The Survivors: Book One

by Angela White

  They were outnumbered, but not by much, and Kenn frowned in concentration as the thick clouds rolled overhead, colored lightning flashing in the distance. He sent his sharp eyes over it again, seeing holiday lights torn down and Christmas pictures that had been used for target practice, but underneath, he was evaluating how best to kill them all.

  ”You and me covering the top?”

  Still missing his rifle, Kenn merely answered with his eyes. They hadn’t found any ammo for the M16’s, so that meant getting close enough for handguns. When it started, a few of the Mexicans would come out, but most of them would take up positions around the hostages and they’d have a standoff. For a little while. Then their reinforcements would come. This was only a scouting party, and it bothered Kenn that neither he nor Adrian had expected this level of organization. They would have to do it quietly. No telling how far out the big group was.

  It had only taken Adrian’s Eagles 30 hours to get here, driving straight through in six five-hour shifts. The men who hadn’t driven, stood watch when they arrived, to let the others get a short rest. They had snuck close, as dusk slowly closed in.

  The Slavers weren’t the only ones who knew how to use nature as a cover, and the ten men watching hated how it looked, how it smelled here. It reeked with decay, and even the constant gusts of salty, smoky wind couldn’t knock it back. The awful odor came from all the bodies. Thousands of them, fresh and old, littered the city, along with lines of burnt houses, cars, and businesses. There were thick drag marks in the dust left by the storm, garbage and mud-covered streets, and little pillars of smoke rising that signaled the path the Mexicans had taken to get here. It was a war zone.

  “What do you want to do?”

  The edge of frustration in the former mobster’s rough voice was what Kenn had been waiting for, and he stood up, always feeling the need to prove who was in charge when they went on missions together. To the listening men, he said just the right thing. Only Kyle would sting afterwards when he remembered almost losing his cool with only silence used against him. “We kill them all.”

  Kenn knelt in the dirt, flipping open his K-BAR to draw in the damp dirt behind the big storage sheds they were using for cover. He hadn’t created this plan, but these men wouldn’t know that. “We go with silencers. Take out this side and corner, and as they come out, we pick them off. If the Man comes out too, it’ll all be over.”

  “And if not?” Kyle kept the bitterness out of his tone, but not his eyes. He almost hated the smug Marine leading his team today, was now actively keeping an eye out for someone who was a match to throw his support behind.

  Kenn shrugged, sliding his knife back into his muddy black boot. “We’ll have taken out at least half these men and that’ll leave a lot of exits with light or no cover. We’ll look from those trees along the windows first, then slip in, and nail ‘em as we find ‘em. Once inside, we head for the gym, ‘cause that’s where they’ll be with a group of sheep that size. From there, we’ll do what we do best.”

  “They might negotiate, surrender.”

  Kenn stood up, automatically checking his gear and gun, and the other Eagles followed his lead. They had been on a few missions where hostages were involved, but only once had there been a shootout, the small gang of Aryan Brothers not wanting to give up their captives. They had given their lives instead, but the newness of doing battle hadn’t worn off for the Eagles yet.

  Kenn tapped his good luck charm, a Zippo lighter he kept in his pocket, voice hard. “Adrian wouldn’t and we won’t either. Top four shooters with me, the rest to the sides and meet up. I’m man in the middle. On my mark.”

  Kenn’s timing was perfect. He and Kyle fired as they ran, and the two Mexican lookouts jerked at the same time, fell together. The other dark-skinned man on the roof ran toward his comrade and then he too arched, stopped, falling as the second rush of black-clad Eagles hit the building.

  They came to the wall in two, fast waves, Kenn and Kyle stepping into view as the front doors opened and two short, hard-looking Slavers walked out.

  Kyle whistled and then waved a ringed middle finger at their shocked faces. The two men drew their guns, and the Eagles ducked back out of sight as they gave chase.

  “One...two...three. Now!"

  Jumping out together, their guns took down both men before they could return fire, Kenn shooting twice.

  The two Eagles quickly dragged the heavy bodies around the corner as Chris, Kyle's second Eagle, pointed to the other row of trees. “The Banners center there. That’s probably the gym.”

  Eight men carefully eased up the trees a minute later, using the thick branches for cover from the ground and windows, glad they were gloved against the moldy bark.

  “Bulletproof glass.” Kenn's voice was barely audible.

  Kyle grinned, showing white teeth, but the smile didn’t reach his eyes. “Not today. All the Eagles are packing armor-piercing rounds. Your gat clips, too.”

  Kenn's mind raced as he peered through the dirty glass, seeing only five armed men around the circle of roughly 50 civilians on the filthy, gymnasium floor. Which one was the Man?

  A door opened on their side of the building, and a tall, thin Mexican with a face completely hidden by his bandana stepped out, saw the bodies. “Dedro!”

  “Aaahhh!”

  Kenn’s shot connected, but the guerilla’s yell ruined their element of surprise. Eyes were now on the windows, footsteps running toward them.

  Kenn aimed for the jeep in front of the glass doors, trying to time it as the next rush of men came out.

  The Marine’s earlier shot to the gas tank was already allowing a long stream of the pungent liquid to escape, and Kyle and the Eagles were still, waiting for the distraction Kenn was providing.

  Woosshhh!

  His shot sparked the puddle of gas, and they watched bright, orange flames flash eagerly over the concrete and scorched their way up the fuel dripping from the gas tank.

  KKkaaaablammm!

  The explosion shattered half of the windows along the front of the building, throwing the jeep through the doors just as they opened. The slavers rushing out were consumed in a cloud of twisted metal and hot flames.

  “Fire!”

  “We hafta get out!”

  “Sit down!”

  The gym was in chaos, people pushing for the doors. The slaver’s orders were ignored in the panic, causing the guerillas to raise their guns and take aim at retreating backs.

  “Now, Eagles! Open fire!”

  Bullets began to fly, raining down on the Mexicans before they could retaliate, and the shooting was very, very good. Their targets were moving and mixed in with the small sea of terrified civilians, and slugs found foreheads and throats amid total chaos. Despite the people all trying to get out of the chained doors, only slavers were killed.

  “Damn!”

  Kenn turned to see Chris examining his arm, blood dripping down the thick tree trunk in steady streams, “I’m trimmed - that’s it.”

  Kenn and Kyle were both relieved, ignoring the refugees who continued to panic. Neither man ever wanted to tell Adrian they’d gotten one of his army killed.

  Seeing no more enemy movement, Kenn leaned inside the window he’d shattered with his shots. He saw shaggy, unkempt hair, cold sores, gloves with holes, and smelled body odor that made him grimace. No threats to his place in this group.

  “U.S. Eagle Force! Safe Haven!”

  The shout echoed in the concrete room, getting attention, and Kenn grinned at them as they looked up warily, quieting. “Someone here named Overloaded? Your taxi’s waiting.”

  Kyle and his men were dropping ropes, lowering themselves to head for fire extinguishers, as a tall, thin man with a long staff and a dirty bandage over his eyes slowly moved toward Kenn’s window position, voice hopeful. “What’s the word?”

  Kenn's eyes went to the bodies on the floor and then to the door, where Kyle and Chris were getting the small fire under control. He keyed the m
ic on his belt. “Freedom. Mission accomplished. Let’s do some cleaning and get these people back to camp.”

  It took Kenn and Kyle under an hour to evacuate the filthy American school; would have been one hour exactly if the Marine had swept every room, but they didn’t bother with the basement, where the dead had been placed. As they pulled away, no one saw the hysterical blonde woman running up a nearby road, her arms waving frantically. They never looked back.

  3

  The constantly growing camp seemed almost empty to Adrian once Kenn and the Eagles were gone, and the leader threw himself into the work, forcing a faked optimism that only his men noticed.

  Adrian didn’t like the feeling of being incomplete, but never doubted that they were. He hated to have people out of camp, only relaxed when the entire flock was under his watchful eye, and he knew they'd been lucky so far that everyone who had gone out had returned. He’d increased their chances with the addition of armed escorts, but looked forward to a time when he could settle them down and show them how to provide for their needs, instead of scouring this broken land like scavengers.

  Now camped in the heart of the Thunder Basin National Grassland, they were only fifteen miles from the South Dakota state line. The tall pines, blue grass, and Forget-Me-Nots were a comforting sight after all the horror along 387. If not for the heavy fog, they would be on the road now, sheep gawking out the windows at the vividly-colored lightning flashing in the sky over a muddy landscape that included a crashed government chopper.

  Adrian tensed suddenly, feeling that uneasy mix of power and magic fill him. The landscape wavered, changed, and for a moment, he could see a survivor of the crash, her outline tall, thin and tough. He looked away from the vision, thinking it had been so long since he had one that he’d forgotten how it made his heart feel squeezed.

  Hoping she was one of his, Adrian got moving again, feeling a little bitter with Fate. He had been promised magic, and so far had only gotten a gifted teenager who was too young to really be much help.

  Adrian lit a smoke, telling himself it didn’t matter. When the boy was needed most, at least he would be here, already under the discreet eyes of the Eagles, who had been told to watch him right after the restless teenager had gotten his own tent. The result of a noisy fight where Charlie had almost hurt one of the other boys he was bunking with.

  Kenn’s cadet was a bit unstable. Unhappy, Adrian corrected himself. Even the job with the vet wouldn't be enough to hold him here. Something had the teenager’s mind, pulling at him, and when Kenn got back, Adrian hoped to find out what it was.

  The busy leader moved a little faster, looking things over. There was a full day of activities planned – the biggest: a towing contest. Their clearing times had improved because he’d made it into a race to see who could do it fastest without breaking any safety rules. Tonight, the first crew leader would be picked by whoever won and with his Marine out of camp, more people would be willing to try. There was very little that his right-hand man wasn’t good at and it sounded different without him here. The people were subdued somehow without his energetic, boisterous XO.

  Adrian kept walking, sick of hearing tents flapping in the wind. It was slow going right now. He was organizing them, teaching them to survive, and the whole time, he had been moving them north, toward Montana. That had changed last week when he’d convinced them that going any further north would run them into a ground zero and probably give them lethal doses of radiation. Stories from refugees they’d picked up, backed him up. They were moving by vote now, picking a long list of places to try, but he would have headed them east even if they hadn’t voted to. It was bad here. They couldn’t stay in Wyoming any longer.

  The packs of mutated ants were thick throughout the state, and once he got the camp a couple hundred miles further from 25 and the Slavers, he planned to head southeast for a while, toward Georgia and the miles of caves hopefully still waiting there. He hadn’t thought of a better place yet, and dreaded having to confirm that going into the mountains was the only way they’d see the first year's end. There had to be somewhere else!

  Comforted by the steady whoosh of footsteps guarding their perimeter, Adrian moved past Kenn’s improved Mess - where coffee and food lines were now open on both sides - coming to the traveling emergency class. Tents flapping mockingly in his ear, he paused to listen to part of the lesson and was immediately assaulted with the odors of cologne, sweat, and cigar smoke. He grinned. It was the smell of people, and it beat the hell out of all the other shit they were usually inhaling.

  A small group was gathered around the side of a big red van, watching Peggy Ann Kelly, the single, forty-something, redheaded mother of little Becky, change a flat tire. This class had solved the need for one crew to do all of the work, all of the time. This way, the entire camp did it.

  The cute, reddish-blond woman was sweating and greasy. Most of the men watching would have gladly done it for her, to get her attention, but Adrian had made it clear that each person needed to be able to fend for themselves as well as function as team, and the males offered advice, but no actual help.

  Peggy struggled to break the last lug nut and Adrian shook his head at the bald, black professor who stepped forward to help. The portly man carried his profession proudly, from his thick glasses to his plaid-patterned suit, and Adrian didn’t look away from the baleful glare the teacher sent his way. He also didn’t keep his voice down and the gusting wind carried it further than just the class.

  “She has to learn. What if she gets separated?”

  The dark man frowned, able to feel the thick, disapproving silence from the others, “You sure it ain’t ‘cause I’m black and she’s white?”

  Adrian’s eyes narrowed at the accusing tone. Joseph had been here long enough to know how things worked. Was he still holding onto that shit? They didn’t have many of the other races represented here yet, but that wasn’t because he didn’t want them. The War had split more than just families. The old segregation lines had slammed down, making most races look for their own kind. It was something he needed people like this bitter teacher to help him with.

  “You’re from Salt Lake City. You were almost dead when we found you. Group of white men had beaten you up so bad, we didn’t think you’d live at first. There were only twenty of us then and no one knew what to do with you. About you.”

  “Because I’m a nigger."

  It wasn’t a question and Adrian’s tone grew sharp as the people around them frowned at the word. No one used it, not even in joking. Adrian would throw you out for that, even if you meant it affectionately.

  “We had only our basic laws and race was something we hadn’t even talked about. We saw you bleeding and had to make a choice. Let you die, and continue America’s ‘quiet’ racism, or let you in and find a way to deal with all the problems ‘your’ people inevitably bring with them.”

  Adrian’s words were blunt and he had the attention of everyone close enough to hear. “We made the choice in about fifteen seconds. Because you’re a survivor first, not black or white, but American, and that’s the only one that matters to me.”

  Kenn brought home forty-one survivors and Adrian met them eagerly with Seth at his side, but both men were once again disappointed. They now had a hairdresser, yet another bank teller (it wasn’t surprising to Adrian how many of them had survived: they were used to having their lives threatened), and a lot of other careers they didn’t really need, but none of them, not even Greg, the blind radio man, had what he was looking for.

  There was no fire burning in these people, only bright fear and desperation, and he was unable to sleep until very late, sure he had passed one of his own somewhere. He chose to linger a bit, knowing it was a dangerous thing to do considering how close they were to the Slavers, but he needed the help as much as these refugees needed him, and he would hope their calls were heard.

  Chapter Thirty

  March 22nd, 2013

  Pitcairn Island

 
; 1

  “I can’t handle that. Server’s been gone for months.”

  Kendle slid the credit card back into her pocket and pulled out money, ignoring the dumpy island woman’s abrupt tone. “Cash okay?” she asked evenly, but her pale eyes were defiant.

  The middle-aged store keeper frowned. She darted a tense glance toward Luke as he waited, lounging carelessly against the small shop’s front door.

  Kendle gave her a sharp look of warning, pulling her attention away from LJ. “One of those caps too.”

  It was up on a shelf that required the heavy woman to climb for it and Kendle smiled sweetly when the pie-faced female glared at her in the almost stifling heat of the general store. “Love the Dodgers. Gotta have it.”

  Storekeeper or not, the woman clearly wanted to tell her to go to hell and Kendle flashed her a look that said do it at your own risk. The air in the musty little shop was cold despite all of them sweating.

  Luke shoved his hands into his jean pockets, embarrassed and yet impressed with the way Kendle was handling things. Plump but scrappy, with the air of a born snob, Mary Jo had been born on the Island and hated outsiders. The fact that Kendle’s show had been popular even here made the frumpy spinster more jealous. LJ sighed. She also hated him. That didn’t help.

  The moment was long and tense and it was the vivid, reddish-brown skin of the movie star that convinced Mary Jo. She was obviously tough, and the Island native turned to climb the ladder for the ball cap, muttering under her breath.

  Satisfied, Kendle took a moment to look around as the sharp odor of cleaning products stung her nose and smothered the light hint of LJ’s sexy cologne. There were neatly stacked baskets and racks, tasteful signs and pictures, and not a speck of dust to be found. The front glass windows were spotless as well, the white curtains closed to dim the bright, noonday sun, and Kendle was suddenly sure the woman now jabbing at numbers on her tiny calculator hadn’t been the one to clean any of it.