by JK Franks
Bartos put the Jeep in gear and began advancing toward the now bewildered-looking bandits. “I guess they’re figuring out that this isn’t our first rodeo.”
Two of the figures seemed to regain their senses and began firing in their general direction. A blur of white streaked from the forest, and the first man disappeared from sight. A moment later they watched as the dog leaped over one of the car’s hoods and clamped his jaws around the second shooter's neck dragging him to the ground. No more shots were heard.
Bartos pulled the Jeep up to the blockade, avoiding the ruined corpse of the first shooter, and slowed to a stop. Scott was instantly out circling to the right as Bartos shut off the Jeep and went left. “I have two down—three counting the first one,” Scott yelled.
Bartos was also out, “I have one in the trees. That leaves one or two unaccounted for. They heard Solo growling and watched as an unnaturally skinny middle-aged man and a dirty, slightly overweight teenage girl stumbled out of the trees, followed by the blood-covered dog. Both the man and the girl looked like they were living through their own personal horror story.
Scott knew that Abe would have the two in his sights, so he was not worried. Between Solo and Abe, they were well protected. Nonetheless, he and Bartos kept some space between themselves and the two rough looking survivors.
“Anyone else out here?” Bartos asked calmly. The two shook their heads. “Don’t lie to me, my dog doesn’t like dishonest people,” he continued.
The man stuttered and said,” W-w-we sw-swear mm-ister.”
“Good. Now listen. You guys attempted to rob us, as you have no doubt been doing to others for months. Unfortunately, it didn’t work out for you this time. My friends and I like to discourage people from pursuing this particular line of work. Do you understand what I’m saying?”
Both of the strangers looked at one another with a look of bewilderment. They shook their heads, then, clearly thinking that maybe that was the wrong answer, the girl nodded her head in the affirmative.
“Seems to be some confusion,” Bartos sighed. “Let me see if we can clear this up. You see, in order for would-be thieves to actually choose a new career we’ve learned that stealing has to get either unprofitable . . . or unpleasant. Your associates have gone the route of . . .” he looked back over at the ruined bodies, “. . . unpleasant. You still have the chance to make a choice and have a future, but it will sadly be very, um, unprofitable. Now, drop your weapons, then your clothes, and the keys for these cars.” The girl started to protest, but Bartos gave Solo a signal and the dog bumped her leg. Both began to comply immediately.
Bartos used plastic zip ties to tie both thieves’ hands together as Scott and Abe collected the weapons and keys. They stowed anything of value in the nearly empty rental truck, siphoned off all the fuel in the two blocking cars, and pushed them out of the way. Bartos further disabled each car so they would not move again.
Scott took the girl to one side as Abe began talking with the older man. They had learned to collect information every time they encountered road crews. What were their names and where did they live? What were the names of the dead associates? Were they family? Most importantly, what other gangs were in the area? Where did they set up ambushes, and where did they live? All the specific information went into a notebook and was also used to update the maps. Interestingly, most thieves seemed to have the best intel on others in the same line of work. After about fifteen minutes they were done.
Abe had fueled the rental truck and now pulled it out of the trees and onto the road. Scott pulled the Jeep up just behind. Bartos gave a final admonishment to the two sitting in their underwear on the side of the road. “You chose well. In appreciation, you get to live. We will be using this road again. If we encounter any more problems from anyone on this stretch, we will be coming to your homes. We will not give you another chance.”
The girl whose name they had learned was Rhonda was crying now. “Please don’t leave us like this, we’ll die.”
Bartos set his mouth in a grim line. “I’m sorry, that’s not our problem. This is a consequence of your own actions. Look around. You guys are the lucky ones today.” He dropped two water bottles in the dirt near the pair then slid into the passenger’s seat beside Scott. “Gimme a lift down to my new ride, would ya?”
“Your ride?” Scott said with a laugh.
They pulled up to the dusty but beautifully restored Pontiac GTO. Bartos twirled the key he had removed from the body in the trees. “You can’t handle classics, Scott. Remember what you did to my Bronco last year?”
Scott laughed. “Hey, Ballsack, you’re an asshole. Enjoy your goat,” he added, remembering the old nickname for GTOs. Solo decided to keep riding in the Jeep with Scott. He didn’t seem to care for the sound of his owner’s new ride. Scott used a towel to clean some of the blood from the handsome beast’s face, after which the dog promptly curled up in the passenger’s seat and closed his eyes.
The rich, throaty exhaust sounds are impressive, thought Scott as the dark car pulled in behind the trailer. It was not a bad acquisition. Scott saw the figures in the mirror kneeling beside the road. He still struggled with the brutality of this world, and truly hoped the rest of the trip would be less eventful.
Chapter Thirty-Four
Arkansas Southeast of Little Rock
Bobby had been sleeping fitfully, but the sound of a gunshot brought him to full alertness. Listening to the echo heading down the valley, he made an educated guess of where the shooter was. It had not been close, so he was clearly not the target. Unfortunately, it was ahead: in the general direction that he needed to go—the next valley over, he was relatively sure.
He was uncertain of what to do. Maybe Scott had been wrong, and the Messengers were already this far out. He geared up, applied more camo paint to his face and moved, cautiously skirting the tree line into the nearby hills.
It took almost an hour to get to the summit of the hill. He paused to drink a bottle of water and double-check his bearings. The surroundings reminded him of the camp that he and Jess had used as a bugout location. He had planned it out for years, and it had gone to shit so quickly. When the Messengers found him, they had not killed him but knocked him unconscious. He was taken to a camp with hundreds of other captives. He didn’t know where they’d taken his wife, or if she had even survived the attack. Within the first hours of his capture, he witnessed countless men, women and even children put to death at the hands of the Messengers.
The killing was not indiscriminate; it had a purpose. An evil, dark purpose. Anyone who looked over sixty was useless and killed immediately, as were kids under nine—unless they were female and cute . . . a few of those were kept alive. In essence, you weren’t worth the food or the trouble if you couldn’t serve the Lord’s Army. Men were given a chance to repent and convert and become a probationary Messenger. Those who didn’t were killed in the most expeditious and, it appeared, macabrely entertaining ways possible. Bobby converted on day two, and his first assignment after getting the tattoo was to help drag the mountain of dead bodies off to the burn pit. He forced the memories away; they were vile and disturbing on a visceral level, yet any time his mind drifted, it seemed to return to those moments. Those, or Jess’ last.
The sun was beginning to set. He needed to find more water and food to sate the gnawing hunger in his belly. He was still curious about the gunshot. He hadn’t heard anything more, although that did not necessarily bode well. Could just be someone hunting. Although the sound indicated a large caliber gun.
He could see what seemed to be a small meadow opening up a short way down the hill. From there, he might be able to see who was out there. Just as he reached the clearing, the full valley below came into view. Neat and expensive homesteads were scattered around a lake: a subdivision of mini-farms in an eco-community. His construction company had built several eco-neighborhoods just like this one.
He had heard the sound of motorcycles before and now saw them
in front of one of the farmhouses. His heart sank. The Judges usually rode motorcycles and always traveled in threes. He despised the Judges more than all the other Messengers combined. They represented the darkest aspects of the terrorist organization. Quickly ducking back into the cover of trees, he watched the riders as they sped away on the small two-lane road that wound through the valley. Off to their next assignment—their next Mission, as it was called in the group. They would have marked the houses if there was anything for the recovery crews to collect . . . Using the small binoculars in his pack, he saw the Judges’ spray-painted Iron cross on each of the buildings. He knew it would be too late to help anyone down there; they had already been judged.
From the clearing, he counted several houses, barns and outbuildings. No signs of life came from any of them. The once pristine little farmsteads had been laid out in a radial pattern around the lake. The raised planting beds in the gardens, expensively built urban chicken coops and absence of sheds or outbuildings on each lot spoke volumes: these residents had not been farmers. For one thing, farmers could have survived this. Judging by the many rectangles of fresh dirt in the still-green sod lawns, these people hadn’t managed well after the actual farm hands had stopped coming to work. He saw no chickens, no livestock of any sort. Then he saw the spray of fresh blood and the small body lying prone near the barn.
Just the knowledge of the dead child caused rage to blossom in him yet again. With no further analysis of the situation, Bobby Montgomery began walking in the direction of the farms—then abruptly stopped. What am I doing? he wondered. The fact that the Judges had already been here was enough to tell him to avoid the area altogether: if there were resources, they would be returning; if there weren’t, there was no reason to go himself. There could be survivors in hiding, but that was not something he could do anything about either. He hadn’t even been able to save his wife, and he had had to ask his brother to save his daughter. Bobby couldn’t see his assistance being a help to anyone. He needed water and would need food soon; there was no way he had enough to get to the Sanderson place, but theoretically, food was all around him, and he could find water elsewhere. Perhaps he could take care of himself, but that was all. He pulled the GPS unit out and adjusted his course to bypass the valley.
Chapter Thirty-Five
Harris Springs, Mississippi
“Hey, kid!” Scott yelled as he parked the Jeep. Abe had exited the cube truck and raised his eyes in acknowledgment. “Look, I just wanted to say thanks for what you did today. That was some damn fine shooting. You saved our asses. Just wanted to make sure you were . . . were okay?”
Abe just shrugged and nodded. “Yes sir, I’m alright. I don’t much like the killin’, but it‘s necessary. I know that.”
Scott placed his hand on the young man’s arm. “It sadly is, and when it stops bothering us is when we become the problem.” Solo was busying himself marking each of the new vehicle’s wheels as his property while Bartos was opening up the doors to the trailer.
Scott turned to see Angel’s grinning face as she came down the ramp from the AG’s large storage space. “I told you, Scott,” she declared as she casually pointed to the cases of vegetables being unloaded. “I knew those people were on the up-and-up.”
He gave her a quick hug. “You were right, they’re good people, and they were desperate for a trading partner. I think they’ll be a good ally.”
“So, no trouble on the roads?” she asked, looking at the new vehicles and Solo’s still bloodstained face which was now drinking deeply from a bucket of water.
“No real trouble. We should be able to easily keep the route clear.”
Still smiling, Angel walked over to the growing stack of crates. “Oh, my God, I smell cantaloupes! But it’s too early in the season for that.”
“They have greenhouses and tented fields that trap heat, so their growing seasons are extended,” Scott said as he opened the case to show her the pale melons.
Taking one, Angel lifted it to her nose, mesmerized by the fresh, sweet aroma. “Oh, shit,” her eyes widened at the memory. “Almost forgot. Chief wants to see both of you at once. Something’s up. You run on, and I’ll get my galley crew to finish unloading this stuff.”
Bartos and Scott looked at one another in concern. They headed up to the control room to find Todd.
Things between Todd and Scott had been somewhat strained of late. In fact, distant was a more accurate descriptor. The two men genuinely liked each other. Both had now saved each other’s life more than once. Some of the problems undoubtedly arose from the fact that Todd was grieving the loss of his wife. Scott knew his friend struggled with that loss and depression on a nearly constant basis. The distance between the two men was not as easily quantifiable. At its heart seemed to be Todd’s unwavering support for the Navy’s aggressive response to the Catalyst protocols. Scott liked the Navy and helped them often, but ideologically he felt he was probably more aligned with the Catalyst plan than Todd liked.
To be honest, Todd didn’t want to save everyone but didn’t like someone else deciding who lived or died. Scott was more pragmatic and agreed that on some levels, it did make sense to save only those who deserved it, or who mattered the most in terms of survival and rebuilding. It shouldn’t have been an issue between them, and the divide was not that wide, but still, Scott felt the ideological differences bubble up with increasing regularity. As he and Bartos entered the command bridge, he wondered if this would be another of those times. Todd smiled and waved them into the briefing room. Jack was there already, sipping on what appeared to be a cold beer. “Preacher . . . you bring enough for the whole class?” Bartos quipped.
“Sorry, boys . . . only one.” Jack grinned before sliding a small cooler toward them.
Todd wasted no time getting to the matter at hand. “Guys, I hear the trip went well, and judging by the crates being unloaded, we should be eating well for a while. I do want to hear all about it. Scott, I’m also really anxious to hear if you made contact with your brother, but that needs to wait.
“Listen up. The Navy has been tracking some movement. They now believe that the lab at the university was moved somewhere out into the Gulf of Mexico.”
“On the surface, that would seem to be a very unintelligent move,” Scott said.
“Go on,” Todd said, nodding.
“Well, that would put them in the Navy’s playground. No matter how well-equipped the Grayshirts are, the Navy must have the superior force at sea. It would also be much harder to supply and maintain communications with a facility that remote. Moving it there would increase the level of difficulty and risk in nearly every aspect.” Scott said thoughtfully.
“I don’t disagree,” Todd replied. “But let your mind work the problem from another way. What would they gain by doing this? Why would they feel it was necessary? Finally, what if the move wasn’t connected to the looming Naval attack at the college at all? We now have reason to think the two could be unrelated.”
Scott sat back to digest that new information and the possibilities it presented. “Does Garret have an idea of where they are? I mean, is it an island, a ship, an undersea bunker . . . what? Commander Garret was the top Navy man in the Gulf and a close ally of Todd and the local community.
“He is going under the primary assumption that it is most likely an abandoned oil rig. While it could be a ship, for some reason they don’t think so. Also, no islands out there, it’s a pretty deep part of the Gulf.”
Scott leaned back contemplating the little they knew. “Hmmm, okay, just brainstorming here… I’m pretty sure the research team didn’t suddenly have a breakthrough into the cure for the pandemic overseas. But based on some of the things DJ has said, I would guess that for them to make that move on their own would mean . . .” He looked at the ceiling while his mind worked. “They must have something that’s too dangerous to work on in Tallahassee. They need an actual bio-lab or containment facility. DJ would have mentioned any concrete discovery,
but maybe Praetor finally provided them some live viral samples to work on or something.”
DJ had mentioned the outbreak many times, and they all knew it was spreading across Asia and now Europe. One good thing about this happening now was the lack of modern transportation. In the age of global travel, a disease could easily be spread vast distances by unknowingly infected travelers. The distance from the outbreak now offered a level of comfort, but Scott felt a cold shiver run up his spine. Nothing could be considered ‘good’ about a bioweapon unleashed on the planet.
Todd nodded, seeming to agree with this line of thought. “Perhaps they’re now part of the labs charged with directly working on a cure. Didn’t DJ say that his team was working on just one part of the beast?”
“Yeah,” Scott nodded, “it seemed to be something relatively minor in the scheme of things, but perhaps that turned out to be a key after all.”
Todd scratched at his chin before responding. “We have some ideas on how deadly this thing is. I would hope they wouldn’t have any of it back stateside, but maybe they are desperate. Surely, they have better equipped, more secure facilities to do the heavier lifting. Not some improvised lab on an old oil rig.”
“That’s been our assumption all along,” Scott frowned in thought, “but I don’t think we can trust that anymore. Several things may have happened. There could have been a breach or an accident at one of the other labs which increased DJ’s group's value to the overall project. Or it might be that they now realize what was going on at FSU was really the most promising solution, and so elevated that team to the starting squad. My bet is that DJ and the professor—what’s his name?”
