Kingdoms of Sorrow

by JK Franks

  Todd slammed the radio back into the receiver. Shit! Of course, it made sense, but that fact didn’t make it any easier. They could have given him more men or heavier arms—Hell, just some crates of ammo for the .50 cals would have helped! He had known air sorties would be scratched during the height of the storm. He had just hoped that that wouldn’t be when he needed them.

  Bartos enlisted the help of another man, John, and walked down the stairs to one of the outer access hatches several stories above the dock where the AG was moored. Immediately upon opening the hatch, they were drenched in the deluge of rain. Cautiously, Bartos brought a thin, reedy device to his lips and blew a series of sharp bursts on the whistle. He then pulled the hatch closed, and both men began rigging up the large wire basket, the top of a grocery store buggy. To this, they attached a rope that looped over a pulley system. The pulley had already been in place, undoubtedly for a different purpose . . . Moments later, they heard a single bark from outside.

  Opening the hatch fully, Bartos saw Solo—or more accurately, he saw a version of the dog that appeared to have been painted by demons. Solo was covered in blood and gore, from nose to tail. John helped Bartos lower the cage. “Jesus Christ, what’s all over that dog?”

  “The blood of fallen Judges would be my guess,” Bartos said, a hint of pride in his voice. Solo glanced up at the men but then turned his head back to the west. Bartos looked off in that direction. He saw nothing but abandoned storefronts, but he trusted the signals from his canine friend. “Come on, Solo, let someone else have this fight.”

  The dog jumped nimbly into the basket, just like they had practiced. The men hauled the rope in, bringing the basket with the heavy, wet, bloody dog on board. By the time the door was sealed shut Solo was rolling like a puppy on the lush carpet of the corridor. The deep blue pattern was quickly saturated with red from the animal's fur. Bartos scratched him lightly behind the ears. “Thanks, Solo, for whatever the hell you did out there, we owe ya, yet again,” he smiled fondly. “Just too many coming over for you to take on by yourself now, though.” He patted the dog once more, then headed to the top deck.

  “Lieutenant!”

  Garret emerged from a darkened entryway. “Yes, sir?”

  Bartos smiled, “Shit, son, no one’s ever called me sir. It’s Bartos. Look, I know you’ve seen the boats they’re loading ready to come over. And I’m pretty sure there’s already a group over here to the southwest. I think the dog probably took care of some, but there are definitely more.”

  Garret keyed his throat mic and sent several of his men to guard that side. “Sir, I mean, Bartos, what is the plan for the others? Should we try and take out the boats?”

  “We’re open to suggestions, Lieutenant. If they get over here, they are probably going to first try and get the bridges lowered, then breach the ship.”

  Garret looked confident, “We can repel any boarders, sir, I mean—sorry. There are too many pinch points they would have to come through, and with what we have, and the IEDs you guys prepared, we should be able to hold the high ground. Battle theory indicates they will need an overwhelming force to overtake an entrenched and well-armed enemy.”

  Bartos appreciated the young officer's attitude but wondered how much actual fighting the young Navy man had done. He pointed over the railing. “They do seem to have an overwhelming force, Lieutenant.” The lights from the line of cars stretched out of sight.

  The sailor nodded and smiled, “They do indeed, sir, but they are over there. It's only when they get over here that it’s a serious problem. We can send a demo team out to blow the bridges. Keep most of them over on that side.”

  “That won’t be necessary, but thanks,” Bartos replied. “My guys removed the main gears from the mechanisms. Even if they manage to get power to the motor, those bridges aren’t lowering.”

  “Damn good thinking,” Garret smiled. “We’ll wait for the boats to get to our side and then take them out. Some of them may get across, but we’ll make sure none of the boats goes back for more.”

  “Sounds like a good plan. Use my guys wherever you need them. They aren’t soldiers, but they’re good shots, and they will fight.”

  The Lieutenant nodded, “We realize that sir, in some ways they are more battle-tested than many of us. We are quickly learning how to work together.”

  Chapter Ninety-Six

  The clouds overhead were getting even darker, and the sounds of the crashing waves were deafening to those on the exposed deck of the ship. Through it all, they could still hear singing and music; the sounds of someone preaching were also discernible. “Those guys are having a camp meeting in the middle of a hurricane,” Preacher Jack said as he looked at Angel and shook his head. “Something about this doesn’t feel right. I think they might be trying to distract us from the people crossing over. We need to keep an eye on them.”

  The full force of the hurricane was bearing down on the former town of Harris Springs. They heard shouts and sporadic gunfire from the starboard side and crossed over to look out a window.

  From their vantage point several decks up, they could now see a small group of men using a hydraulic jack. It had a steel wedge attached to a hose like you might see a rescue crew using on a car wreck. They had inserted the wedge into a tiny gap to pry open one of the hatches. Several of the men were supporting a steel plate above the group to shield from gunfire. The barrier was only good from directly overhead. Garret’s men were fifty yards farther down and took out the four men with a few shots.

  Jack didn’t like that either; something felt off about the ease of these encounters. Suddenly, a large explosion went off next to where he stood: a small outer hatch had been blown inward with enough concussive force to wedge it into a wall on the other side. Jack tried to make sense of what he was seeing. He saw but could not hear what Angel was yelling. Yes, he, too, now realized the other group had been a diversion. The voices around him all sounded like they were underwater. Lips were moving, but the rest made no sense. Then he felt a hand on him—and then he was falling. Briefly, he saw Angel's look of horror as he was tossed backward out the blown hatch.

  Bartos looked out from his position on the bridge wing. “Oh, fuck! That looks like Jack.”

  “Where?” Todd shoved him aside in his worry.

  “Solo, hunt! He landed hard on the dock, may already be dead. Three tangos are carrying him off.”

  Todd had to keep his eye on the three boats full of men that had made it across to the far shore. They were struggling to climb the west bank. Once they reached level ground, they approached the ship without pause. Several broke away toward the drawbridge control box.

  Take out the boats. Come on, guys, do it now! His whispered command didn’t happen. Garret and many of the armed men of the AG were busy trying to reseal the hatchway and find the man who had made it inside: the same one who had thrown Jack out the blown hatch to the dock below. Angel had managed to get a shot off before ducking behind a bulkhead. She was safe and unharmed for now.

  Bartos rounded a corner just as Solo rushed through the group of Garret's men. He was on a scent for someone familiar to his expert nose. Someone he had almost ended earlier in the day. “Did you guys get them, the ones that were pulling the Preacher off?”

  “No, sir, Bartos, we lost them in the rain.”

  Angel came up breathless, “I’m sorry, I tried to get him, but he just threw Jack overboard. I shot him, I think I hit him.”

  Todd’s voice came through the radio, “We have more on the island. A large group heading this way, and the boats are going back for more. Someone needs to take out those boats.”

  Garret ordered his men back to their stations. “Solo and Bartos will find the intruder. We have to set up to repel that group. You three—get back to the upper deck and take out those boats. Use the heavy guns or those air cannon grenades, but be careful. This is it, men, be smart.”

  The storm was raging near its peak; the wind was beginning to uproot trees and rip
roofs from buildings. The air filled with debris made into daggers by the gale force winds. The Messenger’s boat was being blown farther down the canal. The revival tent was down and wrapped around several of the parked cars.

  Todd scratched his scruffy beard nervously as he eyed the approaching group on this side. A powerful gust blew two of them against the side of the ship where they dropped into the gap between the dock and the hull. The AG was straining against its mooring lines. Something that looked like the ship’s tall radio antennae came crashing down against the side windows. Below, the water level was already washing over the top of the docks. The storm-surge is beginning.

  At that moment one of the rear mooring lines snapped with a sharp twang. The stern of the ship lurched sideways several yards until the next line pulled taut, securing any further movement.

  Several decks below, it had occurred to Bartos that he likely knew where the intruder was heading. He rushed to the nearby stairs and headed toward the mid-deck hatch. The man, he realized, would undoubtedly be focused on letting in others above anything else.

  As he passed the next level, he paused at the open door to that space and yelled for Scoots to follow him. Off in the distance, he heard Solo in full attack mode. He could barely pull the stairwell door open to enter the lower storage hold: the pressure was too great, an outer door had to be open on this level.

  Bartos swung into the darkened space with his M4 leveled at the wall where the open outer hatch was. Rain streamed through the opening and flooded the floor. The smells and sounds of scared farm animals left a ripe odor in the air. Ahead, in the shadows, he could just make out Solo, whose jaw was clamped around a man's arm. Another man’s head popped into view from the other side of the open hatch, and Bartos fired off several rounds, one of which caught him between the eyes.

  Without turning he yelled back. “Scoots! Call up for more men! We got a real problem down here.” Bartos turned and saw his friend slip back into the relative protection of the stairwell and speak into his radio. Bartos whistled and gave a rarely used command to the dog. “Solo, KILL! KILL!” The dog looked up from the man he had been fighting with and wagged his tail. What the fuck? Bartos marveled with minor disgust. The dog released the man’s arm and lunged directly for his throat, clamping down with one ferocious bite. Solo released and was moving toward the next target before the other man’s body hit the deck.

  Scoots poked his head back in, “Hey, Boss, they said to stay away from the open hatch.” Solo was farther back in the darkness attacking someone else. Bartos had no idea how many of them were already aboard, but he had no problem staying away from that opening. He saw a glint of yellow and then heard a woosh of flame from the open hatch. His friends upstairs were tossing the homemade napalm. The screams from outside let him know the explosives had found their targets. The burning assailants, some of whom had crawled inside, cast enough light for Bartos to see more of the storage space. Solo had two men backed against a wall. One had a gun; the other was unarmed. Bartos aimed and took out the gunman. Solo looked over and growled. If dogs could be surly, he was pretty sure this one was.

  “Fine, you stupid dog, I won’t help you next time.”

  He stood up just as Scoots yelled a warning. It wasn’t in time. The piece of steel pipe the man swung caught Bartos on the side of the head. He saw stars before he crashed to the steel deck. Shots rang out, and he was vaguely aware of another man lying beside him looking into his eyes. “You come here often? Not a talker, hmmm, the silent type.”

  Scoots was pulling him to his feet, but his feet didn’t seem interested in the effort. As he was pulled away he gave a little wave to the other man, “Okay, see ya’round.”

  “Jesus Christ man, you gotta concussion.”

  Easy tugging on the shoulder, man. Scoots finally had him back on his feet.

  Bartos looked at Scoots who appeared to be shooting away from him at an odd angle. “Fuck, that’s weir—” He was on the deck again, this time looking at the dead man’s boots. “Hey, I’m going to go sit by the fire, now.” He crawled feebly toward a burning man who was lying across the hatch opening. Slowly, he began to realize he had no idea who or where he was. Why is this filthy dog dripping blood all over me? Fuck the fire, I’m going to sleep.

  Several of Garret’s commandos secured the room. They closed the hatch and helped Scoots pull Bartos back into the stairwell. Kaylie was there to help assess the wound. “Shit, Bartos, you have a cracked skull. We have to get that swelling down, now. Get him to sick bay.”

  “Don’t worry about me, Mom, I’m going to go shoot the neighbor’s cat.”

  “What is wrong with his voice?” Kaylie looked at the other men. “We better hurry.”

  Chapter Ninety-Seven

  Peterson looked down at the man; he was still unconscious. Initially, he thought the man had probably died from the fall, but then he had moaned as they were dragging him back out of sight. Peterson and the other Judges that had made it across had taken refuge inside an abandoned farm supply store. The sounds of the raging storm surrounded them. Debris was hitting the storefront like shrapnel. Somewhere near, a sound of tearing metal rose above the shriek of the wind. The sides of the building pulsed in and out with the storm gusts. It felt as though the prefab metal structure could collapse at any moment. This was no normal tropical storm. Water levels were rising, the tide was already up over some of the roads nearer the ocean, and the size of the canal was increasing by the minutes.

  At least they didn’t have to hide from that damn dog now that it was finally back aboard the ship. They had watched them raise it up in a basket, and that had given Peterson the idea of how to slip someone aboard. He slapped the unconscious man hard to wake him up, but the man just moaned slightly.

  “The Prophet is here now . . . I guess you heard the preaching,” one of the others said in a flat voice.

  Peterson nodded. “Call Dobbs. See what he wants us to do next. Let him know we got one man aboard ship with orders to open the lower hatches. Let him know we got a prisoner too.”

  The Judge had to walk up to the front of the store to get anyone on the radio. He came slowly back several minutes later staring at the silent radio. “Dobbs is dead. Hawley was the one who answered. He wants the captive. Said several more teams have made it over to this side. They’re still meeting resistance, but he feels sure they will take the ship soon. Apparently, our leader has had a vision about it.” His tone was mocking; they didn’t give two shits about that pedophile’s ridiculous visions. Those fucking visions had just gotten over five thousand men murdered back in Tennessee.

  “Where do they want to meet?”

  “They’re bringing the next load over closer to where we crossed. It sounds like our guys are taking a lot of fire from the ship, so the goal is to move everyone to the west, out of sight. I may have heard him wrong, but it sounded like he would also be on the next boat.”

  Peterson sighed. “Can’t say I would want to be out on that water right now, but hey, if he had a vision. God’s will, you know.”

  Michael and Hawley both came over with the next group, just out of sight of the massive ship and its sharpshooters. Several men surrounded the Prophet like they were the president's protective detail. He had rarely been part of any actual skirmishes, and after Memphis, none of the men expected to see him anywhere near the frontline. But the Prophet’s newest persona was not going to be denied. His bloodlust was supercharged and, after learning how many of the Judges had been butchered, he had been so enraged that he had brutally killed the man who had told him. Ironically, that man—Dobbs—became yet another dead Judge. The irony had seemed insignificant to His Holiness. Now Dobbs’ body and severed head, respectively, were among the many caught in the rushing current of the waterway.

  Reaching land, the Prophet strolled through the howling rains like a man possessed. Peterson watched his approach from the grimy storefront. “Shit, guess who’s here.”

  “I wonder if his vision included
a hurricane,” his second replied bitterly.

  As he entered the store, each of the Judges bowed. “Your Holiness.”

  Hawley approached Preacher Jack and checked his pulse. “Wake up, you shitbag.” He slapped Jack like the other man had and got slightly more of a reaction. Jack’s eyes remained shut, but his arm shot upwards and his hand seized the man’s throat in a chokehold. Jack opened his eyes almost lazily as he drove the palm of his other hand into Hawley’s nose with such force the sound of the bones breaking was for a moment as loud as the storm outside. A huge spray of blood erupted from Hawley’s shocked face. Jack rolled out from under the man who was already dead. He had felt the man’s bones punch through his nasal cavity and up into his brain.

  Jack was in severe pain; the shadows on the wall swirled in his blurred vision. He quickly checked his chest and felt a broken rib. He also had damaged his ankle, maybe a broken leg. Not that it mattered. He assumed one of the many people now pointing guns at him would be pulling a trigger any second. But . . . no one did. No one spoke, even.

  One went over to check the bloodied man; finding no pulse he shook his head at the man in white robes. Jack eyed him: he was not much to look at. Kind of short, a sparse beard, receding hairline . . . He looked like . . . maybe a used car salesman. “No, that’s not quite true, maybe more like a door-to-door insurance salesman or someone you might see on a sexual predator website,” he said out loud.

  One of the men kicked him hard in the chest. “Do not speak until His Holiness gives you permission.”

  Jack doubled up, feeling the cracked rib grinding against another. Coughing, he wheezed, “Who? Oh, him . . . holy?” he let out a short little snigger. “Well, fuck me. He didn’t give you permission to speak either. You might want to shut the fuck up, too.”