Highway: A Post-Apocalyptic Tale of Survival

by John Q. Prepper

  Lexi observed Leo marching up to the platform. He looked up to Abdul, waiting for his instructions.

  “Leo is a dear servant and like a son to me, but he didn’t obey one of our strict rules: he led our guests to a place they shouldn’t have seen, yet. And he touched what wasn’t his. To his honor, Leo has volunteered to carry out his own punishment.”

  Abdul smiled at him, while withdrawing his own sword, its blade glittering in the sun. He handed it to Leo.

  Leo held up his free left hand and the long saber in his right, so the crowd could see. Lexi wanted to avert her eyes, but she couldn’t. She watched in horror as Leo swung the blade, severing his left hand at the wrist.

  He was immediately ushered off the stage by men who also attempted to stem the bleeding.

  “Monsters,” Lexi whispered.

  “We are entering a new era, my brothers and sisters. And as your Mahdi, I will lead our caliphate across the whole land. And at my side …”

  Lexi's eyes had remained caste down, head unmoving, as Yusuf's claws were no longer burrowed into her. Now, she looked up because it was quiet. Abdul had paused.

  She expelled a long breath as she was stunned to see her brother ascend the platform.

  “Travis here was my brother's son. But from this day forward he shall be known as Abdul-Aziz ‘servant of the Dear One’ and I will raise him as if he were mine. He is already a Muslim, and will continue his studies of the Quran. And one day he will be an Imam like his father.”

  Travis just stood erect on the platform, gazing forward at no one.

  Lexi was hyperventilating, and the world was starting to spin.

  This can’t be.

  Her eyes fell and she was shocked that she was moving toward the platform as well, her legs moving without any help from her. Yusuf's claws practically carried her.

  And then she found herself standing next to Abdul, her uncle, the murderer of millions of Americans.

  “And Lexi here”—he held up her hand—“will be now known as Suhaimah, which means ‘little arrow’ …”

  The wood planks of the platform felt like they were moving, undulating under her feet in waves. She looked out at the expectant faces, beaming at her and their leader, who was about to make an announcement concerning her.

  She closed her eyes.

  “And in less than a month, probably right after we have taken over this country, I will ask Suhaimah to marry me willingly. She will join my other two wives, Samantha and Sarti. But even if she doesn't agree to this, she will become my wife.”

  Abdul attempted to raise her arm up as the celebratory praises resounded, but her wrist slipped out from his grasp.

  Lexi had fainted.

  Chapter 32

  Two Years Ago

  Travis

  Travis's path to despair began over waffles.

  It was his favorite meal and as a reward for it being his first day of fourth grade, he was able to choose what they would eat that morning. Naturally, it was waffles.

  “I get the next batch,” Lexi blared at her brother.

  Travis ignored her and shoved the entirety of the last of his four waffles into his mouth, his cheeks puffing like a chipmunk's, syrup running down his chin. While attempting to chew, a grin snuck out, revealing his teeth and some of his unchewed food.

  “Travis!” Sara admonished. “Smaller bites next time.”

  “So, why can't we have bacon like normal people?” whined Lexi, as she glared at the waffle maker, impatiently waiting her turn.

  Sara almost responded to this, but decided against it; they'd been down this road before and Lexi was just being annoying, all because her brother got his wish.

  The phone's ringing provided her a diversion.

  “Lexi dear, get the phone, would you?”

  “Sure, Auntie,” Lexi replied in a mocking tone, not reaching for the receiver right away. Instead, she continued her waffle-maker ogling, like some predator eyeing a small field mouse it planned to toy with before devouring.

  Sara scowled at her on the fourth ring.

  Lexi snatched the portable from its cradle without shifting her gaze and stuck it to her ear. “Hello, Broadmoor residence; Lexi speaking.” Her words were sweet and exaggerated.

  Silence.

  “Lexi! You know this is the Smith Residence,” Sara snapped.

  “Hello?” Lexi huffed, annoyed.

  “Hello, my beautiful niece. May I speak to my sister, please?” the buttery voice asked.

  Lexi thrust the portable in her aunt’s direction, eyes still on the waffle maker, billowing puffs of steam.

  “Who is it?” Sara bellowed.

  “I don’t know. Someone who says he’s your brother,” Lexi replied, disinterested.

  If Lexi had been paying attention, she’d have noticed that all of the color had immediately drained from Sara’s features.

  Sara snatched the phone from her and gaped at it for a moment, not wanting to hear what came next, and then finally put it to her ear. “What do you want?” she asked, a barely noticeable tremor in her voice.

  “Sara, you’re going to burn my waffles,” Lexi barked, as she watched in shock as her aunt turned and walked out of the kitchen, leaving her to salvage her own breakfast.

  “Is that how you speak to your brother?” His words were smooth, unflappable.

  “As far as I’m concerned, you’re not family; not anymore.” Sara sank into her armchair in the living room, not wanting her niece and nephew to hear them.

  “They don’t even know I exist, do they?”

  “Nor will they! And you’ll say nothing: that was our agreement.” She found herself having some difficulty breathing.

  “The other part of the agreement is why I’m calling. Travis is starting school today.”

  Sara gulped. “Yes …” She said tentatively, her voice softer now.

  “Except, he’ll be attending a different school,” the voice said resolutely. “A car is waiting outside to take him right now.”

  She was feeling dizzy, taking big gulps of air. “And … and where is that?”

  Although she asked, she would rather not know.

  “I suppose you’ll find out eventually. It’s the Madrassa Mahdi.”

  “Bu-but, what do I tell his school?” Spots swam around her periphery.

  “I don’t care what you tell his old school. He’s going to get a proper Muslim education, even if you aren’t willing to provide it for him. That was our deal!”

  “Wha-what … if I don’t allow him to go?” Her words came out like puffs of air, with very little structure.

  “Do not cross me. You know who I am. I expect you to honor our agreement. After Stan’s wife died and you asked me for financial help because your infidel husband was not able to care for his family, I gave it to you. When your husband was found stealing from his company, I made the problem go away. You’d be best to keep me in your good graces. You understand me … sis?”

  She paused for a long time, partly because she didn’t want to answer, and partly because she couldn’t. “Yes, dammit I understand,” she panted the words.

  Abdul hung up.

  A car horn sounded outside their home.

  Sara sat slumped, deflated, and fighting to remain conscious.

  It wasn’t till the third honk, and Travis shaking his aunt’s arm, that she was able to acknowledge it.

  She arose and readied him for the car, telling him he was going to a new private school.

  She walked him to the limo, Travis firing off questions she didn’t answer.

  At the driver's side, the window slid down and an arm thrust out a folded piece of paper. A gruff voice announced, “He said to give this to you.” The window rolled up once she grabbed it.

  “Am I going in this big car, Aunt Sara?” Travis gleamed.

  She looked down at his expectant face, almost dropping the note she was handed, still unwilling to answer him and accept this. Please, not just yet.

  The rear pa
ssenger door clicked open beside her and a demanding voice beckoned Travis inside.

  She opened the folded page. Inside, scrawled by a hand she guessed to have been the driver’s, big letters made Abe’s demand obvious.

  Remember our deal.

  I will get a phone call if his schooling is interrupted by you in any way.

  Abe

  She watched Travis get into the car, after the voice called him again.

  She knew she was no longer an active participant in this. Not if she was to hold onto the life she had. She wouldn't interfere and she would keep her husband safe, and she’d still watch over Stan's kids.

  She observed the car driving away with Travis in its belly, and retorted to herself, “Besides, how bad could an American Madrassa be?”

  She knew the answer.

  ~~~

  If a visitor, unfamiliar with their methods, were to walk in, he or she might have to cover their ears because it would appear that all the kids in Zaahirah’s room were babbling at the top of their voices. But to Zaahirah, the sonorous notes of the Quran being read out loud, even by children who didn’t speak Arabic, was like music to her ears.

  The kids continued reading the same verse over and over, in unison, at nearly a full yell.

  She clapped her hands to interrupt their regimented shouts. “Thank you, children. That was very good.” She waited for their silence.

  “What we are learning about here is how Allah will protect each of us believers until the last day.”

  Zaahirah was walking around the classroom, watching each of the children to make sure they were paying strict attention.

  Flop! Her whip came down hard onto the back of Travis’s hands with a crack.

  He yelped, no longer gazing out the window. Immediately, he withdrew his hands and grimaced at the bright redness exploding on them. His eyes welled as he looked up at his teacher, unsure what he had done wrong.

  “Travis, were you listening to me?”

  “Yes-yes. I was, teacher.”

  “Okay, then tell the class what I was talking about,” Zaahirah demanded.

  “You were telling us about the last day, and when the Mahdi would kill the unbelievers. And only believers would live.” He rubbed his hands, trying not to cry, and pushed away his pain.

  Chapter 33

  July 7th

  Frank

  The incessant drumbeat of cicadas seemed to match the thumping melody in his head.

  Finding Abdul’s camp was easy enough. But avoiding detection from the drones, which had been searching for them, was a little trickier. Porter had scanned the heavens above and the roads behind them from the truck bed; Wallace had searched for any threats from their flanks and in front of them from the passenger seat; and Frank had driven. They had all ridden in silence, not wanting to discuss the crushing defeat they had just experienced or what lay ahead of them.

  They had been headed to Stowell, Texas, but didn’t make it more than a mile when Frank stopped them abruptly. Wallace looked at him and Frank at her. And without saying anything, they agreed. Porter, as if on cue, slid open the back window and calmly said, “As my father would have asked if he were here, ‘Are we now going to go kick Haji’s ass?’”

  “Damn straight!” Wallace said, while Frank whipped them around and pointed them back down the highway to what he was sure would be their final act as Americans.

  After confirming the access road entrance with the map Frank had taken from the broken-up terrorist base in Texas, they had parked the truck in a thick stand of bushes down the road. This is where Frank’s injuries and his fatigue had slowed them down. It was a long couple of hours through the thick Florida brush, but they were finally there, studying their target.

  Porter’s murmured question, of whether this really was the right place, didn’t need an answer as one man after another scurried around the grounds, each wearing traditional Islamic clothes accompanied by the requisite AK automatic rifle. Several times Frank had to blink back the feeling that he was somewhere in the Middle East and not in Florida.

  They decided to get a closer look and slowly work their way up to a finger of trees and brush, which almost touched the back of one of the camp’s many buildings.

  That gave them more sweeping views over much of the complex, where most of the activity seemed to take place.

  Almost immediately they saw their problem: Besides the futility in trying to engage even more jihadists with their meager assortment of weapons, they were grossly outnumbered. There were at least two dozen fully armed foreign fighters versus three banged-up US soldiers, one worse off than the others.

  Wallace and Porter both glared their unspoken worries at Frank.

  “I know, we'll have to set up a diversion, or something,” Frank groused, just above a whisper.

  “Yah think?” Wallace quipped.

  “Even with a large enough diversion”—Porter tapped his pack, an unspoken confirmation that it contained two bricks of C4—“there’s just too many of them …”

  He waited for Frank’s response. But Frank appeared to have lost interest and was now possessed by something Porter couldn’t see. “Major, are you still with us?”

  Frank wasn’t purposely ignoring them, merely twisting his face and squinting to confirm what he thought he saw. Before he seemed even able to pull his eyes away from the camp, he pulled a picture from his wallet and scrutinized it. Then he resumed the same intense gaze at the same point in the distance, blindly handing the photo to Porter. “Is that the same girl? I mean woman?”

  Both Wallace and Porter glanced at the picture and then at the group walking between the river and the buildings, only a short distance away. Behind the group was a pretty young woman with short black hair wearing a sparkling salwar kameez. The rest were wearing chadors, which looked like burkas but did not cover their faces.

  “Yeah, it kind of looks like the same person, why?” Porter thought out loud.

  “Who is that and why is that important to us, sir?” asked Wallace.

  Frank didn't immediately respond, and then finally spun around and sat with his back to the enemy camp, looking deflated. “I'm afraid it's my goddaughter. Which means her brother, my godson Travis, must be here too. It also means”—he exhaled a long breath—“that my best friend, Stanley, their father, didn't survive the trip here.”

  Frank felt older than he ever had before. Not only were his injuries weighing heavily on him, but so was this unexpected development. Stanley, his friend, was probably dead, as there was no way he’d let his kids out of his sight after waiting so long before collecting them. The texts he’d received from them indicated that they had been on the highway, but if Stanley didn’t make it, he’d send the kids to Frank. Stanley dedicated his life to keeping his kids safe. Their being here, obviously captured before they could make it to their place in Florida, confirmed not only Stanley’s passing but also Frank’s obligation to watch over and protect his best friend’s kids if something happened to their only parent; that’s what a godfather was supposed to do.

  Having experienced so many tough missions and firefights overseas, the last thing Frank expected was that his most difficult and yet most important rescue mission would be here on US soil.

  He had to save them.

  Before this, when they had agreed to try and strike at Abdul and his camp, they instinctively knew this was going to be a suicide mission, more or less. Yet he’d thought, if they could get a few of the terrorists and maybe slow them down and give America more of a chance, it would be worth the sacrifice. The mission had changed again.

  One of them had to make it out with the kids. And they had to do this against a clock that was quickly counting down to some sort of invasion.

  How the hell are we gonna do this? Frank mused.

  “You know I have to do anything and everything I can to save them?” he exhaled.

  “We knew this was a one-way ticket, Major. It's just a little more … complicated now.”

&nb
sp; Porter just nodded his affirmation.

  Frank turned back around to face their enemy. “You know, I might have an idea…”

  ~~~

  “Repea—” Abdul frantically twisted the knob up a couple of megahertz, then back down the other way to home in on the signal propelled by minimal wattage, obscured and cutting out between the radio’s hissing. “—three or four men, maybe more—hisssss–headed to your camp—hisssss–stopping you. We killed every—hisssss–using the drones, but—hisssss–men escaped and are at your location now.”

  “How long ago was this?” Abdul bellowed at his microphone.

  “Yesterday … been searching all day for them, using drones—hisssss–spotted their truck hidden near your property.”

  “Thank you. The Prophet, peace and blessings of Allah be upon him, would be proud of you.” Abdul let go of the microphone button and dropped his headphones onto the table without even attempting to listen to Kadeem’s replacement reply.

  He arose from his chair, changing his mien from frantic to reserved, before he popped open the door and slipped through. He found Sal immediately and ushered him over.

  In his ear, he whispered, “Don’t run or look surprised; don’t look around. Grab a dozen of your men and do a full sweep of the property. We have a small armed group who has come here to stop us.”

  “Yes, Sir.” Sal nodded and shuffled off, grabbing his men along the way, relishing the possibility of entering battle once more, and sooner than they had planned.

  Abdul watched him go, while he carefully scanned the riverbank, and then the thick brush that surrounded the property. With any luck, he thought, he’d kill these men before they killed any of his own.

  ~~~

  Frank watched like a mud spider ready to strike from its burrow, unseen but deadly.

  He tensed his good knee, hidden in the blind of the overgrowth’s finger, ready to strike as one jihadist brushed by its tip, unaware he’d just walked by his immediate death. Frank relaxed a little, glad to be the one who remained while the others set up the diversions for his incursion. He longed for his silenced weapons, and did the only thing he could do: wait.