Apache Dawn: Book I of the Wildfire Saga

by Marcus Richardson

  “John Anderton, you stop getting so worked up over this,” ordered Ruth from the stove. She had both hands on her matronly hips. “You remember what the doctor said. You need to keep your blood pressure down. Besides,” she said, smoothing out her apron. “The Lord will provide. He always has, and always will.”

  Denny took a long, slow drink. He put the glass on the table carefully, to conceal his unsteady hands. “John, do you think they’ll come here? I mean, there’s nothing of value here…no military base, no large population center…we’re halfway up the mountains.”

  “I wouldn’t have thought that Creekwater, South Carolina would have been all that important to the Russians, either but…” John spread his hands in a gesture of uncertainty. “Nobody knows why they went there. I just wanted you to know the truth before you headed for the hills, Denny.” He looked over his shoulder. “Ruth and I spend every night in the bunker now and only come up in the mornings.”

  “Rightly so,” said Ruth, her back to the men. “If nothing else, we may as well get our money’s worth out it.”

  “Well, if what you say is true, then I think I may want to head up Old Leesburg Road a bit at first light.”

  “Where will you go? You just can’t go sit in the woods all day.”

  Denny thought for a moment. “Well,” he said with a sigh. “I normally camp up on Morning Glory Peak ‘cause it’s so close to my house. But, there’s that old ranger station up by U.P. Lake. I think there’s a helicopter pad or something up there, too. At any rate, there’s a fire observation tower—you know the one I’m talking about? Off of Ridge Road?”

  “Sure, sure. I used to hike up along The Ridge with my son before we moved to town.”

  “I’ll have a pretty good view of the town from there. It’s good hunting ground, fresh water from the lake, and fishing, too. If something does happen, I’ll be able to warn you.”

  “That radio I gave you will have plenty of range for that. The lake is only about two miles from town—granted, it’s almost straight up The Ridge. We’ll hear you loud and clear.”

  The lights in the kitchen flickered and went out, plunging the room into twilight darkness. Ruth gasped and slammed the lid on her chili.

  “It’s all right, just another power out—”

  “John, look!” Ruth said, hands to her mouth, looking out the kitchen window toward Denny’s house.

  Denny jumped up and in two strides was next to Ruth. He saw the front half of his house in flames. The light cast terrifying shadows that danced across the yard and into the kitchen. He saw a figure dressed in black race away from the front of the house down the driveway. Two more appeared on the other side of his house and joined the first.

  Without a word, he turned and raced out the back door, pausing only to check around the corner of the Andertons’ house and make sure there was no one waiting there for him.

  “Denny -” John said from the open door.

  There was a crash from inside the Anderton house and Ruth shrieked. “Get in the basement! Go!” Denny waved him back.

  He sprinted across his back yard and made it to his truck unseen. The roar of the fire was increasing now at a mind-numbing volume. He could hear a car horn honking faintly in the distance and what sounded like hoots and laughter. He ducked quickly into his back door and started grabbing the gear he had accumulated there in the living room. Without thinking, he tossed them into the back of the waiting truck and went for more.

  Satisfied he had his critical gear, he raced into the kitchen and grabbed his unfinished arrow shafts along with his hunting bow and arrows. The living room was a wall of angry fire. The heat was incredible. Tendrils of flame licked the ceiling and snaked down the hallway toward him. He was running out of time.

  Through a gap in the flames he could see the pictures of his wife and grandfather on the mantel, the frames melting and burning in the searing intensity of the fire. His heart ached, seeing the images of his loved ones being consumed by the fire. If he had only acted sooner…

  Part of the ceiling collapsed by the front door in a roar of fire and sparks. The abrupt and surprisingly intense wave of heat and smoke drove him stumbling backwards into the kitchen. He fell on his ass, got to his knees while coughing, and tried to clear the smoke from his eyes. He crawled on hands and knees as he struggled to drag his bow and arrows out of the kitchen and onto the back porch.

  He lay there for a moment, gasping the clean sweet air and watching the acrid smoke boil out of the porch door over his head. He could hear his grandfather telling him to run.

  After a supreme effort, he hauled himself up to the driver’s door and climbed in, tossing the bow and arrows on to the seat next to him before starting the truck. He could see in his side mirrors the roof the house was in flames now and soon the entire structure would be engulfed. Using the fire as a screen, he started the truck and pulled straight away from the house in a cloud of pebbles and dust. He wiped the tears from his eyes with the back of his arm and tried to aim toward the rear gate of his yard.

  Denny skidded to a stop and was about to get out to unlatch the gate when a hole appeared in his windshield. He heard a loud crash and his passenger door window exploded in a puff of broken glass. The thought that someone was shooting at him wafted through his mind and urged him forward without restraint.

  Denny shifted into 4-wheel drive and floored it. The truck dug deep and crashed through the gate. He careened over a small ditch and disappeared into the brushland dotted by stunted pines and a few cedars. About halfway to the summit of Morning Glory Peak, he pulled off the access road and parked.

  Moving quickly, he slid out of the truck and found his hunting backpack among the gear in the bed. Pulling out his binoculars, a compact 8x12 set, he crept to the top of the hill and peeked through a small juniper bush at the maelstrom that an hour ago had been his house.

  The pines next to his house were aflame, like giant sized candles. The deserted house next to Denny’s was now also aflame and broiling smoke. He could see that the roof on the Anderton house was on fire as well.

  There in the street, he spotted a collection of trucks and cars, all pointed toward the burning houses. There were figures moving back and forth, some looking like they were carrying drinks—others clearly had guns. They were taking pot shots at the houses. The pops and cracks of their weapons echoed over the sound of the house fires.

  He suddenly remembered his radio. Fishing it off his belt with shaking hands he pulled it to his lips and said, “John, John, can you hear me?”

  There was a moment of silence, then the radio broke squelch: “Yes,” the old man’s voice panted. “We’re here. We’re in the bunker, but that was a close thing, Denny.”

  “Are you injured?”

  “Ruth busted her ankle getting down the stairs…but she’s proud to say she saved the chili and brought it down too.”

  Denny laughed. “Good, I’m glad.”

  “And you?”

  “My house…it’s totally on fire now. I got some of my gear and escaped just…John, there’s people out there shooting at our houses. They shot my truck.”

  “Good God, son. We thought we heard gunfire but didn’t stick ‘round to find out. I have us sealed up tight now.”

  “John,” Denny said, panning his binoculars over his neighbor’s house. “Your house is on fire. The roof.”

  “Oh don’t worry. We got a mess of filtered air intakes, remember? I’ve already closed off the house line and opened a few of the others. We’re getting nothing but clean fresh air down here.”

  Denny put his face down in the dirt and coughed, happy. He looked up again, clearing his throat. “John,” he said. “I see at least six cars and trucks in the street. There must be twenty people down there. It looks like a party.”

  “I suppose to them it is.” There was a pause, then he spoke again. “Denny, listen to me. Get away. Don’t wait till tomorrow. We’ll be fine. Really.”

  Denny slid down the hill a ways
and rolled over on to his back to cough some more. His lungs burned from smoke inhalation, his eyes were watery. His house, all his memories, everything he and Emily had built together, it was all dying right in front of him. And there was nothing he could do.

  When he cleared his eyes and looked toward The Ridge, looming ahead of him in the gathering darkness. A gentle calmness washed over him like a warm shower. The summit of the ancient massif was still in twilight, the sun glinting off the remaining snow from the last storm. Farther down the slope, Morning Glory Peak and the town down in the wide Salmon River Valley were both bathed in the inky cloak of early night. He could see the pin-pricks of light that proclaimed the death song of his house.

  Denny raised the radio to his mouth. “Stay safe John. I’ll let you know when I make it to The Ridge.”

  “Will do. Take care of yourself, m’wewa.”

  Denny smiled. He clipped the radio to his belt and climbed back into the truck. He sat there a moment, the truck idling. The thugs back there had set fire to his house and tried to kill him. They failed.

  But they had killed all the last pieces of Emily. The Blue Flu had taken her body, but her pictures, her clothes, the perfumes she wore…all of that was still there in the house. Gone now, forever. He had only the memories of his wife in his heart.

  When the tears came, he made no effort to stop them and let the wracking sobs flow through him. Bend like the tall grass in the wind, but never break—he could hear Grandfather say. The grief, anger, and pain he felt caused him to grip the steering wheel tight and close his eyes. It was like losing Emily all over again.

  Soon enough, he was drying his eyes. The people back there—he was sure the Townsend family was behind this—thought they were the hunters, driving their prey to ground. They had destroyed his home, chased him off into the night, and shot-up his truck.

  Denny stared at the image of his burning house in his mind’s eye. They were wrong. He was going up into the mountains to lick his wounds, to rest, to gather his spirit about him like a suit of armor. Then he was going to come back.

  And then he would be the hunter.

  CHAPTER 18

  Washington, D.C.

  The White House.

  Presidential Emergency Operations Center.

  I TAKE IT EVERYTHING IS to your satisfaction?” the President said in the voice of a beaten man.

  “So far, yes. My employers wish to express their most sincere gratitude for your…cooperation, thus far, Mr. President. However, there are a few concerns that have been raised to me. Specifically about the resistance to our efforts to help your people. The riots, the lawyers, the press…the situation is nothing like we expected.”

  “What, did you think that the American people would just welcome you with open arms? This isn’t Rowanda. People weren’t quite starving to death before you showed up.”

  Reginald continued, ignoring the President’s statement. “There have been a number of deaths and more injuries than I would care to see, thanks to the reckless policy of allowing people to arm themselves in an urban−”

  “Don’t you think that we’ve tried to take the guns away?” the President said, his anger rising. “For decades we’ve tried to ban guns, ban bullets, and make more restrictions. I hate to admit it, but the damn Conservatives were right—the only ones left with guns in our cities are the criminals, and they don’t really give a damn about what I want, let alone what you want. On top of all that, people are dying left and right from this damn flu. They’re scared and liable to lash out at anyone. Even people sent to help.”

  “I see.” The silence on the secured telephone line was telling. Clearly this had caught Reginald by surprise. The thought almost made the President smile.

  “Look. Just…just, tell me what to do about this mess,” pleaded the President. “I can’t get any cooperation or even communicate with the damn the Koreans, and I can’t just let them conquer the West. The country will lynch me, then demand someone nuke North Korea. And what am I supposed to do about these U.N. troops—”

  “As I told you, the U.N. answers to me,” replied Reginald, cool as ice. “But in order to secure their loyalty, certain measures must be taken, and quickly. The military governors are not pleased with the response we’ve received from your ungrateful American citizens. Doctors shot at and mugged…medicine and food stolen in mobs that roam the streets looking for loot or drugs. Stricter measures must be taken to restore order. Immediately.”

  “’Military governors?’ Is that what you’re calling them? Wait—what kinds of measures?” asked the President. Without waiting for a response from Reginald, he sat up, the phone forgotten. He couldn’t be sure, but thought he could smell a familiar fragrance at the edge of his perception. It was like a sound drifting through a winter fog: one second it was there, then it was gone. His heart quickened. Was Jayne there in the darkness somewhere?

  “The large urban centers are increasingly desperate for food, clean water, and medical supplies, correct?”

  The President had to push thoughts of Jayne out of his mind long enough to concentrate on the question. “Uh, yes, yes. Boston…” he rubbed his head again. It was so hard to think when he smelled her perfume. What was it about her that made him so…distracted?

  “Yes…?” prompted the voice on the phone.

  “Uh…Philadelphia, New York, Charleston…the big ones. The chaos North Korea is causing out west is nothing compared to what we’re dealing with, thanks to this damn flu. It’s completely disrupted the national distribution of food and supplies by…by…” Why is it so hard to think?

  “…Train?” prodded Reginald’s voice.

  “No…the highways. Trucks.” The President shook his head, trying to clear his thoughts. Damn it all, why is it so hard to concentrate? Another image of Jayne flashed through his mind when he inhaled. The worries of the country faded to a pulsing throb instead of an urgent flare.

  “To secure the help of the member nations, you will have to suspend your Constitution in those areas controlled by -”

  “What?” he asked sharply. “What do you mean, suspend the Constitution?”

  “These are European soldiers, European doctors, and European commanders. Come, now Mr. President, surely even you cannot expect them to just throw away thousands of years of traditions and laws overnight to appease a country that can’t take care of itself?” the voice on the phone said sweetly.

  “They will police and secure the urban areas, feed, heal, and protect the people, in their own manner. The times ahead will be trying and—quite honestly—they will not be able to operate effectively if they are constantly worried about lawsuits, threats, protests, riots, and random gunfights. The French are already making sounds that they are ready to leave. You understand what must be done…?”

  Reginald continued to talk, but the President wasn’t listening anymore. It seemed that Jayne’s fragrance was even stronger than ever now. Almost like the air itself was pregnant with her scent. It was intoxicating. The President figured he’d agree to anything right about now. Suspending the Constitution and letting foreign troops handle things their own way seemed to be so easy. Just say the words…little words…

  “Yes, of course,” he said, his voice dull and lifeless.

  “Good. Remember, this is all for the survival of your nation. When this is all over, we will discuss repayment to the member nations. Oil rights, water rights, land rights, and so on. Mere details.”

  Details? Harold’s mind reeled in shock. Did Reginald seriously just ask me to give up national sovereignty as repayment?

  “For now, I suggest the following: after your upcoming Cabinet meeting—”

  “How did you know I was—”

  “You will give a speech detailing our new agreement and use your Executive Powers to impose temporary martial law nationwide. That should give you something to do with all your homeward bound military forces—that is, those that survive the journey, of course.”

  “What do y
ou mean, ‘survive the journey’?”

  “Oh nothing, really. It’s just that it seems such an awfully long commute for so many of your men and women in uniform…it seems only natural that a few of them wouldn’t make it home. Perhaps local warlords in some of the more unsavory areas your military has previously controlled by threat-of-force, may take a few shots at your collective backs…I’m just thinking off the top of my head, mind.”

  “This is—”

  “Of course, you will talk-up your decision to suspend the Constitution in all major cities under U.N control—you need to make the people understand how hard it was for you to come to this decision, after all. Then be sure to announce that the people enforcing the martial law will be U.N. personnel. It will make the transition after all this is cleared up that much smoother. Trust me, we have done this before. In the meantime, I strongly suggest you remind your citizens that in times of martial law, summary justice may be used to quell riots. I understand your people will be…reluctant…to accept these new policies, but if you remind them that this is a temporary measure, and only applicable to the cities on your list—”

  “Are you serious?” gasped the President. “You realize that even if this works in the cities, you’re going to start a civil war, right? The rural areas of this country are simply infested with gun-toting, Bible-thumping Conservatives that are just looking for an excuse to overthrow the government. There’s militias everywhere!”

  “Please, Mr. President, save the party rhetoric for your political hacks. You and I both know that is just political…bullshit. The so-called Conservative movement in your nation is simply not waiting for an opportunity to start a war. They are more set in their ways, true, and they will take more time to adjust to the new facts of life. However, they are by far the more practical of your citizens. We have seen it time and time again in Europe over the years. It is the Conservatives that learn to embrace the new order first. The cities are the areas on which we need to focus. Enclaves of the liberal minds. The liberals are what founded your nation. George Washington, Thomas Jefferson…were these men not what you would call liberal?”