by Angela White
“Must be going nuts," he muttered, heart screaming in joyful recognition.
“You owe me!”
Marc winced at the accusation, the reminder, and stopped denying, understanding that the time he had feared (and longed for!) was here. Angie was finally calling in his marker, and it was one of those debts that could never really be repaid.
Not letting his practical (male) side get in the way, Marc closed his eyes and concentrated as she had taught him so long ago. He was unable to keep from wondering if the water had really gotten him, and this was the afterlife with an angel’s voice leading him to hell.
“You can’t go yet. Not until you help me. Help us."
The voice in his head (Angie’s voice! It was Angie’s voice!) was clear, as if they were on a phone. He found it helped to pretend they were, as his headache increased, throbbing at his temples. Had he hit his head? It would explain this.
“Marcus…”
“What do you need?"
“My life back."
Marc jerked as if slapped, thrown into the past, and the note of desperation in her voice pulled at a place in his heart that he was unable to resist.
“I need you. Will you come?”
“As quickly as I can.” This would be the fastest swoop he’d ever made. In addition, this fast journey over a short amount of time would be done alone, without the backup of his platoon. “Tell me where."
“Ohio. Cincinnati."
Marc’s heart pounded faster. He had been there once before. “Two weeks, Angie, maybe less.”
There was a relieved blast of force that exploded from her end, and Marc swayed on his feet as the good energy sank into his head, stopped the aching there.
“You have to hurry…”
“What’s wrong? Are you okay?”
There was no answer, just a dead line, and though he tried again and again, there was only silence.
Marc rubbed the wolf’s tense ears, not missing the eagerness in the animal’s golden eyes. Clearly, Dog had felt her pull too, and Marc struggled to control the heart that suddenly felt alive again. Angie had finally called for him!
Chapter Six
January 29th, 2013
Outside Trinidad, Colorado
1
“Not again.” Rick moved toward the center of the large, reeking camp as he fought against the sharp Colorado wind. “I won’t do it.”
He knew why he’d been called to the boss’s tent. Trinidad, Colorado was big, and the survivors there had the town barricaded with machine guns that were constantly manned. The evil troll wanted him to be the wolf in sheep’s clothing…again.
Walking steadily, the white man kept to himself, pretending not to understand the lazy Spanish insults from those he passed. The faint noise of crying and begging was nearly overshadowed by the lustful shouts of men, and the excited yapping of dogs. Mexican R&R, Rick thought.
His pale skin was very out of place, his life constantly in danger in the Slaver camp, and yet, he liked it. The white women here didn’t feel the same. The few being allowed to sit in the open air were chained to their masters, and they watched Rick walk by with open contempt on their battered faces. These were the favorites, the ones whose bodies the Mexicans would leave on the side of the highway a week or a month from now, instead of tonight or tomorrow.
Rick stopped in front of a crooked tent and tapped on the flap before shoving his cold hands into the pockets of his dirty jeans. Cesar’s men were mostly drunk and in a good mood - the church they had desecrated in Santa Fe four days ago had been full of women and kids who’d gone there for sanctuary - but it wasn’t a friendly mood, despite the grins and sly leers. The tremors in his stomach doubled as the first flakes of black snow began to fall. What did the hardened criminals know that he didn’t?
Gunshots echoed loudly from the other end of the carelessly sprawled out camp, followed by a young, female scream. The wind gusted smoke from their many neglected campfires as men hit, women bled, and the snow clouds rolled over a dark landscape. South was where they had been. North was where they were going, the firelight of Trinidad a dim glow through the distant trees.
“Wait.” The Mexican leader’s cold tone carried to his men, and Rick saw the widening grins of the two dozen or so watching men. They dressed like Spanish bandits with their crisscrossed belts and wide-brimmed sombrero’s. They acted like them too, enjoying any chance to make him squirm, liking him to know that only Cesar’s word kept him from the fate of all the other white males they’d found.
Tense and alert, but not really scared, Rick watched them right back, his hot green eyes daring. He might be an outside member, but Rick was also their short, stocky leader’s personal property, and Cesar would kill anyone who touched what was his. It kept Rick from the horrible death their eyes threatened, but it didn’t stop him from being beaten. He was always careful to sleep with an eye open.
The freed inmate wasn’t exactly sure what it was that kept him here. There had been plenty of chances to escape, but he hadn’t even tried. Maybe it was the lack of rules, or how he felt more alive than ever before - more like a real man should feel as he stayed among these violent killers, keeping his life where no other white men had.
Rick sighed, turning from an icy blast of wind. Maybe he had a death wish. He was sure that eventually he would be eliminated, but for now he was surviving where no one else could, and he raised his head. They could only kill him once.
His eyes went over lumps in the darkness, seeing jackrabbits, bats, larks, and people. Hell, a quick bullet to the head, or knife to the throat might be easier than what the rest of the world was suffering right now anyway.
“Come in, Reechard.”
Rick’s mind snapped back to why he had been called, and there was a battle in his mind as he entered.
Vaguely glad to be out of sight of the unshaven, dirty Slavers who were camped directly on the dark, concrete lanes of US 25 like they owned it, he saw that the tent looked the same. Only the bait was different. The first time Cesar had called him here, Rick had been so relieved to be spared that he’d agreed without thinking…Salem.
Time slowed…
Rick could suddenly feel the struggling, naked female beneath him; could smell Cesar’s cigar as he leaned close, pinched the girl’s nose shut.
“You wish to live, yes?”
Rick couldn't stop, was too close to being in, and he jerked forward, wincing at the loud scream against his dirty hand as he buried his hard flesh in the struggling body under him.
“I know, Americano, and you will.”
The Slaver's blade was against his throat now, sharp knife pricking the skin with each stroke, and Rick moaned, scared - and on fire.
“If you do what I want.”
Rick nodded carefully, struggling not to slit his own throat, as he raped the naked woman Cesar had thrown into his arms. His hand slid around her neck to keep her from screaming again, and to get a better grip.
“Wh... Whatever you want!” he gasped, hips flashing.
The Slaver moved back. “Squeeze harder. She breathes too easy.”
That had been in the heat of lust and fear. Now, it would be a morally conscious decision, and Rick wasn’t sure which way he would fall, only that he would.
As he entered, Cesar was on the bed, rolling a thick line of white powder into a blunt paper, something that Rick had never seen anyone do before, and he lowered his bandana. He waited just inside the awful-smelling Mess, shifty green eyes going over the man in the dirty gray robe who claimed to be the bastard son of Fidel Castro.
Trying not to stare at the naked slave kneeling at her master’s booted feet, his gaze went over filthy clothes, a blanket, and scraps of food. Her dog collar and chain purposely prevented the shivering girl from reaching any of the items. He had time to think he liked the look of the heavy metal around her slender, bruised ankle, and then reality crashed in on him.
“Un momento, Reechard. It ees time to pay for the second month o
f life I have decided to give you.”
The Mexican’s accent was thick but clear enough to understand, and Rick’s stomach dropped the rest of the way. He rubbed his damp palms down dirty jeans, trying to cover his nervousness. “What do you want me to do?”
Slightly distracted, as he was meant to be, Rick was trying very hard to ignore the naked teenager. He could see tears falling, but not the face covered by shiny brown curls.
“Trinidad, Colorado,” Cesar sneered, making it ugly. "We will be there in a few days. You go with la salida del sol.”
Although Rick said nothing, knowing not to tell the ruthless Slaver he wouldn’t leave at sunrise, Cesar looked up at him with hard, black eyes as a warning. The Mexican's left hand clenched into only half a fist; two fingers on that side missing. “Si?”
Rick lowered his eyes, “I can’t do that." The former janitor’s voice was low, apologetic, making his 5’11, 190 lb. frame appear much smaller as he stood in the flickering shadows. “I’m sorry. Not again. You’ll have to kill me, I guess.”
Cesar smiled, revealing a single gold front tooth that flashed in the dim lantern light of the drafty tent. “All in good time, Reechard.”
Cesar waved a ringed finger, am his slave quickly climbed onto the large pile of blankets behind the ruthless man. She looked terrified, tender flesh shaking. Rick felt a small measure of pity, but it was mostly drowned out by the envy that Cesar Castro Diaz was getting her all to himself, when Rick hadn’t had a woman since they’d left the prison, and taken the first town. Salem, where he’d helped to kill them all.
There was a brief moment in time, a few seconds where his attention was captured by the outside noises, - by how bad and wrong it was here, and had been in Arizona, and New Mexico - gunshots, a scream, a louder scream, a bigger gunshot, a rifle shot… a fading scream. Then everything settled back down to the dim quiet of the girl’s shallow, fearful breathing, and the howling of the storm now starting to beat against the tent around them.
“Reechard.” It was an ugly tone, hinting at the slight insanity most of Cesar’s men already suspected.
“I can’t. They’re my own people."
The Mexican shook a head full of tight, kinked curls, his slanted eyes narrowing into deep lines as a blue vein began to stand out on his forehead. He pointed with his deformed hand. “Me salvó la vida! I spared your life! You will give me what I want!"
Rick kept his mouth shut and waited for the offer, sure there would be one. Why else had he been allowed to live, but to serve? He was a slave, just like the women, only in a harder way.
Against his will, his eyes crawled over the freshly washed teenager again, though he knew it might get him in more trouble. He had never had one that young!
Cesar, whose Mexican nickname was Son of Death (Hijo de la Muerte), waved a hand at the scared girl, “Arrodillarse."
She immediately rolled over and pushed herself up, trembling as her breasts hung low. Rick felt his mouth go dry, body twitching in response.
“You want her, si?"
He nodded just once, carefully. This female and all the Slaver’s young harem was off limits to everyone, with no exceptions.
“You will have her for doing what I want."
Stepping forward, Rick fell.
2
Cesar Diaz was a flesh peddler and wanted guerilla captain before the War. When all hell broke loose, he was already on his way to southern Arizona to rescue family being held in American detention centers. With the War, the border patrols and SWAT teams vanished, and America was invaded.
Cesar does not have camp laws, doctors, or plans for organization, and he has no intentions of forming or finding these basics of society. He rules with brute force, and in his world, the strongest live and the weakest die, as they were meant to. Raised at the knee of a dictator, Cesar hates America. He wants to fill the United States with as many of his bastards as he can, leaving it an occupied land.
He plans to spend his life working on this goal with the full support of his men, most of whom he released from prisons and detention centers. That’s also where he found Rick, cowering in a broom closet, after opening the front gates to let them in. The 35-year-old ward of the state had been a janitor doing community service for attempted sexual assault on a teenager at the movie theater where he worked.
Cesar had planned to kill him, but his cousin José, one of those he’d come to release, told him of Rick giving extra supplies and reporting abuse by guards. The Slaver chose to spare him, feeling a debt. Cesar has repaid it cruelly, by turning Rick into a traitor to his country, and he will continue using the weak man in this way until one of his guerillas goes too far in the beatings, and kills the man. The slaver will then find another hostage of lust, and hold him the same way.
The flesh peddler's men are not loyal, trusting, or trustworthy, but as a leader, Cesar is very smart. He makes sure his men have everything they want, to keep them in line: freedom and adventure, whiskey and guns - no limits beyond his share of the plunder, and females, some of them not even old enough to have hair anywhere but their heads. It’s all he'd promised them and more.
This very large group of hardened criminals has slowly been moving north, clearing towns along Interstate 25. They emptied stores, burned businesses, homes, and, when they felt like it, whole neighborhoods of scared, defenseless survivors - making examples of any try to stand and fight. The word was spreading quickly from fleeing refugees, and whole communities of people were running.
Most of the small, doomed groups in the Slavers’ path fall easily, but some of these ill-fated survivors barricade their cities and made a stand. They lose, and pay the ultimate price, but like so many in this country’s violent history, they die fighting - as American heroes.
Chapter Seven
Safe Haven Refugee Camp – Utah
1
The End of the world has given us a harsh, merciless existence, where nature tries hard to push mankind to the very brink of extinction. Everything is against us, between us...untold miles of lawless, apocalyptic roads wait for our feet, and the Future, cold and dark, offers little comfort. Without CHANGE, there will be no peace…only Survivors. And I am determined to be one of them.
1/1/2013
It’s been almost two weeks since the War, and I still can’t believe my luck. Joe, a senior Greenpeace member, showed up late and heard me trying to dig my way out. There were no other survivors of the secret meeting. Why was I spared? I deserve to still be under that house. My dreams always start with me in that basement, not sure if I’ll live. Maybe I’ll find answers there.
We're holed up in a barn with a tin roof, waiting out the storms, and I wonder if my companion hears any of what I dream about. It doesn’t matter. Not much does now except making it to Little Rock. My grief for America is almost unbearable.
Adrian sighed, looking away from the notebook long enough to take a swig from his canteen. The first depressing weeks had been strange, full of hard days of backbreaking labor, and eerie nights of broken dreams where he was in charge of a small group of survivors - fighting with everything he had to keep them alive and free. Instead of fading, as his concussion and ribs healed, the images had gotten stronger, clearer.
There were glimpses of a bright future, and horrible Ground Zeroes, and he had found himself thinking about it almost constantly when he was awake. He'd quickly understood how to do it, how to set up the foundation for a new democracy - sensing even then that the people he’d gather would have nothing but their lives - and the guilt of it, of knowing he might have prevented it all, would hold him after the twenty hour days began to wear him down.
He’d been right, Adrian thought, sending his eyes back to the page. He was well into one of those now, the third this week.
1/4/2013
We hit Nellis today, and there’s nothing left. I think maybe I’m sick. I’m seeing things Joe doesn’t, hearing voices. I see odd colors in new places, stare at eyes that glow like neon bulbs from dark
and empty windows. There are words in the trees and movies in the gritty clouds, puddles with reflections… I may be having a breakdown. It’s barely a scratch on what I deserve.
1/5/2013
It’s getting worse. The people we’re seeing, the awful, pain-filled refugees still trying to find each other, haunt me; stalk me.
They fall to their knees at my feet, beg me with tears and outstretched hands to help, to save them, and then I blink, and see they never even looked at us! What the hell is happening to me? A side effect of one of the experiments? Am I in a coma somewhere and this is all one of my horrid nightmares? How I wish that were true. I’d gladly trade my life for America’s.
I share the blame for all the pain and death. I should have revealed who I was, back when there might have been a chance to stop it all, but like those who betrayed us, I didn’t want anyone to know the truth either. The need to atone is consuming, overwhelming, and I can’t make enough progress each day to be satisfied. The worry is endless.
1/7/2013
The dreams are slowly convincing me I’m not crazy, demanding I take action. I remember each scene in such vivid detail when I wake! Even in the clear light of day, they look good to me.
I owe the whole world a huge debt, but to my country, I owe everything that I am…even the one waiting for me in Arkansas. I have to at least try.
I’ve decided to start in the morning, when we reach Las Vegas. That infamous skyline is dark now, but in the city that never sleeps, there are people. I know. I can almost feel them.
Adrian crushed out his smoke, thinking he’d been right and wrong on that one. He’d found refugees who were grateful for his help, but he had also found Tonya, who killed Joe.
Adrian turned the page. Too bad he couldn’t prove it. The topless dancer had immediately pounced on who she thought was in charge, while Adrian was just starting to realize the job belonged to him. By the time she’d understood the goodhearted, alcoholic, firefighter was only interested in drinking, screwing, and forgetting, she was openly sleeping in his bed and fetching his bottles.
