A House Divided: Book 3 of The Of Sudden Origin Saga

by C. Chase Harwood

  Dean said to Eliza, “I don’t understand. You gave us the inoculations. He, it, it wasn’t supposed to happen.”

  Gretel said softly, “Remember. Not immune, Stewart Dean. Just made hidden in your brains.”

  Eliza said, “The bite of the infected one… it must have released it. We never tested it against something like that. Never thought to test it for something like that.”

  Nikki looked down at her right hand to find that she had grasped Jon’s and was still holding tight. He gave her hand a squeeze. She broke the hold to rub the side of her palm, which was beginning to ache from the blow to Sanders’ neck. She said, “I’m so sorry, Captain Dean. Billy was… I mean he was going for your son.”

  “Don’t. You don’t have to be sorry. If you hadn’t…” He looked at his son. A broken breath escaped his lips. Billy stepped around the helm to comfort his dad while keeping himself away from Sanders’ body. Shock was written across his pale face and blue lips. The man, who for all intents and purposes had become a dear uncle, had just tried to kill him.

  Eliza said more to herself than anyone else, “I thought with the inoculation that we were done with this. I really did. This changes everything. There’s no going back to the mainland. No going back.”

  Through the eyes of the sentinel on deck, Commander Ragnar looked upon the barge with revulsion. He had never actually put eyes on a Fiend up close. His time during Omega had been spent serving with the US Navy on an Atlantic troop ship, ferrying soldiers home from Africa and the Middle East. As the nation fell into ruin, he served on a co-opted Coast Guard cutter patrolling the three mile zone off North Carolina, quarantining any boat heading north. His only sighting of an infected was from a distance, when he spotted a cabin cruiser adrift with a dozen shitfobs aboard. A phalanx gun decimated the boat and its deadly crew, sinking it in a matter of seconds. Now he was within thirty yards of a horde of the things. He worried that the sound would carry across the water to their final destination, and tried hard to think of a way to stifle it. As far as the Hagel itself, the approach to Martha’s Vineyard wasn’t going to be an issue — he hoped. They had already radioed ahead to the Navy that they were returning from the long patrol south; an impostor mimicking the recorded voice of the dead Captain Fitch, apologizing for falling out of radio contact. The ploy had worked. They were expected home. The barge, with its unholy racket, was likely to be a problem. The things were way beyond criminal insanity; most were half clothed, and with the Hagel’s crew safely out of sight below decks, carrying out unimaginable sexual acts.

  It was Ensign Tippet who came up with the solution. During Omega, the man had spent five days in his childhood home in Maryland trapped by a half dozen Fiends. Young Tippet had gotten the idea to send his remote control off-roader out among the things. The toy had the ability to project his voice from a built in speaker. It was fast — faster than any human could run, even a Fiend. He had dropped the rugged thing out a second story window and sent it racing across the fallow field adjacent to his parent’s place. Speaking into the headset mic with his best frightened heifer impression, he had the Fiends chasing it off into the distance, giving his family the break they needed to get across to Delaware and refuge in what would become the new nation of The Shore.

  Despite the greased lines that were connecting the barge to the Hagel, the sentinel had little trouble getting across. When it landed on the ship of madness, its operator back on the Hagel had it walk over the crowd and settle in the center.

  In the control room below deck, Tippet stood ready next to the sentinel driver, watching the machine’s progress on a monitor. When it became still, Tippet made a convincing mooing sound into the headset. The desired effect was quickly achieved. The infected assumed that an animal was somehow inside the drone and crawled all over each other to surround it. The cacophony immediately reduced in decibel. Tippet would grow hoarse with his ploy.

  As the seat of American government, Martha’s Vineyard had been fortified during Omega and most of the politicians in Washington had been able to escape to it with little trouble. A Marine brigade was stationed there and the populace was well rehearsed in emergency situations. Every neighborhood had a hardened and fully stocked shelter. Every citizen owned a gun.

  It was a dark late summer night, and a wonderfully warm breeze had traveled up the gulf stream, luring the people of Martha’s Vineyard outside to enjoy the almost unheard of balmy evening.

  The government had chosen to leave all the smaller roads of the island in their original, charming, narrow and meandering condition. When the barge full of death drifted ashore on the South end of the island, the first citizens to be assaulted found their charming isolation to be their doom. By the time the emergency sirens sounded across the island, the horde of infected had assaulted a fifth of the landmass.

  Having done so many drills over the years, many of the residents ignored the blaring horns and took their leisure walking home, choosing to enjoy the night air and the glimpse of stars. For many more, the island-wide alerts were background noise intruding on their Virtu-worlds, with most choosing to override the interruption to continue with their inner escapes. Even the Marines were slow to get up and get moving. Years of uneventfulness had allowed the service to deteriorate in readiness. Most Marines lived among the civilian population, and though they tore themselves away from whatever indulgence might have been distracting them, they still had to head to base for their uniforms and equipment.

  By dawn, Martha’s Vineyard was in total chaos with thousands dead or infected and fires blazing out of control. The Marine brigade stationed on mainland Cape Cod scrambled to assemble a hodgepodge of commandeered boats. With whole squads missing or pieced together, it would be forty-eight more horrible hours before they could be properly organized to make the journey across the water.

  The government didn’t fall. President Downing and most of his cabinet, along with a majority of Congress and the Judiciary made it to safety, but the damage was done. The rest of the nation was shaken from its hibernation. Even people who hadn’t come out of Virtu for years — except to eat, wash, and use the toilet — came out of their fog and collectively freaked out. A horror they thought was long dead, had only been laying dormant.

  As the summer night slowly faded to black, the group on the Viento sleepwalked through a spontaneous funeral for Sanders. Dean dug out a storm jib from the bottom of the sail locker and wrapped the body in the white shroud, taking great care not to bump or bruise his old friend. Inside it, he included some dive weights to help usher it to the bottom.

  None of them were particularly religious, but that didn’t stop them from offering words. Dean spoke last, “I loved my dear friend. Even as Death stalked him daily these past thirteen or so years, he was always one to offer a light moment. He never showed anything but a resilience for life.” He put a hand on Billy’s shoulder. “And he loved my son.” He paused and choked back a silent cry.

  Billy put an arm around his dad. “I will miss him. We will miss him.”

  They gently let the body slip off the stern and into the sea.

  Later, while they forced themselves to eat some of their rations, the weather shifted back to normal and a light chilly breeze came down from the North, giving the sails some shape. The breeze also carried the smell of fire, the scent of catastrophe. More than wood and plastic, it carried the stench of flesh. To the North, a golden glow was building at the edge of the horizon, separate from the one that was now clearly coming from Nantucket.

  The freedom of movement lasted roughly an hour. In the falling twilight, they made out the shape of the fast approaching SS Hagel behind them. Like a silent stealth ship, its vast sail surface moved the big yacht three times the speed of the much smaller sloop.

  Having spotted the twins, Commander Ragnar halted his order to sink the sloop. Below decks, everyone stared over each other’s shoulders trying to glimpse one of the sentinel operator’s displays. Through the eyes of the spider drone that rem
ained on deck, Ragnar saw Hansel and Gretel staring back at his ship. He was familiar with demon children of course. The sentinels that scoured the wastelands off The Shore had come into contact with the wild things now and again. But these two… They were in the company of humans. They were wearing clothes. He could only assume that they had been born on Nantucket. Without question, Chief Counselor Quale would want to learn more about them.

  For the passengers on the Viento, there was no avoiding the huge yacht.

  A voice projected out of the sentinel. “Present all of your personnel on deck and prepare to be boarded.”

  PART THREE

  The Shore

  CHAPTER FOURTEEN

  A Bold Plan

  On the island once known as the Delmarva Peninsula, the sentinels assigned to off-island gathering were operated out of a remote base set a half a mile inland on the Western side. Over the years, the Gathering Battalion’s mission had shifted from exploration of the ruined mainland US — first in a radius of twenty-five miles, then up to fifty — to one of resource gathering. From an agricultural point of view, The Shore made itself self-sufficient by year two of Omega. Most of its energy was derived from wind, some solar, wood burning, and the operation of a Nuclear Power plant across the Delaware River in Southern New Jersey. The Gathering Battalion was sent out regularly for goods that could no longer be manufactured, as well as the raw materials needed to maintain the high-tech elements of a lightly armed force almost completely reliant on drones. At the height of their operations, the machines worked in conjunction with two trains utilizing the restored and fortified bridge to Annapolis, bringing back all manner of necessities as well as novelties. The relatively short range of the sentinels, as well as limited hunting grounds, left the options for treasured things dwindling. Due to radioactivity from the Hydrogen bomb dropped at the desperate end of the Exodus, Mid-to-Northern New Jersey, was off limits. To the West, Washington and Baltimore had to be skirted for the same reason. Nuclear meltdowns along the Eastern Seaboard in general created a patchwork of no-go-zones that the unhardened drones couldn’t venture into.

  Intentionally avoiding contact with the surviving United States, which included everything east of the Hudson, left a dwindling area for The Shoremen to gather from. Fuel for both the electric drones and the diesel electric trains was so rare that ever diminishing returns made the cost almost prohibitive.

  Post Omega, the people of The Shore embraced a culture of old-time tradition, built by the newly established aristocracy. Couched in Christianity, these traditions became the dominant creed in the daily workings of the nation, and resulted, among many other things, in a shift in the way they spoke American English. A curious blend of Mid-Atlantic and Old English came into being. To those who remembered him, it sounded a bit like the Star Wars character Yoda.

  The aristocracy was made up of individuals who had fought hard before Omega to return America to a way of being that only really existed in their minds. For them, the America of yore was a combination of the industrial strength of the nineteen-fifties and military might of the eighties — built on hard work, proper morals, traditional roles for the sexes, and a healthy fear of God. In other words, a nation still defined by Protestant Anglo-Saxon culture with a pinch of Pre-Vatican II Catholicism.

  Omega allowed The Shoremen to build their nation to their liking. For the simpler folk who were lucky enough to have survived the outbreak of Cain’s, and who owed their continued existence to The Shore, the choice was easy enough; safety, shelter, work and food in the belly, was an easy trade against the America from before.

  Elections became a charade. The aristocracy — basically a klepto-plutocracy — had the country it wanted. Returning to the bosom of the US was considered without a vote, and scrapped. Instead, a concerted effort at remaining unknown to the surviving US was implemented. No one officially complained… Life off island was a death sentence or worse.

  The diminishing returns from the Gathering Battalion hadn’t become a reason for desperation, yet. Piracy was part of the answer, but a growing danger of taking things too far and being discovered by the insular US was an issue that needed to be dealt with in a more permanent form.

  In the Council Meeting Room at the top of the Bank of Dover Building, Chief Councilman Colonel Quale and Councilman Colonel Olsen stood together in front of a large map of the Eastern US, with the rest of the council assembled before them. The broad span of windows to their right offered a view of the city below, and, in particular, the commons. The vast space was filling with people and a carnival atmosphere seemed to be in the air.

  Quale scanned his fellow councilors and attempted a reassuring smile. He pointed to the map and the general area of Long Island. “Reached a tipping point we have, my friends. A new mission has survived first contact with the enemy. We believe it was a great success.” He nodded at Olsen, “Colonel Olsen will brief you.”

  Among the other councilors there was some uncomfortable shifting in their seats.

  Colonel Olsen turned his neck from side to side sending a crackle through the vertebra. He forced his posture into an even more ramrod straight position. “As you know, two weeks ago our naval forces took a US Navy ship off our coast. Fit it did into a larger plan, which is now underway.”

  There were some surprised clearings of the throat. Martha Kincaid began to open her mouth. Olsen held up a hand to be allowed to continue. “Fit it does, perfectly with the Greater Plan.“

  “The Greater Plan?” asked Martha Kincaid.

  Olsen smiled. “The Greater Plan for the introduction of The Shore to the world and the expansion of our borders.”

  “Expansion?” Dietrich Pelham began to rise, caught Quale’s stern look, and sat again. “When did we discuss expansion? Expansion to where?”

  Martha crossed her arms. “Into what are you boys getting us? And why all the mystery about a speech to the people? I remind you that since the departure of Councilor Plimpton, usurping authority from this body is a crime.”

  “Resources” said Quale with a sharp tone that said, shut up and listen. “This is no usurpation. Military secrecy has been in order.”

  Dietrich nervously pulled at his mustache. “Secrecy?”

  Olsen pointed at the map. “Long Island. Sparsely populated it is. Dense with resources. The only off-limits radiation areas are Queens and Brooklyn - and a little further inland from there, maybe.”

  A portly Laurence Ashton cleared his throat and spoke in a careful but calculated tone. “Colonels, if without council you have implemented something that alters the balance of power within this body, potentially subject you are to abolition from this council — or worse. What the fuck have you two done?”

  Quale held up a thin booklet and waved it in the air. “The Shore Security Agreement. Re-ratified after the departure of Councilman Plimpton. Broad powers it gives to the military to insure the survival of The Shore.”

  Dietrich Pelham stood up, his face turning red. “What have you two done?”

  Quale turned red in return, then paused for a breath. He pulled his jacket taught over his chest and with a Cheshire Cat’s smile, said, “Take a seat, Dietrich.”

  “I will not!”

  Quale’s eyes became icy. “Sit. Down. Dietrich.”

  Dietrich Pelham hesitated, then sat.

  Quale turned to the only other person in the room, a slight woman in her fifties with the conservative fashion sense of that era. “Paula? An interruption from you as well?”

  Paula Brown grimaced and looked out the window instead.

  Quale continued, “A courtesy this is. Filling you in, was Colonel Olsen. Give the colonel the respect of a listen and saving your questions for when more informed you are. Colonel, please continue.”

  Olsen cleared his throat and pointed at the map again. “Conditions now exist where a significant diversion is being deployed. As a result, fully occupied the US military will be. Implementing, we are, what we refer to as Operation Hampton. With the
help of the captured US Navy ship, a population of infected from Nantucket Island has been moved to Martha’s Vineyard.” He paused. “Succumbed to Cain’s they have.”

  The room burst into cries of surprise.

  “Steady. Steady. Contain it they will on yet another island.” Olsen pointed at a map showing the Southern Beaches of Long Island. “With the full attention of America involved in that crisis, landing we are, our forces on Long Island to lay claim to what is a sparsely populated backwater. Americans, for whatever reason, have simply chosen not to live there. We, on the other hand, feel it ripe for exploitation, both as a resource rich landmass and as a strategic buffer between us and them.”

  Pelham’s shade turned from pale to gray. “Made war on America you have. God save us.”

  “Many spies we have over there, Dietrich,” said Quale. “Spies that you approved. Seen the reports you have. Weak they are. Cowering they are, behind their walls. Canadians no better. Military gutted.” He pointed back to the map and Long Island. “War over a place that they occupy only in name? I don’t think so.”

  Quale said, “Time it is. Time to set the new paradigm. Time for The Shore. There are many like-minded people in the surviving US. Flock, they will, to Long Island. The Shore is the alternative they yearn for.”

  Dietrich Pelham had always been a reluctant player in the game that was the creation of this place. As a man who deeply understood finance, he had been instrumental in creating the rules and the infrastructure for how commerce on The Shore got done. As a hedge fund manager who had lived a fat life off of Wall Street, he had been more than eager to get a chance to rewrite the rules the way he thought they should be. The notion of ever rejoining the former United States, and the weight of the fiduciary nightmare that was its government and governing style, was repugnant to him. But he had a strong appreciation for the power of his former country and the strength of his former countrymen. Even knocked down as hard as it had been, the surviving United States was hardly something to trifle with — and certainly not in its own backyard. It was one thing to make a go of it as a separate nation and leave the mother bear to wander on her own. It was all together a different thing to hit the mother bear while she hibernated.