The World Counters: A Post-Apocalyptic Story (The World Burns Book 10)

by Boyd Craven III

  The World Counters

  A Post-Apocalyptic Story

  Boyd Craven III

  Contents

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  Chapter 11

  Chapter 12

  About the Author

  Copyright © 2016 Boyd Craven III

  The World Counters, The World Burns Book 10

  By Boyd Craven

  Many thanks to friends and family for keeping me writing!

  All rights reserved.

  To be notified of new releases, please sign up for my mailing list at: http://eepurl.com/bghQb1

  1

  “Stu, how much further?” John asked from the driver’s seat.

  John had handed the maps over to Stu to look at. They had planned their meet up with King and Michael, and still had a few hours’ drive to go.

  “It looks like two hundred miles left, so the timing you figured on works out to just about perfect if we don’t have any more breakdowns or run out of fuel. Or catch up with the Others.”

  John grinned; he wouldn’t run out of fuel. They had liberated every empty jug they could find and had been filling it from fuel tanker trucks that hadn’t already been emptied. They had caught sight once or twice of dust clouds in the distance. They hadn’t run across the cannibals yet, but if they did… John hadn’t decided if he was going to split his forces or just flat out attack them with everything they had. There was no doubt in their minds that the Others were something that couldn’t be left behind. They would have to deal with them now or later.

  “I’d like to catch up to them,” John said, his hands tightening around the steering wheel so his knuckles popped.

  “Yeah, I was listening to the radio communications and then the guys talking on Blake’s channel after Rebel Radio last night,” Stu said, folding the map back up.

  “I know,” John said, his smile gone now. “The reports are starting to pop up all over the country.”

  “Makes me wonder how long they’ve been out there. That old man said they had been waiting on Judgement. Like bad lines from a B movie.”

  “I wouldn’t have believed it until I saw it myself,” John admitted. “You heard any reports of the Caliphate in this area?”

  “Nothing recent. The further north we go the more careful we’ll have to be.”

  “That’s why we’re taking an alternate path—”

  Abruptly, the front of the truck lifted off the ground, and the shockwave shattered the safety glass of the windshield, throwing clear pebbles of it back into the men’s surprised faces. Both lifted their arms to protect their eyes, but the truck had already started to roll to the left, as the RPG had hit just the front of the truck near the driver’s side tire.

  John braced himself as much as he could as the truck rolled twice, and they were hit in the bed as the vehicle behind them couldn’t slow in time. Both men were again thrown against their restraints, everything in the cab of the truck was now sitting on the driver’s side. The engine was making a wheezing noise, and they could smell coolant, gasoline, and fire. Bloody, sore and torn, Stu was the first one to get out of his seatbelt, but fell promptly with his full weight onto John, knocking the wind out of him.

  “Shhhh… You okay?” Stu asked, wiping his forehead, a red smear appearing on his hand.

  “I will be when you get off of me. What was that?” John asked.

  “I think we were hit—”

  Gunfire started rattling, and several rounds hit the bottom side of the truck that was now facing the direction they had been going. John struggled with his harness, and as soon as it was freed up, Stu dragged the Seal by the harness strap on his vest until John started moving on his own through the busted out windshield.

  “That was an RRG?” John asked, ducking low and running toward the bed where they could take cover.

  “I think so—”

  “Down!” Tex’s voice boomed, and both men hit the deck behind their truck.

  Tex opened up with an M60 he’d laid over the side of the overturned truck. He had a long belt of ammunition and was putting burst after burst down range. Return fire had everyone out of their trucks in the convoy, and those in front were returning fire to men who had been waiting for them. Another RPG was fired, and everyone, including Tex, hit the dirt. This one went long instead of short, hitting the side of the highway. Tex cried out in pain, slapping at the back of his leg before falling.

  “I got you,” John said crawling to him, already pulling out his emergency dressing kit from a pouch.

  “I got the sixty,” Stu said standing up and making sure the gun was still intact.

  His shots were more suppressive in nature. Down the highway about 150 yards away, the Jihadists had set up on either side of an overpass. Some had the high ground up top, and others were firing around the concrete support columns below. He fired off another burst before he started worrying about reloading, seeing he had maybe thirty rounds left. That was when he heard John talking on the radio.

  “Tex caught shrapnel. I need some outgoing mail. Yeah, I’ll spot for you. Set your range 160 yards from your position, and we’ll walk it in.”

  He knew he had to have been talking to Caitlin, the former Miss America model and Special Forces operator… and almost wife of Tex. Stu couldn’t imagine her reaction to hearing that he’d caught flak. Literally.

  “Incoming!” Stu shouted and pulled the M60 off the bed and dove toward the two men.

  Another explosion rocked the truck near the rear tires. The tailgate came apart in shards of razor sharp metal, and a tire was flung up almost straight in the air by a quirk of physics and bad luck. John rolled over to look and saw the tire coming right down at his head and rolled over at the last second, right on top of Tex. Tex let out a groan and pushed at John just as the tire hit where his head had been. It bounced twice more before rolling to a stop in the tall grass at the side of the road, burning.

  “You’re awful presumptuous for a first date,” Tex said with a grimace that was more smile than anything else.

  “You kiss your momma with that mouth?” John asked before rolling off him.

  Explosions further off caught Stu’s attention, and he crawled to the side of the truck and looked over the edge again.

  “How far off?” John asked, feeling for his radio.

  “Go ahead twenty left five.”

  John radioed it in and this time, still deafened by the explosions and gunfire. They heard the thunk thunk as two mortars were fired off toward the dug in Jihadists. The first round fell short, hitting just under the overpass. The second one hit the overpass right near the concrete divider. Men clutching AK47s were flung in the air.

  “Keep on it, alternate by 5 until I say stop,” John said into the radio.

  More than one mortar opened up. The sound of the rounds coming was short lived and didn’t have the trajectory of the long-range shells, but the sound they made sounded like death incarnate. Three teams were sending rounds close to 20 a minute for almost one and a half minutes, until John called a cease fire. Deafened by the explosions and choking on the smell of spilled fuel, burning tires and other unmentionable things, Stu got to his feet with the ’60 and looked through the sights over the overturned truck.

  “Targets?” John asked, doing the final bit of triage on Tex.

  “Nothing moving. Lots
of pink and red,” Stu said.

  “That hurts,” Tex said with a grimace.

  John opened up a small pouch on his vest with a cross on it and selected a syringe. He made sure there was no air in it, then plunged it into the backside of Tex, who let words fly that were so vile that the devil himself must have been tempted to visit earth and take notes. As the morphine kicked in, his eyes glazed over slightly, but knowing it was coming, he just dug in and let the drug take effect.

  “We need to move you,” John said, pulling another compression bandage out, “but I ain’t touching your butt.”

  Stu was already in action, heading toward the front, followed by Caitlin who had given her soon to be husband a quick look. A belt of ammo hung off the M60 and, although it was a heavier gun than he would have liked to hump, Stu made it. Caitlin and Stu stalked forward, making sure they had overlapping fields of fire and were joined by somebody out of Stu’s sight on the median. Using hand signals, they advanced until the carnage of the mortar barrage became apparent. Body parts were scattered from both the overpass and those who sought shelter behind it.

  “I’ve got left,” Stu said.

  “Center,” Caitlin said.

  “I’m over here,” the militia volunteer said.

  Stu grinned. Even though not everyone on their team had started out as a professional soldier, many of them had adapted and learned quickly. Slowly, nervously, they walked through the area where the trap had been laid, mindful of any booby traps that may have been left behind. The ground smoked in places, and concrete from the overpass littered the ground amongst the broken glass from the stalled cars.

  The smell of burning rubber and fuel was almost as terrible as the bodies. One twitched and John turned a little to his right and opened up with a short burst from the M60. Caitlin had already been moving as it was part of their overlapping field of fire and had just pulled the trigger on a burst of her own from her M4. The Jihadi, who’d survived by crawling under a stalled out pickup truck, jerked as the slugs tore through him and then laid still.

  “Clear?” the militia member asked.

  “So far,” Caitlin said firing off another three-round burst into somebody who was still clinging to life, but not for too long.

  “John,” Stu said into his mic, “area is clear. We may need help rolling some of the wrecks out of the way for the convoy to get through.”

  “I’ll have a team meet you up there,” John said.

  “How’s my husband doing?” Caitlin asked in her own mic.

  “I gave him a shot. He keeps asking me to touch his butt,” John said, amusement evident in his voice.

  “I just asked him to hold the bandage a second,” Tex slurred.

  “How bad is it?” Caitlin asked.

  “Medic dug out a shard of shrapnel. Mostly a cut about four inches across the butt. They cleaned it, and it’s already getting stitched.”

  “Tis only a flesh wound,” Tex said.

  Stu let out a chuckle, and Caitlin snorted.

  “Let’s go, if we hurry, we won’t be late,” Stu said motioning to the man on the far side. “Let’s push this to the side.” He put the M60 down and leaned into a truck that had flipped. As Stu started rocking, a team came forward on double time and leaned into it as well.

  They rocked the truck back on its wheels from its side. Reaching in, Caitlin made sure it was in Neutral, and they pushed it toward the shoulder.

  “Now if me and John’s truck was this easy,” Stu said ,sweating.

  “Sugar, you’re going to have to find a new ride. Don’t worry, you can hang back with Tex and me.”

  Grumbling, “That’s what I was afraid of…”

  2

  “Mr. President?”

  “Yes, Patrick, come in,” the president said, pushing his chair back and standing to greet his longtime assistant.

  They shook and, when the chair across the desk was offered, Patrick sat. The president followed suit.

  “Sir, we’ve just heard back from Franklin Hines.”

  “You mean after Blake turned down my kind offer that was conveyed through him?”

  “Yes, sir, Governor Hines has once again reached out to the Homestead. He never took Blake’s jibe about shelling Davis to heart and knew it was a message, not a threat… so he flew out by Huey and spoke with them face to face. Sir, Blake has fulfilled his pardon in Hines’ own words.”

  “Patrick, that’s bull. Hines needs to work harder. That right wing hillbilly needs to understand our predicament. Do you think Hines didn’t properly convey the jam we’re in?”

  “Yes, sir, I spoke with him myself. I briefed him on the parts disruptions from Monterey, Mexico as the cartels, North Koreans, and terrorist elements have moved through.”

  “And what was his answer?” the president asked.

  “Sir, he said he didn’t want to be governor himself. He doesn’t blame Blake for wanting to be out when his terms were up. Blake Jackson will not be coming back into work as Kentucky’s director of FEMA.”

  “This isn’t something he can just deny,” the president objected and waited for Patrick’s response.

  And waited. And waited another minute.

  “I said, this isn’t something that Blake can deny. Every facility he’s gone through, every reorganization, has led to production increases in our electrical components. What he was doing, will be doing… is vital to our nation. On top of that, with the folks becoming more self-reliant, I can shift resources to those who refuse to leave the cities and to our troops who’re returning home. Tell Hines that he absolutely has to move on this, and Jackson is not retired.”

  “Sir, I’ll try, but we can’t risk going in there now. There will be an open revolt, and Colonel Grady’s work coordinating our troops on the ground with the new American Militia will fall apart. We can’t risk that right now, sir.”

  “You think this American Militia is so important that I can risk being seen as a weak leader by letting some ignorant backwoods hillbilly tell me no?” the president asked, his voice rising.

  “Sir, we’ve been together a long time,” Patrick said, making placating gestures with his hands.

  The president took a deep breath and then let it out slowly.

  “Yes, Patrick, we have. You’ve stuck by my side. Is this your advice you’re giving me, or Colonel Grady’s?”

  “My advice, sir. Don’t force the Jacksons into a corner. They have at least as many boots on the ground as we do, and they have the hearts of the survivors. Heck, even though he’s turned the narrative around about the government being the bad guy, our image is still tarnished. There’s rogue units going off the reservation, and now there’s evidence coming in that elements from DHS have been working with the New Caliphate—”

  “Excuse me!?” the president shouted, standing up.

  “Sir, it’s been in every briefing for three weeks now.”

  “I don’t recall reading it, not once,” the president growled. “Why am I just hearing of this now?”

  “Sir…” Patrick said standing and pulling a folder that had been folded in half out of his inner suit jacket pocket, “Here it is,” he said, pointing to a highlighted section.

  “Oh, that’s where our intelligence is talking about homegrown Islamic jihadists. I skip that because frankly, we all know that Islam is the religion of peace, and I’m sick and tired of these Islamophobic racist analysts insisting that…” the president caught the look in Patrick’s eyes and sat down.

  “Sir… Hassan has defected as feared, and there are many within the cabinet and Joint Chiefs who feel…”

  “They are looking at me for responsibility? They think I let the New Caliphate in the front door?”

  “Sir, you appointed him, and then remained in the blast shelter far longer than anybody predicted. There were no communications from you to anybody outside.”

  “A decision I regret to this day, Patrick,” the president said. “When the blast went off over top of us in DC… My wife and d
aughters and the remaining house and senate… I didn’t listen to my advisors. I didn’t respond when you were trying to get in touch. My people told me that they could have homed in on my signal and sent in bunker busters.”

  “Sir, we still are not sure who launched on DC,” Patrick said, adopting a softer tone.

  “Oh, I know, but my advisors underground had most of their communications and satellite uplinks knocked out topside. Our stuff underground still worked, but we had no antennas for a bit, and our readings had showed that—”

  “Sir, I know. It was a low yield, garage built atomic weapon. That’s why we think it was a very old Russian suitcase bomb lost in the early Cold War, or something cooked up by the North Koreans. You would have been safe coming topside in three weeks, but it took three months…”

  “Patrick, did I tell you what it was like down there?” the president asked softly, changing the subject.

  “Just that you had been waiting for it to be safe to come topside, and then only after your family had a safe place to come to.”

  “Yes. I’ll admit, I acted as a father first and president second,” he said, pulling a pitcher of water from the edge of the desk and pouring two cups. Handing one to Patrick, he took a sip and continued, “Is that why there’s so much distrust in me, in my policies and leadership?”

  “Sir…”

  “Just give it to me straight, old friend.”

  Patrick sighed, took a sip, and wiped the sweat from his brow. “In a large part, yes. You’ve refused to read any intelligence that points to Islamic terrorism from American Muslims, you’ve been seen to have largely ignored Israel in some folk’s eyes, and you have made apologies for what we’ve done.”

  “Apologies for what we’ve done?” the president asked, a hint of anger in his voice.

  “Sir… You’re probably going to fire me for this, but you’ve always wanted me to tell it to you straight. You really want to know?”

  “Yes, I do. I can make that an official order if it’d make you feel better.”