by JK Franks
“Time to get moving,” John said. They had argued briefly over abandoning one of the boats; towing the extra kayak against the current for no real reason seemed foolish. Bobby thought they could better divide up the gear and leave the extra boat. In the end, John made the decision easier. “Leave the extra gear on the spare, and I’ll tow it. I’m probably the strongest on the water, I’ll be glad to haul it a few more miles.”
Several times Bobby lost sight of John in the fog and convinced himself the river rat had paddled off with their gear, but each time the fog would eventually diminish, and he could see the man paddling calmly up front. They paddled onto another larger river: the Yazoo. The current was not strong, but it was tiring nonetheless; the river had numerous shoals and rapids where the boats bottomed out and had to be pulled or carried. By midafternoon, the fog was long gone, and the heat was rapidly approaching unbearable.
They were in a long stretch of open land with no trees. “Floodplains,” John declared. “’Riginally, the Mississippi River would flood all o’ this every few years. It helped replenish the soil, and the farming here was excellent. Then, when the government decided they needed to control the river, they put in the levees and the flood control gates. Solved one problem but caused another . . . anyway, this land began to die without the regular flooding, so they started cutting in the long canals and irrigation ditches. That helped a little, but now most o’ the farmin’s also gone elsewhere. The canals are still around, though, if you know where to look.”
A short while later they saw him turn to one side and seem to disappear into the bank of the river. As they closed the gap, they could just make out a small opening and a tiny stream of water. Paddling toward it, they were surprised to see the weed-choked entrance gave way to an open channel of water that ran straight for miles ahead.
The channels were a maze. Bobby tried tracking the number of turns they took but eventually gave up. Some were little more than drainage ditches, while others were the size of the first. Several times John beached and instructed the group to portage over several hundred yards to another canal. As darkness began to close in, they heard the sounds of a river nearby. “That’ll be the Black River,” John said. “The Big Black. To be honest, it’s not that big, nor is it black, but we won’t be on it for long. Let’s camp here tonight.”
Bobby looked out over the small river; it reminded him of the one behind Sanderson’s house. The banks were covered with roots and trunks of fallen trees. The muddy water was only a few feet deep. As a kid, he would have dragged his brother down every day to a place like this to fish or swim or just have adventures. Now, it was an adventure for real, but not one he much cared for any longer. This meager channel was his highway, his road to safety; at least he hoped it was. He saw Jacob up in the trees; he was also looking at the river. It seemed to bring the boy no joy now either. What’s going on in his mind? Bobby wondered.
They were on that river for only a few miles when John signaled them to stop. “End of the road for me, troops. I’m going to ride this on down to below Vicksburg and back out to the mighty Mississippi. The Pearl River’s ’bout, hmmm, ten miles east. That’s going to be too far to portage your boats, but I imagine you can find more on the other side—there’s a big reservoir, and they have lots o’ outfitters near the recreation areas.
They left all the boats with John and about a third of the food and supplies, including his promised jars of pickles. Bobby knew they could not manage all the supplies on foot. With sadness, he wished the man well. “You’ve been a godsend, friend.”
John nodded, climbed back in his lead boat and began paddling away. Bobby noticed Jacob visibly relax as the man went out of sight. While he and Jordan might have trusted the riverman, clearly Jacob had not.
Chapter Sixty
It was mid-morning on what looked to soon be another scorching day. Each of them was covered in mud, insect bites and blisters from the constant days of travel. All three had large packs, including Jacob who had shouldered his with a willing smile. Bobby also made sure he and Jordan carried rifles, with rounds already chambered. Taking a bearing, they headed away from the river in the direction indicated on the GPS.
“How far ahead of them do you think we are?”
Bobby thought about her question. “Well, if what John said was accurate, the ones on the other side of the river are at least a day behind us, maybe more. Hopefully, they just keep heading south toward New Orleans.”
Jordan moved another limb out of her and Jacob’s way. “You don’t expect them to do that, though, do you?”
He pulled a piece of venison jerky from a pocket and took a bite before responding. “Uhh, no, not really. They mentioned having some arrangement with the gangs around New Orleans. The Judges made some deal with one of the heavies down that way. Not sure what it is, but they’re unlikely to want to go there with their tails tucked.”
They walked on for several minutes before he continued, “No . . . I’m figuring they’ll most likely cross over at Vicksburg, probably raid the town for anything that’s still left, then start heading east again.”
She paused and looked at him. “Doesn’t that mean they’re still heading right for us?”
He nodded as he passed her, “It does, which is why we don’t stop today, we have to get to that other river. We also don’t know what happened to the ones who were on this side of the river. They may be behind us or ahead. Roads are better over here. And as we get back toward more populated areas, we’re going to run into locals, each of whom has their own idea of hospitality.”
“Bobby, I thank you for getting us out of harm’s way and all, but it seems we can’t avoid the danger. I have my boy to think about. I know you want to get to Scott, but maybe Jacob and I should just head back north, try and slip by the Messengers and get back home.”
“Yeah, I thought of that . . . and I wouldn’t try and stop you, but . . . it’s a bad idea.”
“Why?” she said, more defensively than she meant.
“The Messengers don’t move like a regular army: they spread wide, so they can clear every town, farm, warehouse, anything they come across. They descend on a place, and once they’ve taken what they want, they destroy whatever’s left. If they found your place, and it’s unlikely they didn’t, then it’s gone—burned to the ground.” He was empathetic and sad to say so himself, but he needed her to know the danger she would be undertaking.
“Even if their numbers are less now, the tactics won’t have changed, and they’ll be even more desperate for food, fuel and water. So even if you two could slip around them without getting captured, you’d have hundreds of miles to go with no real hope of finding supplies.”
Jordan was beginning to understand the scale of the danger.
Bobby took another bite of the hard, peppery meat. “You also don’t know who’s pursuing them—driving the Messengers south. You saw the jets, the bombs. I don’t want you and Jacob being caught in the middle of that. Whoever those guys are, they scare me more than the Messengers.”
As night began to fall, the thick woods thinned, and they were forced to cross fenced pastureland. They avoided the few barns and farmhouses they saw. Finding a secluded hollow, they stopped long enough to eat and rest for a few minutes. Bobby had been relying on the GPS less and less, as the battery was getting weak. He risked checking it now: it showed they were only about half a mile from a large reservoir on the Pearl River. “We’re close. Another twenty minutes and we’ll be at the river.” He couldn’t see the others’ faces, but he knew they were ready for this leg of the journey to be over.
He put the GPS away and pulled out the little handheld radio, tossing the slackline antenna into the branch of a tree. The overgrowth had been so thick for so long that he had not been able to hear another broadcast, much less reach Kaylie. He hoped the Messengers were too busy surviving right now to be paying much attention to the radios. After just a few minutes of the same white noise, he switched it off and re-wound the an
tenna.
“Ready?”
Jordan clearly wasn’t, but offered a resigned, “I guess.”
They shouldered the packs—Bobby taking Jacob’s the last stretch—and started eastward once again. Bobby had shown the pair how to move in the woods at night; catching a foot on a rock in the dark could end the journey for that person. They moved with hands in front of their faces to shield against limbs and shuffled their feet to encounter obstacles with a minimum of danger. While they had flashlights, they wouldn’t use them unless absolutely necessary. Even a tiny light could be seen for miles, and after using one they would have to wait for their eyes to readjust to the darkness. That was time Bobby did not feel they had.
Eventually, they came to a clearing. They could just make out the useless power lines running high overhead. The slash of clearing cut through the forest, made traversing easier, but it also risked exposing them. For the few minutes remaining on the trail, however, he felt it was worth the risk.
Ten minutes later they were staring into the inky blackness of a large lake. This was the reservoir Bobby had seen on the GPS. The overhead power lines kept going in the direction of the dam. “We need to see if we can find a boathouse or a recreational area.” His thoughts were interrupted by Jacob pulling on his sleeve. He could just make out the child outlined in the dark. Lowering his voice, he had come to automatically assume anything that got Jacob’s attention meant danger. “What is it, Jacob?” Jacob pulled his hand in the direction he wanted Bobby to look. Far up on the other side of the lake, Bobby could now see what had the kid so alarmed. Hundreds—more like thousands—of fires were burning. Small campfires, he assumed; the wind was at his back, so they had not smelled nor seen the smoke. “Shiiiittt,” he growled. “We fuckin’ walked right up to them.”
Chapter Sixty-One
Harris Springs, Mississippi
Jack and Bartos sat on the steps of what had once been Castro’s Sports Bar. Someone had taken the sign down, and it now hung over one of the lounges in the Aquatic Goddess.
“What’s bothering you, Jack?”
The preacher was looking out over the town—what was left of it, at least. Most of one street had been burned down. All the buildings were showing signs of neglect. “I don’t know. Just, something.”
Bartos had seen his friend in all manner of moods over the years, but this was something new. “Not like you to be unsure of anything, Jack. Is it just the fact that Scott and Todd are gone?”
“Maybe, I just have a feeling we have more to worry about than just the storm. The man Angel and I talked with the other day, Roosevelt . . . Before we left he said something that . . . well, it seemed insignificant then, but now I feel like it might be important.”
“I must admit I never knew anyone lived down dat road. When Scott tol’ me about the old man, I didn’t believe him. What was it he said, Preacher?”
“A few things. First, he talked about how the light is always pursued by the darkness and referred to the Amalekites. When we went to leave, he quoted a verse out of Matthew to me—when Jesus said, ‘Think not that I am come to send peace on Earth: I came not to send peace, but a sword.”
Bartos looked confused, “And who were the Ameckelites, is that something like Canadians?”
Jack smiled and corrected his friend. “The Amalekites were a tribe of people in the Bible . . . fierce enemies of Israel. They fought the Israelites over everything—food, water, land. They were said to ‘devour the produce of the land’ in the Book of Judges.”
“That sounds eerily familiar . . . like dem crazy Messengers. What happened to the Camelites?” Bartos asked.
“Not fucking Camelites, you heathen bastard. Amalekites! What happened is that God told his people to go slaughter them.” He took out his Bible, turned to the Book of Samuel, and quoted: “Thus saith the Lord of hosts, I remember that which Amalek did to Israel, how he laid wait for him in the way when he came up from Egypt. Now go and smite Amalek, and utterly destroy all that they have, and spare them not; but slay both man and woman, infant and suckling, ox and sheep, camel and ass.”
“Jeezus,” muttered the Cajun. “That’s some pretty ruthless shit, Preacher. So, God said ‘Wipe all these fucks out?’”
“Yes . . . it’s sometimes referred to as the Amalekite genocide. It’s controversial, as you can imagine.”
“Gives a whole new level o’ crazy to being a ‘good Christian,’ don’t it? And this man, this Roosevelt, just said this to you? For what reason? Did he know you were a preacher?”
Jack pondered for a moment. “I don’t think Angel or I ever mentioned it, we were just there to introduce ourselves and to warn him about the storm. He’s an interesting fellow. I confess I’ve been a bit unnerved ever since.” He paused, watching a seabird soaring over the shoreline. “Mostly ’cos I think he might be right. If the Messengers do come this way, Bartos, we’re sitting ducks. The ship stands out like a damn lighthouse. We have to come up with more of a plan—a real way of defending it. We can’t just wait for Todd and Scott to come back and hope the Navy takes care of us.”
Bartos nodded, looking back over his shoulder several blocks to the corner of the cruise ship that could still be seen from their spot. “We have some contingency plans, a lot of firearms, and Todd assured us the Navy would help out in an attack, but you’re right. We need to do more . . . a lot more. Whether it’s the Messengers or these raiders that keep hitting the ranches, or whoever, we need to be better prepared.”
Jack was nodding. “We need to be smart. The fact that we’ve done relatively well at surviving doesn’t mean we will continue to. The darkness is all around us, my friend.”
“And now we have a mandate from God to slaughter those mother fuckers.”
Jack laughed and clapped his friend on the back. “Brother, you are a savage, but I’m glad you’re on our side.”
Chapter Sixty-Two
Solo stopped rolling in the tall grass when he noticed his human was looking elsewhere.
The conversation with Jack had bothered Bartos more than he’d let on. He watched as his friend walked down the empty street toward his old, abandoned church. This wasn’t Bartos’ town, not in any real sense. Yet he felt a debt to these people, his friends. They had survived so much, yet with each day more seemed to be required. If not the Messengers, it would be the Grayshirts; if not them, some other gang of thugs. The only thing that helped was strength. They had come this far—mostly by being smart. The next chapter would require more smarts—and more brutality. Of this, he was quite certain. Luckily, he had some experience in the area.
Bartos strode to his old workshop down by the marina. He had never liked depending on others for anything, but especially not for protection. The building had been a newly built dry dock: a boat storage warehouse finished just before the CME hit the previous year. The building now held boats as well as his much-loved Bronco, a varied array of other equipment including weapons. Some of these were basic firearms, but others were assets on loan from the Navy. Still others had been taken from an abandoned National Guard base in Gulfport. The larger crew-served guns were his primary focus now; some of these could be mounted on the Aquatic Goddess. Walking past the guns, he came to what he and Todd had taken to calling the War Room. In it, among other things, were varying maps of the island, Harris Springs, the Intracoastal Waterway, the bayou and much of the surrounding county.
He looked over the map he’d pulled down, trying to put himself into the mindset of an attacking force. This was an exercise he performed regularly. The attack on his bugout location in the swamp the previous year had humbled him. Though he had technically won that battle, it had been a defeat for him. He was a survivalist, a prepper, yet he had been beaten that day by thugs and a treacherous opportunist. Never again, he had vowed, would he be surprised . . . never again.
He recalled a quote from Sun Tzu: “To know your enemy, you must become your enemy.” While he could not be sure who might attack, he could plan for the mo
re likely enemy. What would they want, how would they approach, what weakness might they exploit? One thing was clear: like Jack said, the AG was an obvious target, but to get to it, any group would need boats to transport the attacking force to the side of the canal on which the AG was moored, or use heavy artillery to fire on the ship from the inland side. Planning an attack on the AG and Harris Springs was the only way to anticipate the dangers and shore up their defenses in a meaningful way. Bartos was no strategist; his talent was tactics, what-if scenarios and contingency plans. Urban warfare required a different set of skills since military tactics wouldn’t necessarily apply when fighting an unconventional enemy. If you are going up against crazy, it helps to have one of your own. He smiled at his inside joke.
The racks were filled with boats they’d confiscated from houses on the other side of the canal. Anything that floated that couldn’t be moved had been destroyed: leave nothing for the enemy to use against you. The crew weapons, technical trucks and other heavy guns had been confiscated, more to keep them away from a potential enemy than for actual use.
Bartos looked at the shelves of guns and ammo, thinking back to another time, another life. His childhood had been chaotic, but not at all what most people would have guessed. He wasn’t a Cajun from the swamp; as a child, he’d spent many years in rebel military camps in the swamps and tropical forests of Nicaragua. His father was a soldier and member of the Contra rebels. Targeted by the death squads after the Iran-Contra affair came to light in the mid-eighties, they fled to New Mexico. Bartos had been twelve then, although he did not go by that name yet.
