “Reached the AG easily, everything’s fine there. They said the signal was great, five by five in fact.”

  “Nothing from Bobby, though?” Bartos asked.

  “Not yet, but this is the right frequency—same one we heard him on before. I’ll keep signaling every thirty minutes. If you think it’s safe to do so.”

  Bartos thought about it. “Hmmm,” he said as he scratched a mosquito bite. “We purty sure dem fucks monitor certain common channels, but that one ain’t common. I would doubt they would have the equipment to triangulate on this signal either. My guess is they’re just opportunistic and take over any broadcasting radios in areas they invade rather than seeking them out. I think we’re okay for now, but don’t go for more than a few hours and let’s bugout from this place before sunrise. Give it a break for now and eat. Me and the ox here have set up a watch for later. Solo’s already patrolling the perimeter. You get to take over from me at midnight.”

  The meal consisted of boiled corn, fresh tomatoes, red potatoes and a small pork chop. It was divine. Scott thought about what the fresh food would mean to the community. Not only would it lift their spirits, but it would also help replace some much-needed vitamins and nutrients. “Guys, this was worth the risks. This food is so worth it. If we can keep extending the trade out and supporting groups like this, I think we can remain strong.”

  The other men agreed.

  Bartos spoke between mouthfuls, “How can we protect them if the Messengers head this way? Or if the Catalyst planners decide they need more supplies for the protected camps?”

  Abe looked up quickly. He had not been privy to the information regarding the Catalyst protocols, though he’d heard rumors since he arrived. “What are the protected camps?” he asked.

  The big kid spoke so seldom that Scott and Bartos were taken by surprise. Bartos put his fork down and looked quickly to Scott who slowly answered. “According to some early intel that I uncovered after the CME, the um, cabal we call Catalyst has protected a bunch of people they consider essential to secure camps—reservations— around the country. They have power, food and resources to sustain those camps long-term. The contingency plan had been on the drawing board for some time, and the camps were regularly upgraded to be ready for several potential disaster scenarios.”

  “So, the government set up these reserves as a kind of lifeboat for us to get through this? Why don’t we just head toward the closest one then? Fuck all this survival bullshit and horse-trading for food.”

  Scott shook his head. “You don’t quite get it, Abe. They are not for us. We’re not what anyone in that realm would consider essential. The list was filled with doctors, scientists, teachers, engineers . . . people with knowledge or skills that would be hard to replace and essential for rebuilding society. Not just any of those types even, but the best of the best. The camps are not very large, so they couldn’t handle really high numbers of occupants. Also, none are located nearby. The map I saw showed nearly none in the lower southeast of the country, but we understand that the outpost in Tallahassee was converted into one, albeit a temporary one.”

  Abe dropped his head and looked at his nearly empty plate. “So, they really did just write us all off? Most of us, I mean. They decided to save a handful and let the rest of America collapse?

  Bartos nodded, the light from the small campfire casting his face into pitted shadows. “That is certainly one way to look at it. It is not inaccurate.”

  “What fucking other way is there?” Abe asked.

  “They did what they could do,” Bartos responded slowly. “It isn’t right, but keep in mind nothing the government could have done would have made much of a difference. The numbers were too large, the logistics almost impossible. Someone decided that if you could only save, say ten percent, you might want to make sure that that ten percent was made of the right kind of people
to save.”

  Abe got up, shouldered his rifle, and spit into the fire. “That’s bull.” He stood for a moment, obviously fuming and finally muttered, “I am going on patrol.” The big man headed quickly into the darkness.

  “He took that well, didn’t he?” Bartos said sullenly.

  “Keep in mind our reaction when we first heard it,” Scott said.

  “It is pretty fucked up, though, Scott, you have to admit. I know you see it as justified, but I tend to side with Todd that it was just a power play: the Catalyst group was opportunistic. It’s been pulling strings for years to get the outcomes they want.”

  Scott looked up into the dark sky and took a long moment before answering. “I don’t agree with it at all, Bartos. The truth is, our government did nothing. These guys were the only ones with any plan for survival. For that, we have to give them credit. It was intelligent, well-funded and executed with precision. Cold, logical precision. If you’ll consider that they are trying to save the human species, then yes . . . I suppose I’m willing to accept even their levels of secrecy and brutality.”

  Bartos just growled, “If the Grayshirts are so committed to our survival, what’s the deal with the virus DJ’s working on? To me, that sounds like some Doomsday, Final Solution, Nazi bullshit.”

  “I admit that has me baffled as well. I just don’t know, friend.”

  Scott stood, stretched and headed back up to the radio tower to try once more to reach his brother.

  Chapter Thirty

  Outside Little Rock, Arkansas

  Bobby Montgomery listened as his little brother’s voice came again over the radio. As glad as he was to hear Scott and to know he was still alive, he didn’t respond. In his muddled mind, he just couldn’t think of any response that wouldn’t put Scott at more risk. He wanted desperately to speak freely but would not take the chance. He had stupidly been broadcasting in the clear for all to hear for days until he had heard Kaylie’s voice. Now he knew he had been acting foolishly—suicidally even.