The Dragons of Men (The Sons of Liberty Book 2)

by Jordan Ervin

  “You think I’m afraid of death?” Adam responded coldly. “I lost my family, my nation, and my battle with the man who has taken it all away from me. I don’t think—”

  “We’re not done fighting that battle,” Gene cut in quickly.

  “Gene, I’m a broken man adrift in a changed world and all I see are two paths placed before me. I can choose to continue fighting Lukas Chambers; I can seek revenge, knowing that the hatred that swells inside of me every time I think of that bastard is going to one day engulf the good man I had once been. I can do that, or I can choose to simply search out peace, knowing that I’m nothing more than a dead man walking, hoping that something might breathe life back into me before the end.”

  “You think you’ll have peace when Lukas is out there looking for you?”

  “No,” Adam replied, looking back out the front window. “I think I’ll have peace the day I die and see my family again.”

  Gene shook his head, unsure what else he could say, and decided to leave it be. He picked up his radio, calling back to the other vehicle just behind them.

  “We’re going in,” Gene said. “Stay cool and stick to the story. Let me do the talking and we’ll be back on the road in less than an hour. Stay close and keep a Stonewall device running at all times. Not too large a charge, just enough to conceal your Humvee. No need to let anyone broadcast an image of our trucks to unwanted eyes.”

  “Will do,” Marc replied. “I’ve tied your radio’s signature to the device so only we can communicate. There’s another town on the map called Bluefield to the southwest. If they don’t have the meds here, we can try there.”

  “Roger that,” Gene said before tucking his small radio into one of his front pockets and buttoning the top flap. “Let’s go.”

  The truck rumbled forward as it slowly approached the entrance. As they neared the gate—a barrier that consisted of two large diesel trucks and a tall chain-link fence that walled off the entrance into the town—a man approached holding up a gloved hand for them to stop. Twenty-seven five-gallon canisters of fuel that were hidden underneath the tarp in the bed of the truck sloshed around as they slowed. The last thing Gene had wanted to do was let anyone in on their small stash of precious gasoline. Once Gene’s truck came to a halt, the man glanced down at the front plates before approaching Gene at the driver’s window.

  “Virginia, huh? Welcome to Princeton, county seat for Mercer County and home to the ever-dying railroad business.” The armed guard grinned sarcastically, sporting a wide gap where teeth should have been. “Name’s Roger Bonnet.”

  “Good to meet you, Mr. Bonnet,” Gene said. “The name’s Henry Harper.”

  “Pleasure meeting you, Mr. Harper,” Roger said before glancing back at the massive Humvee behind them. “That’s quite the truck you boys got back there. I don’t suppose you’re planning on causing any ruckus, are ya’?”

  “No sir,” Gene replied. “Our friend back in the Humvee has a wound that’s infected and we need antibiotics. We have some weapons and ammo on us for trade. We’ve also got a trained medical professional in the Humvee and a larger cache with a few hundred men back about ten miles. I was hoping we could make a trade for whatever you could spare.”

  “Well you ain’t the first person that’s come to town offering two arms and a pair o’ legs for a fistful of drugs. Most people just want ‘em to get high, but you don’t look the type. Prolongin’ the inevitable, if you ask me. Might be best to just let your friend die—no offense of course. I lost a nephew a few weeks back. My brother had died years ago and I’d taken the boy in when he was young. He got the pneumonia back in November. I wanted to help, but it was either waste the good stuff on him without a guarantee that he’d make it or hold on to it so those of us who were healthy could use it or trade it.”

  “I’m sorry to hear that,” Gene replied as cordially as possible, though inwardly he was wondering what kind of man would let his ailing nephew die.

  “Well I appreciate that. I really do. It’s hard times we’re livin’ in, burying family and all. But stuff like that is pretty hard to come by nowadays and we can’t go wastin’ it on anybody. You say you got a doctor?”

  “Yes, sir,” Gene replied, stretching the truth a bit. Marc might not be a full-fledged doctor, but he had trained as a medic early on in his military career before serving on the frontlines of war.

  “Well, we could sure as hell use him,” Roger replied. “I’ll radio the boss in town and see if we can’t help you boys out.”

  Gene nodded to the man, watching him quietly as he made his way back to the gate. A few moments of silence passed before Gene picked up the radio and called the other vehicle.

  “They’re checking with the leader in town, but it sounds like they might let us in and exchange some meds for your expert medical services. You think you can convince them you’re a legitimate doc?”

  “Oui,” Marc replied. “I’ve almost managed to convince myself.”

  “Good,” Gene replied. “Tell Lev to charge the Pulsar on top of the Humvee.”

  “Are you expecting drones?” Marc asked.

  “No, but a shock from that weapon could persuade a few men to see things from our point of view.”

  “Will do, General,” Marc replied.

  “If any of you see something that doesn’t sit well,” Gene began, “the code word is Blackburn. If anyone says the word, then everyone get to the vehicles and follow my lead. I don’t care how you phrase it; you speak the word and we’re out of here. You never know when a stranger might try something.”

  “They are…well, they were Americans,” Marc replied over the radio. “And as a Frenchman, I naturally am forced to think they have rabbits and all kinds of trickery hiding up sleeves.”

  “He sure doesn’t let up with the American jokes,” Adam said, turning to Gene.

  “He’s only being French,” Gene replied with a grin.

  “Well, it’s getting old,” Adam said flatly. “Our country’s in ruins and all he wants to do is joke about it.”

  Gene glanced sideways at Adam before raising the radio with a grin. “Adam says enough with American jokes.”

  “Oh, forgive me, monsieur,” Marc replied sarcastically, his accent clearly thicker than usual. “I will try to remember that not all Americans are tough enough to take a joke. Nevertheless, do not let your little hearts be troubled, for it should not be too hard for me to cease my cold-hearted jesting. I once had to do the same thing with a sensitive niece of mine who liked to chase rainbows and dream of ponies.”

  “Since when has the French President been your niece?” Gene asked with a smirk.

  “Alas, I am at a loss for a suitable retort,” Marc replied after a pause. “Victory to the day’s battle of wits belongs to you.”

  “You see,” Gene began after lowering the radio, “you just need to figure out how to push back.” Gene laughed and raised the radio once more. “Jokes aside Frenchman, you are right about one thing. They were Americans. They’ll be greedy and we can use that to our advantage. We play our cards right, they’ll want to know about everything we have and where it is before they try to take it.”

  Another thirty seconds or so passed before Roger shouted something to his men standing next to the trucks blocking the entrance to the town. Roger jogged over to Gene’s truck, already out of breath by the time he finished his fifty-foot run.

  “The boss said come on in,” Roger said before taking another breath. “Medication we got, but a doctor we don’t. We’ve got a stash of drugs—mostly the prescribed kind—but we might be able to make a deal with you.”

  “I’m assuming you’ll be wanting to confiscate our guns before we enter?”

  The man’s eyes narrowed, though he continued to force an awkward smile onto his face before laughing abruptly.

  “Well, you’re not planning to raid us, are you? No, I don’t suppose you are. You’d be outnumbered a hundred to one if you were. But I tell you what. We like to think
trust is still a valuable thing in this broken nation. You can keep your guns for now,” the man looked back at those at the gate before shifting his gaze to the trees at the side of the road, clearly giving away the hidden snipers they had in place, “and we’ll keep an eye on you. I’ll jump in a Jeep and lead the way.”

  “Deal,” Gene said as he shook the man’s hand. Roger whistled loudly and motioned for the men at the gate to move their trucks. As the trucks parted, Roger jumped into a Jeep and led them through the entrance.

  The eastern gate had been erected a couple of miles northeast of the town. Roger’s Jeep continued straight until they reached a barrier of parked cars that blocked the highway and forced them to take a right into town. They snaked their way across side streets, passing structures that looked like they had fallen to disrepair long before Lukas had destroyed the United States. After a couple minutes of driving, they passed over a bridge, waited for the final gate to open, and entered the town.

  The town was a relic of typical main street America. The old brick buildings had people in coats and winter hats moving in and out of them, looking at the new vehicles, taking a moment before risking a longer glance at the armored Humvee. Steel drums burned trash on the sidewalks, the occasional man or woman warming their hands over yesterday’s refuse. Dogs barked at the rumbling vehicles while bored and dumfounded children stared at Gene with hollow eyes.

  Gene loathed it all.

  He hated the fact that this was what America had come to. It was a land where survival meant building up walls of defense around your town and not trusting anyone outside of your family and neighbor, and maybe not even then. And though a part of him wanted to see America revived, that wasn’t the mission that mattered most to him. For now, Gene wanted nothing more than to get what they came for and get out.

  The Jeep came to a stop outside of a surprisingly large courthouse. A three-story façade made of white washed stone and intricate carvings dominated the front of the building. Two more large stone buildings faced the street in front of Gene’s truck. The government buildings gave Gene the impression that the town of Princeton had intended to be much larger than it had turned out to be, though most small American towns had been that way.

  “Hold your gun like you know how to use it,” Gene said quietly, raising the radio as his truck came to a halt behind Roger’s Jeep. “Despite what they said at the gate, they still might try to confiscate anything we’ve got, but that doesn’t mean we can’t first convince them that we’re no lambs for the slaughter. And don’t let them see anything we don’t want them to see—especially the fuel under the tarp. There’s no telling what they’d do if they knew we had that much gas.”

  “Copy that,” Marc replied.

  “And by the way,” Gene began as he lowered the radio, speaking directly to Adam. “No more of that talk you had back there, you hear me? I don’t care if you want to die or not, I plan on breathin’ till Lukas ain’t.”

  “Fine,” Adam replied coldly.

  “Alright,” Gene said, opening the door. “Let’s move.”

  Adam stepped out of the old truck and onto the cold street below. A dusting of snow drifted across the pavement, the wind it traveled on swirling around the front of the truck and filling Adam’s nostrils with an arctic chill. He tugged his coat tighter before readjusting the assault rifle that hung on his shoulder, making sure to ‘hold it like he knew how to use it,’ per Gene’s instructions.

  As though I haven’t killed before, Adam thought as he glanced sideways at Gene.

  It felt oddly painful, how the path that had been moving him toward Christ had also led him to kill men. He thought back to his dream from almost two weeks ago and wondered if there was any way he could hang onto the light he had found while still fighting to survive. His family had been the largest part of what had guided him back to the faith. They had filled his heart to the brim with love but now, they were gone, leaving a cavernous void to inhabit his soul. Without them, a growing lust for vengeance had filled that vacuum, leaving little room for the God he had begun to rediscover. Adam tried to avoid that anger being directed at God, but still, it happened. It wasn’t like before with his brother’s death, when he had chosen to not believe. Rather, the hatred in his heart nearly outweighed his desire for Christ and Adam didn’t know if he could bear to continue fighting for the light that had started to grow inside him.

  Roger walked back over to the vehicle as two more armed men approached.

  “You’ll need to leave your guns inside of the truck,” Roger said.

  “I thought you said we can keep them?” Gene replied quickly.

  “I said we wouldn’t confiscate your weapons,” Roger replied. “No guns in the courthouse, period. That’s both you and us. It’s best that way for everyone. Too many people coming in and out. The boss is inside and said he wants to talk with you himself.”

  Gene grunted, though Adam refrained from arguing. He handed Gene his rifle and handgun before walking back to the Humvee while Gene stashed the guns in the pickup.

  “Keep an eye out,” Adam said once William rolled down the window. “We’ll be right back.”

  Adam paused briefly to glance in the back of the Humvee. Despite the chill outside, sweat beaded Tanker’s forehead as he slumbered at the rear of the vehicle. Marc was crouching over Tanker’s pallet, taking the break to get more water in the man. Lev sat next to him, gazing at his tablet as he analyzed satellite images and data. William nodded back from the driver’s side, his right eye swollen and dark—one of many bruises courtesy of saving Adam’s life. Adam nodded as the bulletproof window began to roll back up and jogged to rejoin Gene.

  Adam returned to Roger, his two men, and Gene on the path leading toward the courthouse. He passed a barren flag pole, the steel swaying slightly in the wind, and frowned. He figured that pole had likely flown the American flag since the day it had first been erected, only to lower the Stars and Stripes for fear of being associated with a dead nation. Adam shook his head silently, angry with the speed at which most Americans had been willing to jump ship. He knew Texas wouldn’t be any better, but he hoped it might be a place where he could forget about everything that had happened and find the peace he longed for. Still, if he ever did find a town or city that still flew the American Flag, he would gladly call that place home.

  The interior of the building looked no different than most other small town government buildings, apart from a layer of sludge and grime that covered what had once been a polished marble floor. Well-lit hallways crisscrossed each other as the group of men walked toward the heart of the building. Adam looked around the interior, glancing nervously as a strange anxiety started to overcome him. He tried to locate the source of whatever was making him nervous, but he noticed nothing but the filthy floors, smudged walls, and worn-down men. Still, he couldn’t shake the fear that began to laugh at him. There was something unseen. Something dangerous that lay hidden around every corner, always ducking away when he turned. It was something he had not expected to see. Something….

  He glanced down a hallway and watched his old friend David Malcovich take a bullet to the chest. The concussion of the rifle blast dwarfed those who sang America’s hymn in the massive room. As a second round struck David, it almost felt as though Adam was the one embracing a bullet to the heart. He could feel the black-clad soldier’s rage as he pulled the trigger again—he could almost taste the blood on his tongue as the bullets ripped holes through his lungs, leaving his cries of pain to become spurts of blood that traveled up his wind pipe and though his gnashing teeth. He could feel himself becoming David, falling to the ground as the light winked out of his….

  Adam jumped as a hand grabbed his shoulder and he spun around, his eyes meeting Gene’s. Roger and the two armed guards stood fifteen feet down the hallway, looking back at Adam curiously. Gene gazed intently into Adam’s eyes, concern filling his own.

  “I asked if you’re coming,” Gene said slowly.

  “Yes,�
� Adam replied, wiping the sweat off his brow before glancing back down the hallway. There was nothing there but the grime and dirt. “Sorry, I was—”

  “I know what you saw,” Gene said as he moved in close. “Every man who has gone through what you have comes out seeing the same thing. I can’t say that it will pass, but I can say you’ll get better at ignoring it.” Gene paused for another moment, his eyes narrowing before glancing back at the others. “Maybe you should get back to the others.”

  Adam stared back at Gene quietly, eyes darting about and not sure how to respond. He had not considered that what happened in DC would come back to haunt him, but the first step he took into a similar setting had reached down and snatched that memory, dragging it up with a noose around its neck. He was glad he didn’t know how his family had died. He didn’t think he would be able to rid his mind of the images of his dead wife and children, twisted in a burning heap. Eva and Grace crying out as the bombs struck, sharp debris cascading into them like the jaws of a—

  “No,” Adam said quickly, suppressing the images his imagination had been creating. “I’ll be fine.”

  “Then let’s get what we need and get going.”

  Adam apologized to Roger for the delay and they continued their walk. They walked to the second level and entered a large, open office. Roger shouted to four other men who had been talking on the other side of the room. The four men looked over at them and approached, three of them staying a step behind the man at the center. The lead man sported a black baseball cap and an inviting smile, his face clean of dirt and sporting a neatly trimmed beard. He stuck out his hand and spoke.

  “So you’re the guys with the tank Roger was telling me about,” the man said as he shook Gene’s hand. “I’m Gary Sandusky, mayor of Princeton for the past thirty years.”

  “The name’s Henry Harper,” Gene said, lying again about his name. “This here is my friend Jim O’Toole.”

  “Well, Henry and Jim, welcome to our town. Please excuse the mess,” Gary said as he glanced around the office. Stacks of papers battled boxes of junk for floor space. “We’re more focused on feeding the townsfolk than cleaning up what others left behind.”