by JK Franks
He had not adjusted well to life in America. They never had a permanent home. Instead, they stayed with friendly Indian tribes and with the transient Mexicans, illegal aliens that camped in the desert. He was unsure of when exactly he realized that his father was a killer—a mercenary—but he recalled that it had not been a surprising fact. The man had a talent for bushcraft, weapons and warfare tactics, all of which he demanded his son master from an early age.
“Become your enemy, think as he thinks.”
He could hear his father’s heavily accented words repeating over and over even now. The other gift his father had bestowed on him was paranoia.
“Never give your real name, never give up anything real about yourself, or your enemies will learn how to use it.”
His father had seen enemies behind every corner, and for a good reason, it turned out. It had been on a trip to New Orleans when Bartos was just seventeen that his dad, on assignment, had gotten his neck sliced open.
Bartos was pursued by his father’s killers. He had led them into the bayous and then hunted them, one by one. The swamps had remained his home for most of his life since then, but he had also spent time in other areas including New York City. He had never told anyone that version of his past, and never would.
Grabbing a notepad, he looked down at the topographical map and began writing. He would know every possible way the AG could be breached before he left his War Room.
Chapter Sixty-Three
“Solo, what do you see?”
Solo looked back dismissively at him. WTF dude? Am I supposed to be able to speak now? he seemed to say.
Bartos continued to watch the dog, which behaved strangely. Here on the opposite side of the Intracoastal, he was always on guard, but there was something more today. The dog had his back, he wasn’t worried, but he certainly wasn’t relaxed.
He knelt in the middle of the main road that led into Harris Springs. The giant bulk of the Aquatic Goddess loomed ahead of him. It was a prize too large for any outsider to ignore.
Think like an enemy, become your enemy.
He walked down the trail to where the boat ramp had been. They had worked hard to conceal the road and make it look like the rest of the bank. His men had driven a row of large telephone-pole-sized dock supports across the access and used a backhoe to lay a trench on the far side. It was the only easy place to launch boats from this side into the canal, and now it was nearly impassable. Satisfied, he continued the long walk toward the swamp and lowlands several miles ahead.
For better or worse, these were ancient castle siege tactics. The enemy had to navigate over a moat to even think of gaining access. The moat in this case was the Intracoastal Waterway. The green water looked calm but belied its swift current and significant depth. It was also wide: almost 100 yards across.
Bartos was coming up with, implementing and discarding attack plans at a fever pace. While he might be a “blunt instrument,” as Todd often dubbed him, “better at checkers than at chess,” he was confident he was the best checker player in the bayou.
He had identified multiple ways a group could cross the water to the far side. While it could not be done in great numbers, it would be possible. Of course, they could also simply swim across; the swift current would make that challenging, but not impossible. Obstacles in the water such as alligators and a few other nasty surprises would likely deter that plan. He had come up with numerous counter-measures that would help defend them, but in the end, he and Jack had concluded that any sufficiently determined force would be able to reach the far side and therefore the base of the ship.
Assuming the ship was sealed, how much damage could an attacking force do? Could they breach the ship and get inside? Looking up at the huge vessel, that was doubtful. It would be like assaulting a high rise. All the access hatches on this side would be dogged shut from the inside and secured with chains and locks. Once everyone was sealed in, the far side access could be secured the same way, the gangways raised and mooring lines thrown off. How long would that take? He made another note to check that, put a drill in place for practice. The anchor lines would be all that remained . . . could those be used to climb to the deck? Was there possible access around the giant propellers?
All of this ran through Bartos’ mind, giving him an increasing list of items to review. Some things he had to concede were impossible to prevent; if an enemy got across with a significant amount of explosives or cutting torches, then in time, they could find a way to enter. The hundreds of passenger cabins had windows and some balconies that would be vulnerable to small arms fire from the far side. Each of the weaknesses would need to be examined and, where possible, turned into strengths. Of course, the size of an attacking force and how well prepared they were—either for battle or a long, protracted siege—would change the plan significantly. In many castle battles, the enemy had simply waited the defenders out, sometimes for years.
This triggered a new concern. Water: that was their real vulnerability. Water would be the one resource they couldn’t store significant quantities of onboard. They had large cisterns to catch rainfall and could desalinate seawater if they could run the engines, but most of the water supply for the AG still came from the city’s deep wells. Shit, why did we not give that more thought?
If the enemy could get across, cutting off the water supply would be the natural first step. Doing the math in his head, he figured that without access to the wells they would have perhaps thirty days. After that, they’d be as dead as the previous occupants of the cruise ship.
Bartos whistled but did not see Solo. “Come on, boy!” The dog was his own master and loved to hunt on his own, but Bartos was relying on him today to watch his back. Several of his men would also be watching him from a deck high up on the ship. They had worked out a regular plan of sentries and patrols months ago, as well as an emergency signal that would alert all residents to return to the AG at once.
Bartos turned back, following the canal to the ocean side near the marina. This path was thick with mangrove and almost completely impassable, but it also had to be checked out. He caught an occasional glimpse of Solo at the edge of the trees in the distance. Briefly, he stiffened as he thought he saw the shadow of a man standing there. He moved a small limb to get a better view and this time saw nothing—nothing but the dog. Solo was staring into the woods.
Bartos raised the scoped M4 to his eye and swept the tree line. Nothing out there but the dog. But something else was there . . . instinctually, he was increasingly sure of it. What had him confused was why Solo had not attacked, or at least given a warning. He kneeled and watched the dog for several more minutes until the white tail began to wag. Calming his paranoia, he shouldered the carbine, filed his suspicion away and continued scouting.
Chapter Sixty-Four
Pearl River Nature Preserve, Mississippi
Bobby was struggling again to keep Jordan in sight. He had taken a few minutes to give the taser to Jacob and shown him quickly how to use it. They had quickly given up looking for a canoe after realizing they’d stumbled right into the enemy and taken off on foot. They’d been moving ever since—all through the night—so as to put as much distance between them and the Messengers’ camp as possible.
Bobby had frozen in fear when he heard approaching motorcycles. Most of the day they had stayed out of sight, but Bobby felt sure they had been spotted crossing a logging road a few miles back. He had heard shouts followed by a shot that seemed to be aimed at them.
He had thought they were being observant, but in their mad rush to go east and get to the river, they had made mistakes. He was also in bad shape, and it was affecting his decision-making. The woods and roads were crawling with Messengers: shooting game animals; netting fish; sending out patrols in every direction. He could tell there was a lot less of them now; they had been depleted and hurt in the Memphis battle, but like wounded animals, they were now even more dangerous in their vulnerable state.
Jacob was in front an
d Jordan behind her son; Bobby just physically couldn’t keep up with them. Finally, Jordan looked back and she motioned for him to hurry up. She looked pleadingly at him, silently urging him on, but when it became clear that Bobby could not, she nodded and pushed on to join her son who was moving deeper into the forest. They disappeared into the murky valley below, where she, too, struggled to keep her son in sight.
Not long after they split up Bobby’s luck ran out.
“Hey, stop!” He heard the sound just as he saw several men pointing guns in his direction, though not at him. Then he saw the target: a skinny boy in remnants of a khaki shirt, hiding in the trees. “You there, stand up and walk toward us!” The boy slowly rose and walked from the woods.
Bobby was standing in the open; the men could clearly see him but must have assumed he was one of the patrols. One looked in his direction, a question forming on his lips. Thinking fast, Bobby took the lead. “Chill out guys, we’re all on the same team,” he played it light, showing the three Judges his cross tattoo.
They turned their attention back to Matthew, the lone survivor of the Scout camp. The boy had survived most of the prior year by learning and using every lesson a Scout could know. “Well, shit, it’s just another one of those kids.” The Judge reached over and removed the large hunting knife from the boy’s hand. He examined it briefly. “This thing is sharp,” he commended the boy, who stood terrified and confused. “You did good, kid.” The Judge smiled at the young man, who smiled weakly back with clear relief. In a split second, the older man’s arm leapt out and sliced the length of the young Scout’s neck with the knife. Matthew’s hands reached up toward the deep gash that poured blood, but they never made it. He was dead already, and his body sank to the ground, where it would remain. Bobby unintentionally let out a gasp in surprise.
The men eyed him once again. “Fuck, man, where are your partners?” The guns in the men’s hands rose fractionally.
“Why you carrying that pack and all that gear?” asked another. “Tryin’ to slip away?”
Bobby didn’t have the answers. He knew it looked strange to the men, and he had no ready response. His rifle was slung on his back and his pistol was in his pack—close, but not that close. The guns were now squarely aimed at him.
“Red . . . call it in, see if we should end this fuck right here. You, mista, drop the pack.”
Bobby went to slide the straps off.
“Wait!” One of the men stepped close and shone his light in Bobby’s face. “I remember you, you are one of us.”
Bobby started to smile, “See guys, I—”
He raised his gun to shoot as he said Bobby’s name with a sneer. “Montgomery . . . You killed a Judge, motherfucker, call it—”
The shot ended the statement. The Judge fell dead as Bobby dropped the pack revealing his hand holding the smoking pistol. He had aimed and fired in one smooth move. He was turning to fire at the next Judge when a shot tore through his side. He returned it and dropped that Judge as well.
The third was on the radio, screaming, “We got Montgomery, he’s alive!” Bobby’s third shot ended his communication and his life. Bobby was on his knees. He couldn’t catch his breath and his vision was beginning to tunnel. He was surprised to be alive, and the blood spurting from his side let him know it wouldn’t be for long. The pain was so fucking bad; it crowded everything else from his brain.
Clumsily, he rose and took the man’s radio. He stepped toward the woods before remembering his pack. He needed the medical kit. Stepping back, he pulled the pack, but couldn’t lift it from the ground. Supplies spilled out of it in all directions. His blood was doing much the same. He could hear voices calling for locations on the radio. His hands moved through the supplies, finally finding a t-shirt with which to pack the wound. His eyes closed, and he grimaced against the pain as he swept whatever supplies his hand touched back into the pack. He grasped what must have been his roll of tape which he used to secure the shirt. Finally, he struggled to his feet with the lighter pack and stumbled into the woods.
Consciousness became a vaporous thing: not something he could identify, much less grasp and hold on to. He vaguely recalled stopping once and pouring alcohol in the wound. He could feel the pull of duct tape on skin and remembered it was holding in a large blood-clotting bandage. Sounds went away, as did his vision; he assumed he was dead but realized slowly that he was still standing. At one point, he thought he saw Jacob running in the distance, then the image faded. He must be dead—he heard angels. No, not angels . . . the distinctive sound of a piano echoed softly down the valley. It was so out of place he could not be sure it wasn’t just in his head. He struggled a few steps into a clearing. A small white building stood ahead. The little church had candles lighting the interior. The wound in his side was bleeding heavily.
Bobby stumbled toward the steps, the melodic sound of a choir starting a rich, traditional hymn of thanks. He stumbled to the open door and leaned on the doorjamb. The sanctuary was packed with a dark-faced congregation. The piano faded, and the choir let the song die in fits and whispers as the bloody, ragged man collapsed in the doorway.
He thought briefly that they were approaching to kill him: they had seen the tattoo and knew the evil it represented. “You people are out of your fucking mind . . . do you have any idea what’s out there?” Consciousness was leaving him. He would never make it to Kaylie, nor see his brother ever again. He had lost Jordan and her son. Bobby saw the hands reaching for him as the floor rushed up to meet his face. “Please, put out the candles,” he croaked.
Chapter Sixty-Five
He had no idea how long he had been out, but it was still dark when he came to. He felt, more than saw, numerous people around him. A kind, clear voice spoke near his ear: “What are you running from, brother? Who hurt you?”
“The Messengers,” he managed with difficulty.
A hushed whisper seemed to pass through the assembly like electricity. “Shhh, hush down, brothers and sisters. Let the man talk.”
“Oh, dear Lord,” came one particularly robust voice.
“Quiet, Ms. Johnson,” the same voice urged. “Those heathen Messengers can’t be here,” the kind voice replied, “they stay up nowth.”
Bobby tried to rise and found someone handing him a cup of water. He drank deeply and leaned a few inches up and to the side. “Preacher, you gotta get these people out of here. The Messengers are here . . . something up in Memphis drove them south. A huge battle . . .” His head started spinning, but he carried on. “They’re camped at the reservoir . . . thousands of them.”
“Day at da backwatah?”
“Sister Johnson, please,” the voice urged once again. “I’m not the preacher, son, but I guess I’m as close as we got. Sister Tasha got your wound stitched up. If what you say is right, that dem animals is here, what can we do?”
Bobby felt his side for the bandage. It hurt but did seem to be sealed up. Only time would tell if he had internal damage as well. He would be dead by morning if he did. He struggled to sit up on the rough wooden pew. “You can pray, brother, but you might want to stop playing the piano, too.”
“Aren’t these people Christians? How can they be treating God’s people dis bad?”
“Brother, they aren’t Christians, they are a murdering army of devils. They captured me and my wife in Memphis. She was killed when we tried to escape. I’ve been running from them ever since.”
The man stood up decisively. “Everyone get your stuff and head out. Service is over. May the good Lord bless and keep you all safe.”
Bobby could hear feet on the hardwood floors as the small church emptied out into the night. “Tell them to hide for the next few days—not to travel, not to stay in their homes.”
The man walked just outside the door and quietly passed along Bobby’s advice. “Come on, you have to follow me,” he said as he walked back inside. “There’s flashlights up in the forest heading this way.”
“I’m not sure I can. Did
you hear dogs?”
“Dogs? Oh, lawd no, I don’t do dogs. They got dogs?”
“They did in Memphis . . . not sure they still do. They’re going to be searching for me, though. I can’t go with you. Thank you, but it would just get you killed. I have to keep moving.”
“I understands that, brother, and I ain't gonna stand in your path. I can help get you started, though.”
The man helped Bobby back into his pack and put his arm under Bobby’s shoulder to guide him down the steps. He didn’t need to ask what direction; the opposite direction from the approaching men was the obvious choice.
“Thank you, mister . . . my name’s Bobby. I appreciate what you and your flock did for me.”
“Name’s Tremaine Simpson,” the man replied in a hoarse whisper, “an’ I think it’s us that owe you some thanks. We so out da way out here we never expects no trouble. We knew dey were sum college kids up at the lake, but dey never bothered us. Jus’ assumed no one else would neither. Yes suh, I think you saved us tonight, not the other way ’round.”
Bobby was getting winded and he had not even gotten out of sight of the church yet. His side was on fire, the rough stitches pulling with every step. “Tremaine, can you and your parishioners keep an eye out for a woman and a child? I, uh, I lost them in the forest today, just before I was shot.”
“Dey somebody special to you?”
“She’s a friend, a childhood friend actually. Her son doesn’t speak, but he’s a good boy.”
“I’ll pass the word, if dey still wit us livin’ we can find her and keep ’em safe.” Tremaine started slowing the pace. “Here we is.”
Bobby assumed this was where they parted ways. “Thank you, brother, you have been a godsend.”
