Kingdoms of Sorrow

by JK Franks

  The Messengers monitored radio broadcasts: they planned raids simply based on triangulating signals. Now he knew Scott and his daughter were okay. He could assume that they were in Harris Springs and that it had held out better than most places. The last thing he wanted was to draw attention to them from anyone who might be listening in—especially the Judges.

  Scott’s voice was pleading. The signal was strong; he must be closer than before. Bobby keyed the talk switch then thought better and released it. Scott paused when he heard the click. “Hey bro, is that you?”

  Bobby considered a moment, then keyed the button once.

  Scott’s voice came back in a quieter tone, “Okay, understood.”

  Sitting in the dark beneath the bridge, Bobby smiled. His brother always figured things out quicker than most. Bobby knew his brother would resume good radio discipline now. Scott would assume Bobby was unable or unwilling to broadcast for his own good reasons. This would limit the amount of information they could exchange, but it was not as bad as some might assume.

  Scott came back on again. “Big Ugly, are you okay and able to travel?”

  Bobby smiled weakly and clicked a single key response. Big Ugly had been a call sign he and Bobby used when they were teenagers back on the farm. Smart, kid brother . . . keep going.

  “Things have been challenging, but we are okay. Our twenty is probably the best place for you. Someone misses you, any chance she will see you soon?”

  Bobby was unsure how to answer, he wanted to head south to Harris Springs, but only if he could do it safely. He keyed the talk, button twice.

  “Ok, not soon, but eventually?”

  A single click for yes.

  “Ugly, I . . . I, um, am assuming the better half will not be with you?”

  Bobby’s eyes filled with tears. Trembling, he gave the button a sustained click.

  “I am so sorry,” Scott’s voice was thick with emotion. He sighed. “Shit . . . Okay, I’m going to keep that to myself for now. We are aware of the approaching storm. It hasn’t reached us, but we stay on alert for those spreading the word. We do have some general ideas about how far east it has moved. Suggest you get ahead of that storm before heading toward us. The Sandman’s place should be far enough.”

  Bobby had to think about that one. The Sandman . . . he knew that phrase. His mind was still elsewhere, but damn, he knew this. Think, think—yes, he remembered! Old Man Sanderson had been one of his dad’s friends. Scott had always called him Sandman. He had a farm about forty-five miles southeast of his current location.

  Bobby gave a single key click.

  Scott’s voice came back with an edge of excitement. “I assume you are on foot and not wanting to head straight to us. My suggestion then… is to get to the Sandman and then just go with the flow for a while. Obviously stay off major roads until the storm passes. Do you understand?”

  Bobby clicked once; he had understood most of what Scott meant.

  “Need to get off the line, but good luck. Get somewhere safe, and we will come to meet you. Be smart and don’t take chances. Love you, Ugly!”

  Bobby turned the little unit off and repacked it in the waterproof bag. He felt better after hearing from Scott, no matter how awkward the communication was. He had no idea how he could get to the Sanderson place but trusted Scott knew more than he did. That was a plan at least. It beat the shit out of indulging in his suicidal thoughts to just go back for revenge.

  Chapter Thirty-One

  The day had warmed up, and Bobby crawled out from his hiding place to relieve himself on a nearby shrub. Turning on his portable Garmin GPS unit, he sat back waiting for it to lock in on the satellites—assuming the satellites were still functioning, that is.

  It took a little longer than he remembered, but it had been a few years since he had used the little device. It was an older version, and he had added it to his emergency bucket once he had gotten a better one to use when hunting. Now, he was counting on it getting him to his destination.

  Once he had entered the coordinates, the screen lit up with a solid line reading 38.2 miles. A ‘Set Waypoints’ menu blinked in one corner. He bypassed the waypoints screen and zoomed in on the route. He would be navigating by night, so he wanted to know in advance every highway and piece of open ground he would need to cross. The trail indicated he would be heading for the small woodlands and hills just beyond. The elevation would be up and down for most of the journey. He realized that he would be lucky to make ten miles a day. He would also need to find food and fresh water along the way, as he had very little left, and he needed to avoid getting injured – difficult at night in rough terrain.

  He looked down at the hand holding the GPS. On the bottom of his thumb was the top of the black cross tattoo. Not a Christian cross, but a crude version similar to the Iron Cross used by the Nazis. The Messengers called it the Knight’s Cross, relating themselves as they always did to something noble.

  Bobby had agreed to convert when the alternative was to be killed. Often since then, he had wished he’d chosen death on that day. Now the tattoo would mean death no matter who found him. The Messengers hunted down those that left the flock and made examples of them to help discourage others who may be “losing their faith.” Anyone else who saw it would kill him for being part of that despised horde. In short, the mark ensured that he would find no safe haven anywhere. His only hope was to get far, far away from the radicals, if that was even possible. Maybe the people of Harris Springs would be unfamiliar with the foreboding brand. Or perhaps they could forgive him.`

  Looking at the small map on the screen again, he marked the last known Messengers camp, less than fifteen miles to the west. He had been with the group for four months and knew the normal patrol assignments: they would already have advance patrols out this far—others besides the group he had encountered the day before. While they mostly stuck to the major roads, they were opportunists. If they learned of possible supplies or encampments, they would divert and head in those directions while reporting back to base what they found. Other than the farms, churches, schools and stores, he needed to identify all their potential targets as well as the routes they might use.

  After nearly forty minutes he powered down the unit and stowed it in the pack. It seemed hopeless. While this area was not overly developed, it was not rural either. He could not avoid all the paths as it would take too long, and the Messengers would overtake him. He could not allow that to happen. With thousands, maybe even tens of thousands in multiple camps combing every inch of the countryside to gain favor with the Prophet, he would almost certainly be caught. He needed to move faster. I need a horse, or hell, even a freakin’ bike, he thought. Scott would love hearing that after all the shit his big brother had given him over the years. The slightest hint of a smile crept across his hardened face before the dark pall of futility erased it and regained control of his mind. He pulled himself back into the shadows to rest and wait for nightfall.

  Chapter Thirty-Two

  Five miles to the east, three men on motorcycles converged at a small farmhouse. The home had been an upscale suburban mini-farm, part of an eco-development. The quaint community was an attempt to develop a somewhat self-sustaining neighborhood. The overpriced homes were built with green products and eliminated such crudeness as green lawns in favor of recycled rubber mulch and pine chips. All the homes surrounded the community farm, although none of the homeowners ever actually helped with the farming. The development had gotten tremendous press coverage and seduced several well-known investors.

  One of the men stepped from the motorcycle and strolled confidently to the open door of the farmhouse. The sounds of a woman sobbing could be clearly heard. Just as the man reached the door, a new sound could be heard from the rear of the house. A door slammed, and a small boy, probably no more than ten, began sprinting from the house in the direction of a barn. The man on the porch signaled with a finger to his partners.

  With slow and deliberate motions, the ma
n on the far right, known as Lynx, unsheathed a long rifle and placed it, pointing in the direction of the running boy, on his handlebars. He glanced up at his partner who gave a small nod. Just as the boy was reaching the safety of the barn, a single shot rang out. The large caliber shell neatly cleaved the child’s head from the rest of his small body. As the body fell into the dust, the head traveled on for several feet, hitting the door of the barn with a bloody thunk. The shooter gave the briefest of smiles as he re-sheathed his weapon in the long side-mount holster.

  His accomplice stepped over the threshold and into the house. The sound of sobbing turned into screams before they suddenly quieted. The other men patiently waited their turn outside.

  Chapter Thirty-Three

  Southern Mississippi

  The sound of the tires crunching on gravel was the only noise they heard as Bartos maneuvered the Jeep cautiously down from the hilltop. Bartos eyed the heavily laden trailer with a worried expression. He knew they had secured everything tightly, but still . . .

  “It’ll be fine,” Scott said.

  Bartos glanced at his friend. The man had been nearly silent all morning.

  “I know, just get a little anxious, ya know?”

  Scott nodded, looking back at Abe in the rear seat: shotgun at the ready and Solo’s head peering over the seat next to him. They had taken out the hinge screws and removed the rear doors in case they encountered trouble on the ride back. Getting stuck inside the 4x4 would not be a good defensive position.

  Bartos swung the vehicle onto the paved road at the bottom of the hill and the swaying trailer stabilized at once. “We done good, brother. Got the produce, made some new friends and you reached your brother, no?”

  Scott had said they had talked, sort of. Bartos wasn’t sure what that meant, but apparently, it was not all good news. He knew Scott would talk when he felt like it and not before. Things in that head always had to be worked out before sharing. Bartos had grown accustomed to his friend's retreats into silence and no longer took them personally.

  They had made plans to return via a different route. This was partially to mislead anyone trying to guess where they came from or were heading to. The more important reason was to map out alternate routes to get to the farm in the future. Bartos was concerned, knowing they would be getting close to several larger towns, including Hattiesburg, on this route. He, Todd and Scott had gone over the maps in detail before they made the trip and marked numerous likely ambush points. Once they were closer to Harris Springs, the roads would be clear, but up here they had to stay on guard. They avoided major highways, blind turns, any roads that had overpass bridges and stuck mainly to highways through the more open farmland. When they got to the numerous wooded sections, the group was on high alert. Forest meant concealment, and anyone wanting to do them harm would likely do so from concealment.

  The months of going out on these types of ops had drilled into them a much more highly attuned sense of situational awareness. They kept the maps updated constantly to record threats. From every person they traded with or spoke with on the radio, they learned a bit more about the roads and waterways, and the highwaymen, obstacles and dangers on them. While the number of road gangs was less now, the ones that remained were smarter and tougher.

  The morning was beginning to warm up, and for now, the ride felt more like an enjoyable weekend road trip than what it really was.

  “Scott, what day of the week is it?”

  Scott shrugged. “No idea, Bartos. Maybe Tuesday . . . could be Sunday.”

  No one seemed quite sure anymore; calendars and days of the week were mostly mysteries. Relics of a nearly forgotten time when shit like that mattered. They knew the approximate day of the month, and that was good enough. “It feels like a Sunday morning to me,” Bartos said with a grin. “Right, Abraham? It’s a Sunday, right?”

  The big man looked back from the passing scenery and nodded. “Kinda does, yeah, I guess.”

  “Yeah . . . Sunday. I like Sundays,” Bartos said to no one in particular. “Coffee, pancakes, maybe a little N’awlins jazz on the radio. This . . . this is definitely a Sunday.”

  They all fell silent, each thinking back to Sundays they had once spent with friends, family and in the luxuries of that life that were gone. The next hour or so passed in relative peace as they tried to enjoy the ride. Scott couldn’t help but think of his brother. He knew he must be in bad shape. He had no idea how he could help get Bobby down to the coast. He looked at the road map and saw that Bartos had again updated the estimated position of the Messengers. The red shaded area was well past Little Rock and not far from the farm he had told Bobby to go to. The location of the so-called Lord’s Army was just a guess, but Todd and Bartos had gotten good at assimilating data and extrapolating where the advancing edge was. They even had several ideas regarding the location of the group’s current base camp.

  To Scott, the shaded territory controlled by the Messengers looked like a crude red dagger, stabbing from west to east, deep into Arkansas. Tendrils streaked north and south all along the dagger shape. These would be the raiders and advance scouts—maybe the ones Abe referred to as Judges and Marauders. Scott knew that everything they had was more guesswork than proof—most of the facts were reported by someone who had survived an encounter. There were very few, but the Judges were known to leave at least one survivor in most locations. Apparently, they liked having a living witness to help spread “The Word of Judgment.”

  Scott took notice of a sign coming up and checked the map. “Bartos, we got a marked spot about two miles ahead.” This would be the fifth such spot they had encountered. None of the others had amounted to anything. The Jeep continued on, but slower, with the engine nearly silent as Bartos coaxed it closer to the pinch point in the trees. “Abe, take the high ground, again,” he said.

  Abe groaned, but hopped out the door opening and exchanged the shotgun for the large .50 caliber M107A1 long-range rifle. The Jeep never stopped rolling as he grabbed a handle on the trailer and easily swung his large frame onto the shooting platform that had been added to the roof. He had to position himself behind the small steel plate with the built-in gun mount and between the rows of small solar panels. Once settled in, he pushed a foam insert into each ear, racked a shell into the chamber, eased the barrel to rest on the padded frame and sighted down the road.

  Scott picked up the M16 and readied himself. As the Jeep neared the short rise, Bartos motioned over his shoulder to Solo. The dog was instantly alert. Solo slipped silently out of the still-moving Jeep and disappeared into the tall grass. As the wooded section ahead came into view, they saw the makeshift roadblock.

  “Well, guess our lucky streak on this trip had to come to an end at some point. So much for a quiet Sunday morning,” Bartos lamented with a sigh.

  Scott nodded slowly. “Yep. I see five shooters. Four vehicles.”

  “Four?” the Cajun asked. “I only see three. Two blocking the road and the rental truck off in the trees.

  “There’s another. Looks to be a chase car farther down the road. Dark blue. I assume if we made it through the barrier, it’s there to pursue us,” Scott said.

  “Pretty smart,” Bartos replied. “Do you see a driver in that car?”

  Scott was now using a ranging scope to glass the area. “Windows are tinted dark, but I suppose we should assume there is one. So that makes six bandits possible, five for sure.” He held his hands out the window to indicate six to Abe.

  “Prolly so, my friend. You see anything of real value, anything we might not want to damage other than the cube truck?” He was referring to the small box truck painted with the rental company’s instantly recognizable logo.

  “Not really. These guys look pretty sad. The chase car might be good if we can take it without damage. Looks like an early seventies GTO. My brother drove a similar one back in high school. Awful gas mileage, but man, they’ve got power!”

  Bartos checked the distance and slowed the car to a st
op. “Maybe they’ll let you take it for a test drive before you fully commit to it. Don’t want to make a snap decision based on emotions, you know.”

  Still looking through the scope, Scott gave a small grin. “Range is good, 110 yards.”

  While still technically within range of the armed highwaymen, this distance would be a tough shot for most. It was the ideal range for Abe up on the roof, though. The rifle and scope he was using had been sighted in at 100 yards just for this purpose. He had seen Scott's fingers telling him six. He, too, had spotted the navy-blue muscle car farther down the road, but he saw no one sitting in it.

  He could also see the occasional movement where Solo was scouting, just inside the line of the woods, and approaching the gang. The dog was stealthy, but suddenly froze about thirty yards from the roadblock. Abe noticed he was facing away, back into the deeper trees. He moved the rifle to follow the dog’s gaze. A barrel protruded from the top of a brush pile. Someone else was there, and well hidden. The shooter’s hide was good, but Abe could just make out the top of a head behind the downed limbs of dead pine needles.

  “Here they come,” Bartos growled as one of the men stepped from behind the old car and pointed his gun at them. “He seems to want us to come closer.” They could see the man yelling at them, but the sound didn’t travel this far. Eventually, he dropped to a knee, and they saw the flare as the gun fired. Both men flinched, but they had been expecting it. An immediate response was the booming report of Abe’s .50 caliber. The kneeling assailant’s upper body nearly disintegrated with the impact of the large round. The booming report came again, and Scott saw an explosion of limbs and red mist as the sniper shell hit someone concealed to the left of the roadblock.