He trudged over to the small cot at the far corner of what was once a bedroom. His bed was a lot more austere than the palatial American bed that had been here. His was just a piece of canvas stretched between four legs. His headboard comprised cases of new AK-103s, a newer version of the ubiquitous AK-47s, that would be used for the next wave of destruction he would lead if Allah so willed it.
He reached down and withdrew his hand-held radio from its charger and made sure that the volume was up high enough that he would hear if his men called him, and put it back so it would continue receiving a trickle charge.
He tumbled onto the hard surface and bunched the single pillow underneath his head. Reaching over to an open crate that served as a bedside table, Hassan grabbed his well-worn Quran. He thumbed to Surah 4:57, a verse he knew by heart. After the first sentence, he was fast asleep, dreaming of the virgins he would soon enjoy in Paradise.
~~~
Frank crept as silently as he could, as his right leg wasn’t cooperating too well. He more or less had to drag it and hop with the other. If he hadn’t been wearing his brace, he’d be unable to walk at all.
The warm, moonless night was perfect for an evening op. If only he were younger and in better shape, he might have looked forward to what was coming. But as Gunny reminded him, he was no spring chicken. God knows he felt every one of his 57 years with each labored step.
Once he could see the house’s light and his first target, he slid into the heavy brush. Branches slapped wildly at his face, darkened with a mud he’d created and then smeared all over to help him blend into the night. After each step he’d stop and listen to make sure no one heard him. It was a slow process, sneaking up on a kill. He just wished he could have retrieved his AR-15 with suppressor so he could take each one out from a safe distance. He still had his AK at the ready, but that was purely for defensive purposes as it would eliminate the surprise. The AK was perhaps perfect for this; its short barrel didn’t get entangled in the brush, and it never jammed. And although heavy, its weight felt comforting to him, like a favorite sweatshirt during the winter.
When he was only a few feet from his target, he slowly slid his weapon around to his back, and withdrew his SOG Seal fixed-blade knife from its sheath.
For a minute or two, he was motionless, listening to the light breeze rustle the leaves, an orchestra of crickets chirping at the night, and the slight snore of his target, somehow sleeping while standing up. He inched forward, forgetting his knee, all his systems operating at maximum efficiency to complete his mission: killing this man silently.
He reached out, slowly at first and then rapidly, like a snake striking, grabbing the man’s mouth to muffle his scream, and then driving his knife deep into his neck, severing his carotid. The man offered almost no resistance, just a slight stiffening when a deathly realization woke him. He folded over into a heap on the home’s overgrown lawn. Frank’s body mimicked the man’s as he kept his hand over the man’s mouth, intending to flex his knees to let the body land silently on the ground. But his right knee wouldn’t respond to his mind’s command, and his brace did its job and stopped his progression downward, sending him forward. Now off balance, Frank let go of the man who hit the ground with a resounding thud, and metal struck rock, making a startling cymbal-like crash in the calm.
Frank tumbled into the dying man, his wrist connected to the knife’s lanyard, handle still protruding from the man’s neck. His mind pictured him rolling over the man, like some circus performer, and perhaps he would have except for his arm had gotten stuck under the body. Without any grace whatsoever, he landed hard on top of it, yanking his arm in an unnatural way.
Unnerved, he withdrew his knife and flopped onto his back, his AK jamming into his side, causing a jolt of new pain into a different part of his body.
Holy Christ, this getting-old shit really sucks, he yelled in his head.
A detached voice called to him from the darkness.
He lay motionless, trying to get a mental bead on the voice, while wiping his soiled knife against his stomach and sliding it back into its sheath.
The voice called again. He recognized the language instantly. It was Farsi. It was coming from the back of the property, and it was closer this time.
Frank rolled over onto his front, away from the approaching voice, to release his AK. Then he rolled back beside the dead man, using him as cover, his rifle pointing in the direction of the approaching voice. Knowing he was about to make some noise, he quickly examined the perimeter of the home. There didn’t appear to be any other combatants, just the oncoming voice.
He could see the form approaching. It called again. The words sounded somewhat familiar, even though Frank’s Farsi was pretty rusty at this point. “Mohammad, are you sleeping?”
Frank had the man dead to rights. But before he could squeeze his trigger, he heard a click behind him and a command in a British accent. “Don’t shoot or you’re dead.” The muzzle of a rifle racked into his neck to prove the Brit behind him had the means to carry out his threat.
“Hassan, sir. You’re up. What are you doing?” asked the approaching man in a plaintive tone.
“Silence, fool. There may be others,” barked Hassan, who pushed the muzzle harder into the back of Frank’s neck. “Hands! I will not ask again.”
Frank’s hands rose quickly. How had he not heard this man coming up to him?
He heard someone else approach from behind and knew it was now or never.
Frank’s left arm whipped back to the muzzle pressing against his head. He grabbed it and was about to pull back hard to knock Hassan off balance, when two loud shots rang out right next to him and then several silenced rounds farther away. As Frank yanked at Hassan’s rifle, he looked up to find the approaching man had already fallen. As Hassan’s weapon came free, Frank spun around, grabbing his rifle and swinging it to bear on Hassan and the other approaching man, but Hassan collapsed right in front of him. In the background, a few meters away, he heard a silenced rifle firing again, and again.
Training his rifle on the thick bald form appearing in the darkness, behind him, he knew instantly it was his friend, Aimes. He couldn’t see his face, but he imagined he wore his usual big smile.
“Are you all right, Major?” Gunny whispered, kneeling next to him.
“Damn glad it’s you Gunny. That Grimes doing his thing?”
“Of course. Do you know how many more—”
They heard two more sets of boots, running from the back of the property. Frank had already spun around and was about to fire, when Grimes’s silenced rifle erupted with two more precise hits. One man flopped face first, all life removed from his body; the other jerked in mid-step, knocked sideways by the powerful round that ripped off much of his shoulder blade, and then he continued his run in their direction.
Frank felt and heard the silenced rifle, Gunny’s .45 handgun, and his AK all assault the man with a salvo of rounds. As if the man hit an exploding wall, his body appeared to bounce backward in a black mist.
“That was fun. Any more Hajis to kill?” Grimes asked, as he hopped their way from the darkness.
Still on the ground, Frank had already swung back to face both men, now leaning over him, eager to hear his orders. They’d never served together, but after sharing stories over the years, he’d imagined what these men would be like in combat, and his assumptions had been correct.
“I suspect that may be all or we’d probably have heard them by now, but be on alert.” He didn’t need to thank them for showing up. That was for later, over beers.
“So these are the bastards who torched your house, Major?” Gunny asked.
“What’s left of them,” Frank answered while he frisked Hassan, who he suspected was the leader.
Using a small but powerful Maglite, Frank inspected the body from head to toe. The face looked familiar, although he had only seen a flash of it earlier; he suspected it was the same man who had jumped into the third truck during the initial as
sault on his compound. Hassan was dressed in civilian clothes: jeans, a button-down Oxford, and leather loafers. He grabbed Hassan’s wallet and a set of keys and shoved those into his vest for later inspection. When he grabbed the man’s rifle, also an AK, he instantly knew something was different about it from every other AK he’d ever seen in the battlefield: it was unfired, still smelling of its packing oil.
“It smells brand new, Major.”
“Yeah, I noticed that too. Come on; let’s have a look and see if we can figure out what these pricks are doing here.” Frank took Gunny’s offered hand and was pulled up on his left leg. He put some weight on his right and a burst of pain erupted. He’d definitely screwed it up more. Well, at least half his body worked all right.
The three of them trudged carefully to the back of the property to look for clues about why these men were here and what they had planned to do after the nukes.
Chapter 13
Lexi and Travis
“Get up right now!” demanded a voice eager for violence.
The flashlight’s bright beam lost strength as the man holding it backed away, perhaps in an attempt to get a better angle to shoot from.
Lexi swung her bare feet to the floor, her hands reflexively searching for her father’s pack, and the revolver inside.
“Ya lookin fer dis?” The man cast his light on her bag below him, along with both their roller bags. “Anyone else in da house?”
“No, we’re alone,” she responded in raspy words, barely recognizing her own tired voice. She rose to her feet and caught a glimpse of his face for the first time; a shot of recognition hit her like an ocean wave. It was the driver of the Jeep, who had abducted the businesswoman earlier. Rodie.
“Ya better not be lying bout dis … Say, how old are ya?” he asked, his light blinding her again. It moved up and down her body, from her face, to her chest, and back to her face.
She thought she might hyperventilate as she knew where his thoughts were going.
The man walked up to Lexi and grabbed her chin, and inspected her face like she was a T-bone he wanted to sink his teeth into. His filthy hand roughly turned her gaze away from him and then back. The foulness of his breath was unimaginable. Then he let go and grabbed her chest, squeezing a breast through her shirt.
She slapped him away, revolted.
“Woah, ya woman ain’t yah?”
Even in the glare she could see his disgusting, toothy smile.
“I thin I found Clyde anotha.” He released her and walked away, before flashing his light at her again. “Ya best sit down now and wait for me to return.”
He kept the beam on her, waiting for her to respond to his command. “Sit the fuck down!” he hollered.
As she fell into the couch, she shot a glance at Travis, who sat wild-eyed, unmoving. Then she caught a glimpse out the window of a large truck—the same one she had seen earlier today that had pulled up to help Rodie drag the businesswoman away—parked in front of the house on the street. Two men proceeded up a walkway, toward the house.
Rodie marched to the front door and fumbled with the lock. Lexi guessed that he must have entered through the garage door and that her wedges didn’t work. Rodie put his shotgun down and stuck the flashlight into an armpit to free both hands.
Something snapped inside of Lexi. Perhaps it was the realization that she would only get one chance at this, or maybe it was the horror of what would come if she did nothing. She leapt off the couch, hopped onto the hearth, and grabbed the autographed bat from its display. Like some psychotic barefooted ninja, she practically flew to the door, lifting her arms back, ready to strike. Rodie was just pulling the door open when she put her whole body and arms into it.
Home run!
She wasn’t sure what sound she expected. Perhaps her mind anticipated the crack when bat meets ball, sending it out of the park on a warm summer afternoon. But this bat connecting with Rodie’s head felt and sounded like striking a ripe watermelon. At first she thought the bat would bounce back, but it sailed through and splashed warm wetness all over her. The inertia from her bat propelled him forward into the door with a louder thunk.
Another man was just entering from the other side when the door crashed into him, knocking him away. She clawed at the lock attempting to bolt it before they could try to open it again. A muffled voice yelled profanities about his nose being broken.
“Come on, Travis, grab your bag and run out the back!”
Lexi seized the shotgun, figuring it would be handy, and dropped the bat.
“What about the bikes?”
“Leave them. There’s no time,” she barked, gathering her boots, bags, and yanking open the slider.
The front door banged, a muffled voice yelled more profanities behind it, and a dark face appeared at the window and flipped on a flashlight, illuminating the empty living room.
They bounded outside, clutching their belongings, and ran straight for the back of the property, careful to not stumble in the darkness.
Lexi heard a crash from the house, but she didn’t look back. They just ran into the night.
~~~
“Hey, Zach, look at poor ol Rodie,” a short man pointed his flashlight at the crumpled figure on the floor. “He look like his head bin squished under da wheel of a cah.”
“Shut up, Pete,” growled a tall man, clutching his bloodied nose. Then to the rest of the house, bristling with harried activity, he screamed, “Find those damn kids!” They scrambled all over the house, away from Zach like rats running from a fire.
“Whoever gets me the little shit who broke my damn nose might live to see tomorrow.”
~~~
After an hour of hiding and then walking and hiding again, they found themselves on the small residential road leading back to the highway. The clear view of the subdivision let them see the vehicles driving slowly down the street, flashlights shining into each of the houses and under bushes and in trees, looking for them. When the vehicles moved to the highway, so did they.
They walked for what seemed like hours. The adrenaline had long since worn off. It was only fear that kept them on their feet. They wanted to put as much distance between them and this gang as possible.
At some point, late into the night, they heard engine noises approaching. There were no headlights. They had scurried into the bushes and waited for the vehicles to pass, just out of reach of their flashlights. The large truck turned around and came back, again stopping maybe a hundred feet from where they had slipped into the bushes. The vehicle idled there forever, or so it seemed. Lexi and Travis listened to the men inside argue over which way to go, until the voices drifted off as they fell asleep.
Chapter 14
Frank
“It’s a Faraday cage.”
“That’s what one looks like? It’s more like a … a jail cell for a tech-nerd,” Grimes said as he hobbled after Frank into what had been the house’s master bedroom. A box-shaped sub-room of framed-metal bars and wire mesh occupied most of the space. Inside of this was a portly desk covered in radio equipment, a laptop, and scattered papers.
“This one must have been set up to protect their radio equipment against the EMPs. I have one of these around my entire home … at least I used to,” Frank said, staring at the radio equipment inside from which a crackly hiss beckoned him.
“So either these bastards are preppers like you, Frank, or they knew what was going to happen and that means they must have been involved with the atmospheric blasts you said took out our grid?” Grimes locked his fingers through the mesh and peered at all the equipment, and contemplated the meaning of this new clue.
“It sure looks that way.”
They both turned back to address the bedroom doorway and a familiar set of heavy footsteps approaching. “You guys in here?” Aimes called to them as he rounded the entrance. “Whoa, Haji has a jail cell.”
“It’s a fairy cage, Gunny,” said Grimes, a slight smirk on his face.
“Don’t let the
fairies out then. We’ve got enough of ’em in this world already.”
“Better get in there; they like baldies, I hear,” Grimes responded.
“Report, Gunny,” Frank chimed in smiling. He genuinely missed this kind of idle banter among men right after battle; the fervent chiding of each other and the enemy was common among their band of brothers in an overt attempt to ratchet down the tension level.
“Perimeter is secure, Major,” Aimes responded.
The three of them had already searched the entire house, each clearing different rooms. It appeared that they had killed all the combatants. Aimes volunteered to do a once-around the perimeter to make sure they weren’t going to be surprised by anyone. Not yet having seen this part of the home, he wide-eyed the enormous cage that rose from the floor to just below the ceiling’s blinking light fixture.
“They’ve got a giant genny in the garage and lots of gas in jerry cans to feed it. I had wondered where they got their power.” He stepped beside the others and examined the cage’s interior. “The garage door was open a crack, possibly for venting, but I’m not sure how none of them had died of carbon monoxide.”
Frank clumped around the cage’s right side, careful to not bump into the rows of supplies lining the walls, anxious to check out what was on the desk of this terrorist cell’s operation center. It would have been nice to have found one of them alive, and to extract actionable intelligence. But then, they might not have had this room to examine, because any of the living would have had orders to burn down the house and all of its secrets within. He opened the chamber’s steel door and stepped inside.
“You know you have two stiffs in the pool house?” Aimes continued.
“Yeah, that was the owners, the Maldonados,” Frank answered from the swivel desk chair, carefully riffling through the loose papers on the desk.
Highway: A Post-Apocalyptic Tale of Survival Page 8
