After The Apocalypse Season 1 Box Set [Books 1-3]

by Hately, Warren

“The . . . Furies?”

  “No,” Lowenstein said and gave a tired laugh. “The survivors. Before the end of Day Three, there were already factions. Differences of opinion. A few of those lugheads were determined to get out of there. They stole a Bradley APC and drove it through one of the fences . . . We’d already had killings among the survivors, and then the ones outside started coming in, and then the Furies with them. It was carnage.”

  Lowenstein pursed her lips and looked pointedly across at Tom’s children as if to indicate they’d reached the outer limits of any polite dinner conversation.

  “If you think my kids and I flew here on a magic cloud, guess again,” Tom said to her. “You don’t have to pull your punches with us. I appreciate your honesty.”

  Lowenstein nodded.

  “The Colonel believes because of our size now, we should be running the Administration with a rank structure,” she said. “Along military lines.”

  “Governments the world over –” the old man started to say, but Lowenstein cut him off with a sudden flush of anger.

  “Yes,” she said and clenched her teeth a moment. “Governments worldwide. Democracies, anyway. Every one of them. The great age of mankind. Well, Colonel, the age of ‘men’ is over. We see what that led to. Maybe it’s time to see what more female structures might do.”

  “‘Female structures’,” Ortega grunted. “That’s all fine, madam President, until you need a bunch of grunts to keep you safe. That raider problem, for instance.. . ?”

  “We’re not discussing that now.”

  Lowenstein motioned openly at Earle sitting fascinated beside Abe Ben-Gurion, though the batrachian newspaper editor lifted a hand in acknowledgement as if to note he wasn’t taking offense – or notes, for that matter. But Ortega hadn’t finished. He stabbed a deadly-looking finger towards the journalist.

  “Delroy, you quote me on this, and we might have to review the carry permit for that .45 I bet you brought to dinner.”

  Earle grinned and opened his jacket, though the handgun was holstered out of sight.

  “I think of it as my Mastercard,” he said.

  Lucas tugged Tom’s sleeve.

  “Dad, what’s a Mastercard?”

  “It’s a credit card,” Tom said. “Remember? I told you about them.”

  “They were part of the Internet, right?”

  Tom hushed the boy. “Something like that.”

  “Everyone knows you’re running the Enclave like an emergency back-up, in case the City goes to shit,” Ortega went on. “You took my advice when it suited you then. I’m just asking you to listen to me now. We’ve lost men.”

  “And women,” Lowenstein said.

  Ortega motioned to Tom, who just wished they’d let him remain a spectator for once.

  “I only came along tonight because I wanted to get a look at him,” the security chief said. “I’m sick of these dinners. If you’re not going to listen to me when I say we got a problem, what do I have to do? Line up for Question Time like Mr Earle?”

  It was a new low for the awkwardness in the room. The newspaper editor cleared his throat.

  “Ma’am, how big a problem are we talking about here?”

  *

  ORTEGA WAITED FOR Dana Lowenstein to give her assent, and then Earle abandoned any further pretext and pulled a notepad from his jacket flap as the President gave a low, frustrated growl. For some reason, the Colonel chose that moment to stand and button his Air Force jacket and leave the room. Wilhelm’s assistant Arianna came from the other end of the table to lure the children away with the task of helping find dessert. Lilianna looked bored anyway – maybe not the kind of journalism she was after – and patted Tom on the shoulder as they passed.

  “Have fun.”

  Lowenstein motioned, releasing Ortega off the chain. Frustratingly, he turned instead to Tom again.

  “We have a firsthand witness here who’s already shown the safety problems the Foragers face,” Ortega said. “This was just an isolated gang of survivors.”

  “There was only three of them,” Tom said.

  “Three were enough to nearly wipe out your whole squad as well as our Council man sitting there beside you,” Ortega said and for some reason grinned. “And we know there’s more out there.”

  He threw his hands up, though it turned out to be mockery. Tom was starting to get an appreciation for Ortega’s single-mindedness as well as his gallant disregard for authority.

  “I know everyone finds it hard to believe,” he said. “But there’s survivors out there who don’t want to become part of our great social experiment.”

  Despite trying to behave herself, Lowenstein threw a scowling look across the table at Wilhelm.

  “This is a set-up,” she said. “‘Invite the hero along to dinner,’ you said. ‘He might end up being useful,’ you said. Ernest, really.”

  The President’s impressive thick hair barely swayed as she sat, arms folded, shaking her head at her colleague. Tom studied the exchange and could only guess at the rivalry.

  Delroy Earle sat to the side, poised, just waiting for his chance.

  “How many Raider attacks are we talking about?” he asked.

  “This is a good example of what I was just saying,” Lowenstein interjected. “Soldiers are good at shooting problems. We’re trying to do more than that here.”

  “We have to be safe before we can do anything,” Ortega said.

  A few of them nodded at that.

  In the pause came a brief pop of semi-distant gunfire, but it wasn’t an uncommon sound from the City walls at night. Ortega opened his mouth to go on, but as if related to his just-finished warning, the gunfire outside resumed.

  And was followed by a lot more.

  The gunshots kept coming for several seconds, sounding closer than any boundary defense. More and more gunfire joined the symphony, growing every second, and that’s when it became clear – somewhere nearby, there was a serious firefight.

  *

  ARIANNA, BEAU AND Tom’s children ran back into the conference room, Lucas covering his ears and looking utterly freaked as the whole group ran to join him and Wilhelm. Tom caught his children in an embrace as the room broke into action. Ortega snapped his fingers at the two slapped-awake sentries and turned to Wilhelm.

  “Coming?”

  “I don’t have a security detail,” the Councilor said.

  “Nonsense,” Ortega said and gestured at Tom. “You’ve got him.”

  Tom shook his head and would’ve laughed if it weren’t so dire.

  “I’ve got my children.”

  “They’ll be safe here with Beau and me,” Arianna said.

  “Dad?” It was Lucas.

  “It’s OK, dad,” Lila said.

  “I’m not leaving you.”

  “It’s fine, dad,” Lila said more earnestly. “Beau will keep us safe. Right, Beau?”

  A nameless trooper ran breathlessly into the conference room.

  “Someone’s hitting the ammo stores!”

  Wilhelm and Ortega looked back at Tom, who gave Luke a reassuring hug and locked eyes, not with Beau, but Arianna, who’d volunteered them all.

  “Keep my children safe.”

  “Let’s go,” Ortega urged.

  “I’m unarmed,” Tom said to him as they left the room with the Councilor.

  And the Safety chief only replied, “We’ll see about that.”

  *

  THE NIGHT OUTSIDE sounded like a riot – like fireworks in the underworld. Ortega claimed two AR15s from another pair of troopers, handing one to Tom like he had the keys to the kingdom, and Councilor Wilhelm fell in with them and the two troopers from the dining room as they headed out into the night.

  Ortega broke into a jog and everyone else had to keep up, which thankfully wasn’t a problem. Although Tom ran with them, pondering what the hell he was doing charging out into the dark leaving his children behind so he could investigate the unknown conflict, the one thing calming his ner
ves was the belief it was nothing to do with him.

  The gunfire eased off a moment, followed by several more sporadic shots. They echoed across the City from a half-dozen blocks away in the directions of the Foragers compound and the nearby warehouses the Administration used for its armory.

  Almost hating himself for his curiosity, Tom checked in with Wilhelm, jogging in his sports jacket and doing a good job of keeping up. The Council man’s smile was radiant in the darkness despite the calamity. Tom wondered if Wilhelm made the same face during sex.

  “Don’t make that face, Tom,” Wilhelm said to him without any awareness of the irony in his statement. “You can trust me, you know. I’m not the politician you think I am. We’re here to help.”

  “Does it matter?” Tom barked back gruffly.

  “What?”

  “You keep trying to win my trust,” Tom replied. “I’m wondering why you want it so much.”

  “Look at us now,” the Councilor said. “I could use you on my detail full-time.”

  Wilhelm took a few breaths and made a theatrical pain-face.

  “What do you think?” he said. “I’m offering you a job. Your daughter too. She’s a perfect candidate for the Enclave.”

  Tom didn’t say anything, bewildered by their breathless exchange as the gunfire seemed to be ended, a stillness returning to the air even with Citizens milling out of their homes and hovels and into the street. He didn’t voice the reply, but the last thing Tom wanted was to become some willing pawn in the power plays of the City’s higher-ups, even if it did come with better food and lodgings and a stable paycheck, such as it was.

  So he didn’t say anything. They jogged out into the next street and crossed it, more and more people spilling out despite the looming Curfew, all eyes in the direction of the recent gunfire which had reached some sort of uncertain conclusion. The tension of it all thrummed in Tom’s chest and Wilhelm went quiet as they ran, conserving his breath.

  The yells of men and several heart-rending shrieks of pain and terror reached them.

  “This way!”

  Ortega led them left, traversing a shanty town of shacks and enclosures clogging one of the laneways, before the runners veered back out onto another wide Columbus street made claustrophobic by the resettlement. Within a few blocks, they reached the back of a growing crowd, four or five hundred people together at the end of the street shadowed by a series of big brick warehouses cast into darkness by the position of the moon.

  Only three troopers held the onlookers back, but the lack of anyone’s immediate safety was the greatest deterrent. Wrestling with their curiosity and alarm, the bystanders knew there was plenty to fear. The stink of discharged cordite filled the air, several groups of troopers emerging into the street further ahead, checking doorways and other hidey holes with weapons raised.

  A half-dozen bodies lay in the middle of the road. Two of them were only yards beyond the spectators.

  Ortega pushed through the crowd which made way for him once they identified the burly figure bawling instructions. Councilor Wilhelm floated in Tom’s wake, belabored grin long-banished now. The Council man looked out of place among the other sightseers in his carefully-laundered clothes, and his eyes darted everywhere, spooked. A few bystanders recognized him, and Wilhelm quickly shook their hands, muttering reassurances despite no idea what on earth’d transpired.

  “Ortega!”

  A tall sentry strode back towards them, pulling off his helmet and stashing it under one arm to reveal a haggard, lightly bearded man a few years older than Tom. Unlike everyone else, he wore running shoes instead of combat boots with his fatigues.

  “Greerson, what’s the situation?”

  “They tried to hit the ammo dump.”

  “Full frontal?”

  “No,” the tall trooper said.

  He pointed to a nearby truck parked at an odd angle in the road. A gunman in a ski mask hung upside down from the open cab door. Bullet holes riddling her chest revealed more of her anatomy than anyone dared examine close.

  “I think it was meant to be a stealth run,” Greerson said. “Amateurs. Got spotted by a patrol and we circled around, cut them off before they could get to the truck. They went out all-guns blazing.”

  “Jesus.”

  It was Wilhelm with the curse. He stepped into the parlay and Tom kept to his shadow only because it was his excuse for being there.

  “How many?” Ortega asked.

  “Four, plus the woman in the truck,” Greerson said and made a face. “The other body’s Trooper Mendina.”

  “Jesus,” Wilhelm said again. “Who are they?”

  “You can worry about who they are later,” Tom said. “Anyone got a stopwatch?”

  “You don’t have to worry about Mendina turning,” Greerson said. “She took a round in the face.”

  Wilhelm cursed again and Tom glanced at him, expecting the Councilor to look more freaked out than he appeared. Unsettled, maybe, but also scanning the crowd for answers.

  Greerson used the pause to introduce himself, and after he and Tom shook hands, they followed Ortega forward to the first of the fallen gunmen as more of the other security patrols emerged from the main warehouse doors and their unit leaders gave the thumbs up.

  “God damned ammo thieves,” Ortega hissed.

  There didn’t seem much point to it, but Tom looked down at the sprawled bodies. The bullet wounds resembled black paint in the weak moonlight. Someone nearby activated a mounted lighting unit on a trailer and a sudden halogen glare cross-lit the scene.

  Tom looked down at the silver runic amulet dangling around the throat of one of the bigger of the dead men in the street and it dawned on him he’d seen it before.

  Just the night before, in fact.

  The tension already coiled like a serpent in his throat fired up a notch. Tom’s casual study of the corpse deepened and his breath caught. Without asking anyone’s permission, he dropped to one knee beside the slain ambusher and removed its black balaclava.

  Hugh, son of Anders, lay twisted dead in front of him.

  *

  “YOU KNOW HIM?” Ortega asked.

  He and the other men all locked eyes on Tom. Some of Greerson’s troopers joined them, waiting on their commander for further instructions.

  Tom was too stunned to say anything. An image of the bucolic dinner at the same time the previous evening swept through his head like the trailer to a much longer film, Hugh’s wife and “daughter” central to it. While Tom stood there inert, another of the armed guards angled closer to the veteran, hollow-faced Greerson, and whispered further bad news. The unit commander growled a few truly vile curses under his breath, whirling about to follow his offsider back towards where a few more of the troopers stood stationed over the bodies of the remaining raiders slain. Their comrade Mendina lay between two dead men, the contents of her brain a sickening puzzle unfurled across the pitted blacktop.

  Tom resolved his troubles, swallowing with difficulty as he briefly thought about how the made-for-TV version of this moment would see him dutifully puke up whatever single mouthful of crap the actor could manage. While he could empty his entire bowels through his throat in that moment, he was too inured to the sight of the dead. A minor anxiety about Hugh son of Anders rising momentarily from the dead warred with his dread-filled curiosity about the other inspection taking place no more than fifty feet away.

  Ortega stepped up beside him.

  “You know him?”

  “Knew him,” Tom said.

  The Safety chief growled and drew a switchblade, kneeling as if to spare Tom the horror as he drove the knife in through Hugh’s ear – keeping the dead man’s physical identity intact in case there was still more to be uncovered.

  Greerson rejoined them.

  “That’s Billy Thorson and Obi Watanabe,” he said. “Troopers.”

  “Troopers?”

  “This one too,” Tom said.

  His throat choked like he had a hairball.
Greerson’s studied gaze played over him for just a moment, dismissing any further need for inquiry.

  “Troopers?” Ortega hissed. “What the hell does that mean?”

  Greerson might’ve answered, but Councilor Wilhelm joined them as if he’d been waiting for a more solid invite the whole time. Ortega looked sideways at the Councilor.

  “I’ve been wanting the chance to talk to you alone about the Raider problem,” Ortega said.

  Wilhelm’s cautious face twisted at once, much more comfortable back in command with the authority his Council status afforded him.

  “And does this look like the right time to you, Chief?”

  *

  ORTEGA’S MEN GOT the scene under control, which included mercy kills for the four other dead gunmen. Tom knew he had no other reason to be there, his fervent desire just to hold his children close undermined by the grief at knowing his brief friendship with Hugh Anderson had come to an inexplicable end.

  “You knew him?” Wilhelm asked respectfully.

  Tom only nodded, too choked up with disbelief to say more. Ortega was more disparaging.

  “They’re MRAs,” he said.

  Tom was confused by the term, though Ernest Eric Wilhelm III seemed to know what was what. He nodded sagely, as if that explained anything – maybe everything – but Ortega took pity on Tom and sized him up with one long patient look.

  “You remember feminism, right?”

  “Yeah . . . ?”

  Wilhelm walked away as if the pending discussion pained him, strolling into his man-of-the-people routine among the nearby onlookers.

  “There’s men here who think it’s their time now,” Ortega said. “I’d say ‘our time,’ if it wasn’t such a load of bull crap.”

  It was impossible for Tom’s gaze not to wander back to Hugh’s dead body.

  “Men’s rights activists?”

  “Male supremacists, they call themselves. None of it makes sense anymore,” Ortega agreed. “This is the age of ‘take what you can’. No one has any fucking rights. We never did. Men and women need each other now more than ever.”

  “The man I knew wasn’t some ruthless misogynist,” Tom said.