by James Hunt
“That was the best meal I’ve ever had,” Emily said.
“We should see if they can give us a to-go bag,” Eric replied.
“That has my vote,” John said. “I don’t know if I can go back to those MREs again.”
“We’re only another day or two from Aunty Amy’s place,” Brooke said.
“I’d rather eat the MREs,” John said.
Brooke smacked John’s arm, and Emily giggled. They grabbed their gear and loaded the cruiser. Brooke returned the room key to the old woman at the front desk. Eric, John, and Emily were already in the cruiser as Brooked walked down the few steps from the motel’s front porch. As she pulled open the door, she noticed a van, about a half mile away, sitting off the side of the road. She paused for a moment, taking the sight in. She found it odd that someone would have left it in the middle of nowhere, but this was a rural area, so it could’ve been from anyone.
She shrugged it off and climbed inside her cruiser. Eric had the map out, and they plotted a course that would continue their journey east along the Gulf Coast until they made it to the Atlantic. From there, they’d head north into Charlotte, where her sister was.
The cruiser pulled out of the parking lot and continued down the back road. Brooke kept it slow and steady, making sure to keep an eye on the terrain around her. Everything was different here, and the last thing she wanted to do was break down. Dragging the cruiser to a mechanic shop would raise too many questions given its current condition.
The muddy back road was surrounded by dead trees. The leafless branches jutted into the clouded gray sky. Brooke’s eyes found the rearview mirror, and a flash of rust through the trees behind her caught her eye. The cruiser hit a divot in the road, sending the reflection out of view.
Once the cruiser leveled out, Brooke frantically checked the mirror again. She turned around and looked out the back window, but there was nothing but the swamp behind her. She pressed the accelerator, pushing the cruiser farther down the road.
“Eric,” Brooke said. “Check the map for any other routes.”
“What? Why?” he asked.
“Just do it. John,” Brooke said, finding her son’s eyes in the rearview mirror. “Grab a case of ammo out of the back.”
John didn’t ask any questions. Eric smoothed the creases of the map, running his finger along roads around the area. John pushed the ammo through the space between the two front seats.
“Open it up for me,” Brooke said, balancing the steering wheel with one hand and pulling the revolver from her waistband. “Start loading.”
The bullets clinked into the holes of the revolver’s chamber until all five slots were filled. John flicked the chamber shut and handed the gun back to Brooke, whose eyes continued to maneuver between the muddy road in front of her and the rearview mirror.
“Em, you have your seat belt on?” Brooke asked.
“Yeah,” she answered.
“John?”
John pulled the belt over his body, and the buckle clicked into place. “Got it,” he said.
“If you keep heading east, there’s another path that cuts north,” Eric said, studying the map.
“How far is it?” Brooke asked.
“Five miles.”
The dead trees behind her were still thick, blocking her view. Maybe she was being paranoid. There was no proof that the van she had seen outside the motel was the source of the flash she had noticed. It could have been anything. Wasting energy on what-ifs was too costly right now.
Still, Brooke kept her foot on the accelerator. The increased speed splashed mud across the cruiser’s side, wetting the dried sand already there. The streaks of speckled black highlighted the bottom panels underneath. The rusty van flashed in the rearview mirror again.
They were being followed. The van was closer now but having a harder time pushing through the mud. She pressed the accelerator down farther. Even though this wasn’t the cruiser’s terrain, Brooke knew she’d be able to outrun the van.
“Brooke!” Eric said, bracing his arms against the dashboard.
A massive tree rested on the mud, blocking their path. Brooke slammed on the brakes, and the cruiser skidded through the muck. The front bumper stopped inches from the log, and the four bodies in the cruiser strained against their seat belts from the forward motion then slammed backward into their seats.
Brooke looked for a way around, but the trees were too thick on either side. The only way through was the path the fallen tree had blocked. Brooke turned around. The rusty van was keeping its steady pace.
“John, Eric, see if we can push it out of the way,” Brooke said, opening her door.
Brooke’s foot sank into the mud, and each step felt like pulling suction cups off her feet. She kept the revolver gripped in her hand. The end of the tree was propped up by a cluster of trees on the other side of the road.
“We might be able to push it up and then roll it to the side,” Eric said.
“Hurry,” Brooke replied.
Eric and John shouldered the tree, and both of them pushed up. The lack of vegetation and thin trunk of the tree made it manageable to lift. Once they cleared the cluster of trees that it was propped up against, Eric and John tossed it to the side, and it crashed to the ground.
The van was only fifty yards away. Her finger found the trigger on the revolver. “Hurry!”
“What’s the ru—” Eric started, but then he saw the van heading for them. He double-timed it, and the log skidded over the mud. Eric and John’s hands rolled it all the way to the side, flipping up mud and dirt along with them that became caked in the tree trunk’s grooves.
“Clear,” Eric said.
Brooke waited for John and Eric to get back inside before she climbed into the cab herself. Despite the urgent need to floor it, Brooke pressed the accelerator softly.
The cruiser lurched forward, slowly gaining traction in the thick mud. The van was only twenty yards behind them and gaining. Brooke pushed the cruiser’s speed to twenty miles per hour, then thirty, but it was too slow. The van’s front bumper smacked into the cruiser’s backside, causing them to fishtail.
Brooke turned the steering wheel left, then right, then left to help compensate for the spin, but the mud was too slick. Just when she straightened it out, the van slammed them again. Everyone’s heads jolted forward like bobble-head dolls.
The van’s engine revved and then smacked the right back corner, spinning the cruiser ninety degrees. Brooke’s window was placed directly in front of the van’s windshield. The glare of the sun blocked her view of whoever was inside, but the moment the driver’s-side door opened, she raised the revolver, pressing the window down at the same time, and fired all five rounds. Each bullet pierced the windshield with holes and splintering cracks.
Brooke hit the gas and turned right hard, painting the van with a fishtail of Mississippi mud. Retaliatory shots were fired, shattering the cruiser’s rear windshield. Everyone ducked. The cruiser’s tires spun rapidly, trying to gain traction. For a moment, Brooke thought they were stuck, but the cruiser’s powerful four-wheel drive and sheer torque gave them enough traction to keep moving forward.
“You guys all right?” Brooke asked.
The ringing in Brooke’s ears from the gunshots was slowly replaced by Emily’s crying. Even though her daughter was upset, she appeared to be unharmed. John was also good.
“I hope you’re insured for bullet damage,” Eric said, clutching his left shoulder.
Before Brooke could laugh, she noticed the red stain spreading across Eric’s torn shirt. “Oh my god. John, grab the first aid kit!”
“Got it!” John said.
“Put some gauze on Eric’s shoulder. Press down hard.”
“Just not too hard,” Eric said, feigning a smile.
John hesitated. Eric’s blood poured through the hole in his shirt. John’s face went pale.
“Do it, John!” Brooke said.
John reached around and placed the wad of gauze a
gainst the wound. The blood slowly soaked the white gauze red and began to stain John’s fingers.
Brooke didn’t let up the gas. They flew down the back road. The cruiser’s shocks bounced violently with each dip and drop they passed over. Brooke could see Eric’s eyes fluttering open and closed. His face was slick with sweat. She could see his body start to shake.
“We need to go to a hospital,” John said.
“We can’t.”
“Mom, he’s shot!”
“No,” Eric said. “Your mom’s right. Hospitals mean questions. It’s too risky.”
“We have to do something!” John said.
“Mobile,” Eric muttered. “Alabama. I have a friend there who can help.”
“How far?” Brooke asked.
“Sixty miles,” Eric answered.
Chapter 5
Soldiers dressed in fatigues rushed through the war room, adjusting the multiple screens from their computer stations that projected maps of California, Arizona, and New Mexico. The chatter in the room was loud.
Gallo stood in the back, watching his men. The smoke from the tip of his cigar wafted through the air. He wrapped his lips around the layers of tobacco and inhaled deep and slow. Colonel Herrera stood at attention and saluted.
“General, we have just received word of the successful siege of Phoenix and Albuquerque,” Herrera said.
Gallo continued to watch the maps on the screen that tracked his men and other resources that were now stretching into the Southwest. But his eyes kept falling back to California.
“What about San Diego?” Gallo asked.
Herrera hesitated then answered, “Our ground forces that entered through the Baja Peninsula have made contact.”
“And?”
“The increased U.S. naval presence in the Pacific prevented us from—”
Gallo punched the wall behind him, creating a fist-sized crater. He tossed the cigar to the floor, and the room shook as he stamped it out with his boot. The noisy chatter stopped. The room’s gaze shifted to Gallo and Herrera in the back.
“Then bring more ships!” Gallo shouted.
“Yes, sir,” Herrera answered.
“Back to work!” Gallo snapped, and the soldiers went back to their duties. Gallo marched out of the room and headed down the hallway to his office. Once there, he collapsed in his chair. He felt his body sag, melting into the seat.
The past twenty-four hours had taken their toll. And now, with the moves made, the weight of a massive war rested on his shoulders. The 1840 map of Mexico had been removed from the wall and was placed on his desk.
During the battles the day before, he had let his colonels handle the execution. Gallo had spent his time during the engagements staring at the aging map. He traced his fingers up along the western coast of California all the way to east Texas.
Gallo’s eyes glazed over the longer he spent looking at the old borders of the Mexican nation. He would restore glory to his people. He would bring honor back to all of them. And his reward would be his name forever etched in the history books. Mexico would write the next great chapter, because he was going to win.
The cell in Gallo’s pocket rang. He didn’t bother checking it. He knew who it was. Jones had been trying to contact him since yesterday. There was no doubt what Jones wanted. Gallo just couldn’t believe the congressman’s persistence. The repeated attempts told him one very important detail: Jones was desperate.
Gallo knew how much Jones had riding on Mexico’s cooperation for his planned military strike against the South American countries. The Americans had spread themselves too thin, and the water shortages had only accelerated the United States’ decomposition. However, despite their dire condition, they still had their military prowess. He understood the risk.
A knock sounded at Gallo’s door, breaking his fixation on the map. “Yes,” he said.
Colonel Herrera entered. “General, President Castell requests your audience.”
Gallo scoffed. “Requests. I’ll be with him shortly.”
Herrera nodded and left. More politicians. More of the bureaucratic nonsense that he despised. Politicians failed to recognize that wars weren’t won with words. They were won with bullets.
***
A small, fenced-in gate guarded the entrance to a tunnel in the Colorado Rocky Mountains. Nestled just outside the city of Colorado Springs, the Cheyenne Mountain Air Force Station that surrounded the mountains was the epicenter of the intricate air and space defense for North America. NORAD had the capability to detect threats and help mobilize a response anywhere in the country.
Deep underneath the thousands of pounds of granite and rocks lay bunkers capable of withstanding nuclear attacks. Those operation rooms were reserved for times of nuclear crisis, but since the water shortage that had begun more than a decade ago, the rooms deep within the mountains now housed most of the base’s staff.
Display screens highlighting Gallo’s forces across the Southwest were etched on multiple surfaces around the main control room. United States Air Force officers sat behind their stations, coding and decrypting messages to units stationed along the borders of Oklahoma and Texas.
Air Force Lieutenant Colonel Mink’s eyes hadn’t left the screens in front of him. He maneuvered the thin wire microphone jutting across the side of his jaw from his ear and sipped from a mug of coffee. Steam rose from the cup, fogging his glasses.
A cadet entered with a sealed envelope, saluted, and then handed Mink the document. Mink set his coffee down, and the tearing of the envelope caused the heads in the room to turn.
“Calm down, everyone. We don’t know what the orders will be,” Mink said.
But even he felt his heart rate accelerate as he flipped the papers open. He scanned the document. The only sounds coming from the room were the beeps from the surrounding computers. Mink folded the orders up, tucked them under his arm, and adjusted the microphone in front of his mouth.
“We are go for operation Sum Zero,” Mink ordered.
The quiet in the room was replaced with the buzz of communications with American military units around the Southwest. The display screens at the front of the room lit up with movement. Planes scrambled in Colorado. Army regiments deployed from Texas. And the Pacific Fleet guarding the Alaskan fisheries was called back to San Diego.
Mink knew what the orders meant. Congress had made its declaration of war. The ink had barely dried, and now it was time to put that piece of legislation into action. Every word and letter on the declaration was pointed with the spears of soldiers, the bombs from planes, and the artillery of tanks.
But Mink also knew the damage it would wreak on the civilians still living in the Southwest. The air strikes wouldn’t just destroy the enemy in Phoenix and Albuquerque; they would hit the former American citizens still holding on to whatever hope they had left.
When the bombs dropped, those hopes and prayers would shatter. But Mink had his orders. There wasn’t any emotion in his actions or the actions of his men. The only reactions were the fluid efficiencies of the coordination with which the orders were carried out.
Lieutenant Colonel Mink picked his coffee back up and watched the squares and triangles on the display screens move closer to their targets. The United States had officially entered the war.
***
President Castell checked his hair in the mirror outside the conference room before entering. The doors had already been opened by his security detail, and everyone inside was standing. Once each strand of his jet-black hair was subdued, he ventured inside.
“Please, gentlemen, sit down,” Castell said.
Castell joined Gallo and his other military advisors at the end of the table. He’d insisted on having a meeting to discuss the ongoing strategic mission to retake the Southwest. And it just so happened that he would be making a speech to the Mexican people an hour from now. Whatever news his advisor brought back from their first military campaign, he wanted to ensure he could spin it in a way that woul
d be palatable for the Mexican people.
A member of Castell’s security detail pulled his chair back for him, and Gallo rolled his eyes. Castell caught the insubordination but let it slide. Of all his advisors, he feared Gallo the most.
“What do you have for me, General Gallo?” Castell asked.
“We have secured and established a presence in both Phoenix and Albuquerque. We’re in the process of tying up any loose ends with issues in the local population. Other than a few resisting citizens, most of the people were too weak to put up a fight,” Gallo answered.
“Excellent. When can we start harvesting resources?” Castell asked.
