Storm Tide Rising: Blackout Volume 2

by D W McAliley

  Terrance shrugged slightly. "I don't know, a couple of hours before sunset usually. They come to the main gate, drop off the new guys, pick up some old and leave. Sometimes the FSS guys that go out come back; sometimes it's mostly new guys."

  Mike glanced up at the sun and held his closed fist level with the horizon. "Do you think we have time to get back to the gate before the van gets there?" he asked.

  Terrance glanced at the sky, then looked at Mike. "Normally I'd say yeah, but you look pretty tired. You sure you're up to it?"

  Mike smiled. "One way or another I've been walking through woods my whole life," he said with a chuckle. "I'll be okay."

  Terrance flashed a skeptical grin and then walked over to his relatives. After a whispered conversation, he left the club with his cousin and came trotting back over to Mike. "You ready, old man?" he asked playfully.

  Mike shot him a frown. "I'm not old, Terrance," he growled. "I'm thirty three for Pete's sake."

  Terrance let out a short belly laugh. "You remember when you were so young you thought thirty three was old, Mr. Mike?"

  Mike nodded. "Of course I remember that," he replied. "It wasn't that long ago!"

  Terrance grinned and chuckled. "Well, you're thirty three now, Mr. Mike," he said with a wink. "That means you're old."

  Mike opened his mouth to reply but winced as his mind tried to unwind that logic. After a moment, his eyes narrowed, and his teeth clicked closed. "Shut up," he growled. "Let's get goin."

  Terrance shrugged and started off at a brisk walk. "Anything you say, old man," he said over his shoulder.

  Ch.41

  Need to Know

  Eric trotted slowly through the woods. He loved the sounds that surrounded him as he moved. Birds flew in the canopy over head and chirped to each other. There was an almost constant buzz of insects in the air, loud enough to be distracting at times. The cicadas were out in force this year, and they filled the woods with the undulating waves of their call. In the silences between roaring crescendos, small frogs called spring peepers chirped to each other now and then, or an angry squirrel chattered at him.

  These were woods he had grown up in, woods he had run through before he was old enough to go to school. They were a part of him, an extension of his own imagination. But there was a cold intruder in that familiar world. It was sharp and metallic, and it was new. To Eric, the barbed wire they'd strung from tree trunk to tree trunk was about as unnatural a thing as could ever exist in those woods, and he hated it. The only thing he hated more was the fact that he knew it was necessary.

  Suddenly, Eric froze. There in front of him, the fence had been neatly cut, evidently with a pair of wire snips.

  In an instant, the woods around him had gone from familiar and comforting to foreign. Eric knelt and scanned the trees around him. He checked at ground level and up in the canopy for any potential threat or enemy. Most of the deer he'd taken were from a tree stand, and he didn't want to play the deer. Satisfied that he wasn't being watched or in imminent danger, Eric turned back to the barbed wire fence. He inched forward until he could reach the ends of all three strands where they lay in the leaf litter between two tree trunk fence posts.

  Eric felt the small hairs on the back of his neck stand on end, and a cool thrill ran through his body to his fingertips. Adrenaline flooded his system as Eric scanned the woods around him again. He stood and started walking through the tree trunks, trying to keep a slow and even pace as he moved toward his grandparents' house.

  Suddenly, every sound was a new terror. Every twig that broke under a squirrel sounded like a boot step, every rush of birds' wings seemed to be rounds whizzing by his head.

  Before he'd gone fifty feet, Eric was running.

  Ch.42

  Eyes and Ears

  Marcus could feel the blood pounding in his ears. His mouth was dry, and it was difficult to swallow. He glanced up and down the empty hallway one more time, then stuck the key into the door and turned the lock. He stepped inside and locked the door behind himself. The quarters were kept in pristine condition. The bed was made with surgical precision, and every surface gleamed in the light of a single lamp on the computer desk. The air smelled faintly of disinfectant.

  Marcus looked around for good places to put the tiny devices in the case in his left hand. There were three things on the desk; a lamp, a computer screen, and a mouse. The keyboard was in a drawer and the computer terminal itself was in a secure alcove behind the wall. That didn't leave many inconspicuous places to put a listening device or a fiber optic camera. Marcus looked around for any clothes or books, anything at all that he could use as a point of concealment for the surveillance equipment.

  The footlocker was secured with two padlocks on it, and there was nothing in the closet or the chest of drawers. Edwards had a single bunk, and his were the only belongings in the room. Marcus couldn’t risk cutting the locks on the foot locker. If he did, Edwards would know someone had been in the room, and that would likely be enough to push him into doing something dangerous.

  Marcus carefully lifted the mouse from the computer desk and pried the battery well open with his master key. He slipped one of the wafer-thin listening devices into the side of the battery well and closed the lid again. He moved the mouse around on the mouse pad, but the small device in the battery well didn't rattle or make any noise at all. Satisfied, he walked across the room and used a small pad of adhesive gel to secure the second listening device to the back side of the bed frame.

  The camera would be more difficult, though. Marcus looked around and settled on the edge of the light panel in the ceiling. It would be out of the way, and unless Mr. Edwards happened to look directly at the device, it would be difficult to spot. With the three devices in place, Marcus did a quick survey of the room to make sure everything was where Edwards had left it. He took a small pack of alcohol disinfectant swabs. He wiped ever surface he'd touched, and the smell of the alcohol blended with the heavy disinfectant odor already in the air.

  With one last glance around the interior of the room, Marcus stepped out into the hall, closed the door, and locked it. He checked the knob once to make sure it was locked tight, and then he turned and started walking down the hallway. His hands were shaking slightly and his breath came in short, ragged gasps.

  As he walked down the empty corridors, Marcus decided he simply was not cut out to be a spy.

  Ch. 43

  Strangers

  Joe stepped out into the late August morning with his hair still wet from his shower. That wouldn't last in the warm wind that was blowing through the shaded back yard. From the height of the porch, he could see across the vineyard to the line of trees in the distance. And it was at that moment that Eric broke through the woods at a dead run for the house.

  Joe reached inside and grabbed his M-4 carbine. He hopped to the ground and walked calmly to the edge of the vineyard and waited, his eyes scanning the horizon and his ears straining to hear any sounds of gunfire. Eric skidded to a halt, panting, with his rifle in his hand.

  "The fence is cut," Eric said, gasping for air between each word. "I saw tracks, hard to tell how many. But it's a clean cut like someone did it with clippers."

  Joe nodded, his pulse already racing. He turned to Beth as she stepped out on the back porch with a pan of peeled and quartered tomatoes in her hands. "Get everyone in the house," Joe called, "and grab a shotgun. Have Bill on the back porch keeping watch. Someone cut the fence."

  Beth didn't ask questions; she nodded and began moving. Joe had already turned back to Eric, though, his focus stayed on the vineyard and the wood line beyond. "Did you see anyone or hear anyone?" Joe asked, and Eric shook his head. "Chris is still out at the highway and Tom is at the pastures. It's up to you and me, okay?"

  Eric swallowed hard before answering. "Yes, sir."

  Joe started running through the vineyard back the way Eric had come. Eric ran right behind him, and as they approached the wood line, Joe slowed. He turned and made
eye contact with Eric and pointed two fingers of his right hand at his eyes, then to the right. Eric understood and swung the barrel of his gun that way, looking for any signs of movement. Joe watched to the left, and they ducked into the woods.

  Joe set the pace, moving carefully and quietly through the underbrush, but it was Eric’s hand signals that directed him right to the break in the fence. Joe looked at the ends of the barbed wire and saw that Eric was correct; they'd been cut cleanly. He looked at the tracks in the leaf litter and pine straw covering the floor. There had been three people that crossed through the break in the fence. They'd made a few circles in the leaves to confuse their tracks as much as possible, but from what Joe could see, two had circled along the inside of the fence to the right, and one had gone left.

  Joe motioned for Eric to follow him, and he turned right inside the fence line. For about forty yards, he followed the two sets of tracks that led that direction until one set broke away from the fence and the other continued. Joe paused for a moment and then motioned down the trail that broke away from the fence. The tracks were dim and hard to follow at first. Then, after a few dozen meters, the tracks disappeared completely. Joe froze, and a chill ran straight through to his bones.

  He looked at Eric and held up a hand, then pointed to his ears. They both strained as hard as they could, but finally both Eric and Joe shook their heads. "I don't hear a sound,” Joe said, "and that means whoever cut the fence probably isn't in the woods anymore. There's only one place they could be, and that's the house.

  Eric's eyes went wide for a moment. "Maybe they just wanted to see what was on the other side of the fence. Maybe they left. There might not be anyone here in the woods or up at the house at all."

  Joe's eyes hardened, and he shook his head firmly. "That piece of camo cloth you found on the fence line the other night," he said quietly, "that might have been someone just taking a look. Or maybe it was one of these three scouting ahead. Either way, there's only one good reason you lay down a false trail, and that's to buy yourself time. Whatever they're here to do, they ain't done it yet. And that means they're still here. I need to know you're ready for this, son? When we get back to the house, there are going to be people there, people we don't know. And I have to know that you will do exactly what I tell you, no hesitation."

  Eric nodded his head, but Joe reached over and gripped his shoulder, forcing him to make eye contact. "When I tell you to move, son, you move. You've got to trust me. Whatever I tell you to do, you do it without hesitation. Do that and everything's going to be all right."

  Eric swallowed past the sudden knot in his throat and held his father’s gaze. "Yes sir."

  Joe nodded and looked down at Eric's rifle. "Go ahead and take your safety off. You see anyone you don't recognize before we get to the back yard, you shoot first and ask who they are after."

  Before Eric could say anything, Joe was already moving at a fast jog through the woods back toward the house. He wasn't concerned about being quiet now, and instead he focused on moving as quickly as he could over the rough terrain. They broke out of the woods and continued across the lower field. In a few weeks the turnips Granddaddy had sown in the freshly plowed dirt would sprout, but for the moment the field was bare.

  They ducked under the muscadine vines as thick as Joe's wrist that hung low and heavy with loose clusters of grapes that would soon ripen into a deep purple. A few rows back from the edge of the vineyard, Joe slowed, and turned to Eric one more time.

  "You don't speak when we get there, got it?" Joe asked, and Eric nodded. "Not a word until I tell you otherwise, son. And like I said, you do what I tell you to do and you do it without hesitation."

  Eric nodded, and Joe laid his hand on Eric’s arm and squeezed. He then checked the chamber of his rifle and switched the safety off. He took a couple of deep breaths in through his nose and let them out slowly through his mouth. With a flip of a round switch, he clicked on the red dot site on the top rail of his rifle. He held the gun at a low ready and started through the woods.

  As Joe stepped out from the last row of grape vines, he took in the scene in the back yard at a glance, his eyes moving quickly across the face of each person in turn. Beth sat in one of the old metal folding chairs. Across the square aluminum table a man sat in another of the chairs. He wore loose fitting warm weather hunting camouflage and a wide brim hat. A .45 caliber Colt pistol sat on the table between them; the barrel pointed directly at Beth's chest.

  There were fresh tear stains on her cheeks, but she sat still as a rock. Her eyes never left Joe.

  Two other strangers stood between the seated man and the back porch, both with pistols on their hips. One of the two men was facing Eric and Joe while the other kept his eye on Bill, who had his one good arm raised. Joe paused just long enough to register all he’d seen; then he began moving steadily forward.

  "So, I take it you're the man in charge?" the stranger at the table drawled in a thick southern accent.

  Joe shook his head. "That'd be the land owner inside. I'm his son-in-law."

  The man smiled a big, broad grin that never came close to his eyes. "That's what the missus here said," the stranger nodded toward Beth. "But you're the one with the big guns, and that means you the one I need to talk to. Now you come here with guns in hand, that sends a message."

  Joe glanced meaningfully at the pistol on the table. "I'm not the only one." he replied and motioned for Eric to take three steps to the right.

  "My hands are bare, sir," the stranger said. "Boys, show 'em your hands."

  The two men opened their hands and spread their fingers.

  "Keep your eyes on those two, son," Joe said, his eyes never leaving the man at the table. "If either of 'em move so much as a finger, shoot 'em both."

  The stranger's teeth clicked as he closed his open grin, and his expression soured. He reached very slowly across the table and turned the Colt to point at Joe. "Now that won't very nice, Mister. "Ain't nobody been hurt yet, and ain't nobody got to get hurt. We just need a few things settled is all."

  "What do you mean, 'settled?'" Joe asked, still holding his rifle ready.

  The man put the grin back on his face, but it was even thinner this time. "Well, me and the boys are tired from being on the road for a week," the stranger drawled. "Figure we could get real comfortable here for a spell. You got solar power, fresh water, good food..." The man trailed off, and for a brief moment, his lurid grin touched his eyes. "You got women."

  The other two strangers chuckled at that, but neither moved their hands or said a word. "Now I'm a reasonable man," the stranger continued, "and I'm willing to let you keep some of what you got when we leave, if y'all behave yourselves."

  Joe was quiet for a long moment. "You sure you want to do this?" Joe asked finally. "You could get up and just walk away, no harm done."

  The man laughed a short, ugly laugh at that. "I think we both know that ain't gonna happen."

  Joe nodded once. "Eric, shoot 'em both."

  Ch.44

  Shots Fired

  For an agonizing moment, Eric stood frozen, refusing to believe what he'd heard his father say. And then, everything seemed to happen at once.

  The man at the table grabbed the pistol and stood, swinging it toward Joe, but Joe's rifle was already in his hands. The stranger had been counting on Joe to hesitate, to freeze just as Eric had, but he was wrong. Joe lifted his gun smoothly and fired three times, striking the man in the center of his chest. The stranger sat down heavily in the chair; it leaned slowly back from his momentum and then toppled to the ground

  Eric blinked.

  The stranger on the left, his eyes wide, fumbled for the pistol in its holster. As he started up, pistol in hand, Eric raised the barrel of his rifle and squeezed the trigger twice. Two bright red spots ripped through the stranger's chest and the man’s eyes went even wider. He stumbled backwards and fell, his back arched at an unnatural angle, his finger rigid and splayed out.

  The sho
ts rang in Eric's ears, and he felt suddenly numb. The stranger on the right pulled his own revolver, and Eric saw it clearly from the edges of his vision, but he couldn't move. His eyes were frozen, locked on the dying man in the dirt, red mist rising from his mouth as he coughed in fits and twisted in the dust.

  Eric's rifle slipped from his fingers.

  He knew the man on his right was going to kill him. The thought fluttered through his head as he saw out of the corner of his eye the stranger raising his revolver with painful slowness. Suddenly, there was a loud boom from the porch, and the stranger spun halfway around from the impact of a .357 slug. Bill squeezed the trigger three more times, and the man went down in a heap and didn't move.

  There was silence in the yard—a silence pierced by Beth's screams and the cries from the younger children inside the house. None of that registered for Eric, though. He walked slowly forward, his mind numb and empty, and looked down at the man he'd shot.

  The stranger's face was twisted in a final expression of agony, and the blood running from his wounds had slowed. Eric knew somewhere deep inside that he should have been horrified, sickened by the sight of it. But he couldn't summon any feelings at all. He was consumed by a strange, distant numbness and emptiness.

  He was a murderer.

  The thought came crashing down on him like a rough landslide, and he hit his knees in the dust. After a moment, someone who looked vaguely like his father turned Eric by his shoulders and looked into his eyes. The man said his name, but Eric couldn't respond. He felt cold, distant from his body and his mind, somewhere else, somebody else. Slowly, of their own accord, his eyes turned back to the lifeless body behind him.

  He was a murderer.

  "I think he's in shock," Eric heard his father's voice say.

  The words meant something important, but Eric couldn't force himself to care at the moment. They couldn't apply to him in any case. Must have been one of the others that was hurt and in shock. Fingers turned Eric's face slowly back around and he saw a woman that was his mother. She looked scared and her face was wet.