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

by Jordan Ervin

  “You’re right,” Rick said. “I did take an oath to defend the United States. I devoted so much of my younger life to serving that nation…and for what? For a country that doesn’t exist anymore? For an endless road of hunger and danger?”

  “Rick,” Sarah began, “don’t—”

  “I threw my life away defending a corrupt pile of shit that wasn’t worth fighting for in the first place!” Rick roared, his sanity hanging perilously by a thread. Eric stopped, as did everyone else. They gazed at Rick, their eyes a mix of anger, frustration, and hopelessness. “They abandoned us! When we needed them most they ran to Texas, leaving me with nothing more than a future of limping from one damn trading post to another as my family dies around me.”

  Rick had stopped and was facing Eric as he shouted, inching closer and closer as he yelled. He wanted to hit him. He wanted to hurt him for trying to steal away his son’s wife. He wanted to strangle him for not fighting harder to prevent the collapse.

  And Rick might have done just that, had Judah not shoved him first.

  Rick stumbled back in shock as Judah began to shout. “Shut up! Just shut up!” An anger unlike anything Rick had ever seen in his grandson blazed in Judah’s eyes. “Are you just going to die then? Are you going to lay down and leave us to fight for ourselves?”

  “Judah,” Rick began, “I—”

  “I want to live, Grandpa. I don’t care who broke your nation. I want to make it something good again!”

  Rick’s lower lip began to tremble again as Judah scolded him. When he had finished, Rick paused before slumping down to the ground, tears now streaming down his face as he wept. It was the first time he had cried since Joe’s death a year and a half ago. He had always been very proficient at bottling up his emotions, refusing to let them show. Now, all that pain and anger burst forth as he sobbed for the world he had lost. He had become rudderless, a man who didn’t know how to fight the darkness that now consumed everything he had spent his life building.

  “I’m sorry,” Rick said after a drawn-out pause. He wiped the tears away as Judi put a hand on his shoulder.

  “Don’t be sorry,” Eric said with a reassuring smile. “Despite what you think, America isn’t dead. It lives in us. It lives on in you and me and hundreds of thousands of scared people out there, searching for the freedom they lost. One day, we’ll find refuge and we’ll have peace. Before that day comes, you need to live by the oath you once took and fight for a country that needs you now more than ever.”

  Rick nodded his head and stood. He turned to Sarah, ready to apologize.

  “Sarah, I—”

  Before he could speak another word, a series of rumbling booms rolled across the city from the east. Rick eyed the cloudy sky overhead, looking for the flash of lighting or a sign of showers, but not a single lightning bolt or drop of rain fell. He glanced back eastward and watched as shadowy outlines of planes followed closely by the glow of afterburners began to break formation over the suburbs behind them, lighting up the horizon with new fiery flashes. As the roaring jets climbed into the ceiling of clouds directly overhead, missiles screamed up toward them from the west. Fireballs lit up the low-lying clouds, followed by a rainstorm of burning debris that quickly fell as though the floodgates of hell had been unleashed above the city.

  As the screams of death and war began, Rick realized they didn’t have the five days Trey had anticipated. They didn’t have five minutes before the two unknown armies that were descending upon Montgomery crushed his family beneath their weight. Those caught in-between were now nothing more than helpless fleas, struggling on a bone that two hounds fought over. Rick clutched his weapon tightly and shouted at his family, knowing that the fight Eric had spoken of moments before had just arrived.

  “Run!”

  “Initial strike complete.”

  Lukas nodded to the man standing behind one of three control panels that surrounded the digital map of Montgomery. The man was Clark Madison, the Air Battle Marshal. Behind the control panel to his right was Les Scott, the Ground Battle Marshal who controlled the horde of Yellow Jackets approaching from the east. Norton DeWitt, the Sea Battle Marshal, stood quietly behind the final control panel, studying the other men’s work as the Imperium’s first full-scale clash began. Eli Kane stood at the center of it all, pacing around the circular map. His face was a mask of determination and concentration as his first test as the Battle Lord commenced. Les Scott turned to Eli and spoke.

  “The Yellow Jackets are waiting for your command to move west toward the Patriarchs.”

  “Good,” Eli said, looking to Lukas with a smile. “A fine start.”

  Lukas nodded back, rubbing his chin as his eyes scanned a trio of three-dimensional displays in front of him. To Lukas’ left was Maria, her arms crossed in front of her as she stared at the digital battle map. Next to her stood Damian Ross and Jamie Rowe, watching the battle intently. Behind them stood Warren Anniston to supervise the Farsight. Finally, there was Jacob’s apparition, his all too realistic eyes fixated on the map.

  “How many fighters did we lose?” Jacob asked.

  “Nearly half,” Battle Marshal Madison replied. “We have twenty-eight fighters remaining. It was a gamble, but we needed to disable as many of the long range missiles as we could before the Yellow Jackets moved in. I recommend we route the remaining jets back ten miles east of the city to join the heavy bombers and gunships we have circling in standby. We can hold them in reserve and avoid risking them unless we have no other choice.”

  “Do it,” Lukas said with a nod.

  Battle Lord Kane shifted the map and focused in on the approaching column of Patriarch tanks, Humvees, troop carriers, and smaller drones on the outskirts of Montgomery. “Their armor is moving up Interstate Sixty-Five southwest of the city. Satellite imagery also shows a sizable contingent of roughly forty fast-moving fighters circling thirty miles to the west.”

  “Do we have a way to protect our drones in case they attack?” Lukas asked.

  “Yes sir,” Battle Marshal Scott replied. “We managed to retrofit thirty-three Yellow Jackets with the Pulsar weapons we were able to salvage from the Sons of Liberty’s wreckage in DC.”

  “And they’ll protect the other drones?” Jacob asked.

  Les nodded. “Like I said, their jets are thirty miles west. Even if they make a break for the battle at full afterburner, it will take over ninety seconds to reach us at this low of an altitude. Madison’s fighters can engage them before they reach our Yellow Jackets while the retrofitted drones can target them as they pass overhead.”

  “Good,” Lukas said. “Can we tell how many troops the Patriarchs have deployed?”

  “Yes, my Sovereign,” Clark replied. He waved his hands about the air in front of him and a second satellite image filtered with heat vision appeared above the map at the center of the room. A column of tanks stretched for nearly a mile—the white outlines of thousands of men walking alongside the tanks. Dozens of drones the size of FODs moved ahead of the column, breaking off into Montgomery’s western suburbs, targeting random people in a fleeing crowd. Those who fell remained on the ground for a few moments before rising again and fleeing after those who hadn’t fallen. But instead of fleeing for safety with the running mass of people, they seemed to be running toward the Patriarch’s approaching tanks.

  “What the hell are they doing?” Lukas said. “Can we get eyes on the streets?”

  “I’ve routed scouting drones to the area,” Battle Marshal Scott replied. “I have three arriving as we speak.”

  Les activated the video feed from a drone moving just above the treetops and rooflines toward the running mass of people at the western side of the city. A few hundred terrified people ran toward the city, fleeing the Patriarch’s drones that approached behind them. The drones quickly slowed and gunned down a few dozen individuals. However, as the rest fled, those hit fell to the ground—not dead, but flapping around on the concrete. Some of the others who ran stopped, reachin
g down to try and drag their wounded friends away. Then, after a few seconds pause, those on the ground stopped and began to vomit. They looked up at the drones, apparently listening to something, before shoving off those who tried to help them. A handful failed to move and they quickly fell to the ground again, thrashing about a second time. When they finally stopped wallowing around, not one hesitated to run back toward Sigmund’s approaching army.

  “Oh my god,” Lukas muttered as he realized what was happening.

  “What are they doing?” Jamie asked.

  “It’s Sigmund,” Lukas replied breathlessly, fighting to suppress the memories of fire and hell. “He’s using the drones to shoot people with the drug he used on me. That has to be how he’s been growing his army so fast.”

  “And you think they’ll follow blindly because of it?” Battle Lord Kane asked.

  “Ten seconds under and they’d kill their own mother to avoid that pain again,” Lukas replied.

  “Is there any way to stop it?” Maria asked, her face pale as she turned to her father’s phantom. “Do we have more of the antidote you gave Lukas?”

  “I barely have enough for a few men,” Jacob said. “Let alone an army of thousands.”

  “Is there no way we can save them?” Maria asked, her usually steady voice quivering.

  “There is,” Lukas said after a pause, turning to Eli Kane. “Deploy the Yellow Jackets and initiate the primary assault. Roll over the city and kill everyone.”

  “What?” Maria asked, fear now clear on her face. “Even the refugees? Can’t we—”

  “Death is better than that hell,” Lukas said.

  Victor Castle held his hand up to his ear, straining to understand Mahiri Onyango’s thick African accent as he spewed orders over the radio. Mahiri and every other Patriarch Agent were back in New Orleans, monitoring the battle from afar while Victor and several thousand enslaved recruits marched toward death and battle.

  Sigmund had continued to view Victor as his own personal pet project, raising him to Master Sergeant, the highest ranking Recruit in Sigmund’s army. Victor had obeyed every command General Onyango issued, though he had done it with a concealed malice as he planned his revenge. He hated serving Mahiri almost as much as he hated Sigmund, but any slip in his allegiance could find him back in the Lake of Fire. Part of Victor hoped for a stray bullet to find its way to his head and thus end his living nightmare, but the other part wanted to obey, win Sigmund’s trust, and eventually kill the man for what he had done. Regardless, he would be an obedient pet until his owner took off the muzzle, leaving Victor ready and able to bite.

  “Alright men, listen up!” Victor shouted into his radio to his nearby staff. “Just got word from General Onyango. They received new intel from their eyes inside the Imperium. Lukas is about to move his Yellow Jackets into the city and wipe out the population. I want all new Recruits armed and sent ahead of us to fight those drones.”

  Staff Sergeant Will Hardy, Victor’s newly appointed drone and tech expert, cleared his throat and shouted over the rumble of the tank’s diesel engine. “You sure? One man won’t stand a chance against a Yellow Jacket. They’ll be slaughtered.”

  And the poor bastards would probably thank me for it if they knew what I was saving them from, Victor thought grimly.

  “I don’t want one man to make a stand against a Yellow Jacket!” Victor shouted. “I want to attack each of those drones with a hundred men and women armed with whatever weapons we can get to them. If they die, so be it. We need to down as many of those Yellow Jackets as we can before we engage them with our AVs and tanks.”

  “Then we need to start moving our IRDs deeper into the city,” Sergeant Hardy said. “There’s a large trading post at Alabama State University four miles from here and we need to take it before Lukas reaches the compound. Pre-battle surveillance suggested tens of thousands of civilians were within its walls.”

  “Can we reach the trading post and arm the population before the Yellow Jackets arrive?”

  “We’d be cutting it close,” Will replied, swiping around a tablet. “Our scouts are reporting many who were at the trading post are fleeing toward the Interstate Sixty-Five Bridge that crosses the river to the north. It will take the Imperium’s drones longer to reach those who are fleeing north and we can reach them just as soon. They might be better targets.”

  “How many IRDs do we have available?”

  Will paused and navigated around his glass tablet as he searched for an answer. Sigmund had strictly forbidden nVision displays, stating their ability to be compromised not worth the risk. He said if Lukas knew how susceptible the devices still were to hacking, they’d never use them again.

  “Got it,” the man said as four transports rumbled by with thousands of rifles to hand out. “We have three hundred and seventy-four IRDs ready to move in, though we never tested the IRDs to supervise more than ten new Recruits at a time.”

  “It’s not enough,” Victor said. “You say there were tens of thousands at the university?”

  “At least,” Will replied.

  “Okay,” Victor said, rubbing his hands through his hair before reaching for his radio. “General Onyango, this is Master Sergeant Castle. We have a large group of men, women, and children fleeing northwest away from the Imperium’s approaching drones. We can intercept before the Yellow Jackets reach them. Though we have enough ammunition to infect them all, we do not have enough IRDs to watch over them afterward.”

  “How many will you be short?” General Onyango’s deep voice asked.

  “Hundreds,” Victor said.

  The radio remained silent for a few moments, Mahiri undoubtedly mulling things over with Sigmund and the other Patriarchs back in New Orleans. The rumblings of the attacks on the other side of the city had subsided, though Victor knew that only meant the real attack was about to be underway. Yellow Jackets didn’t make the same racket jet-born missiles did. The high pitched whine of their mini-guns were much more subtle in comparison, like an assassin’s knife sliding from its sheath compared to the bellow of a cannon.

  “Deploy all IRDs and turn everyone you can,” Mahiri finally replied. “We will assist you from here as much as we can. Worst-case scenario, we will not be able to manage every Recruit.”

  “And what does that mean for those we hit and can’t manage?” Victor asked.

  “Unsure,” Mahiri replied. “Sūn says they might stay under indefinitely. Regardless, Sūn says we should at least be able to push the limits and govern twenty Recruits per drone. Each IRD only has a one hundred shot maximum capacity. Excluding drones lost to enemy fire, we should have a few thousand more Recruits to occupy the Yellow Jackets.”

  Victor tried to swallow as Mahiri spoke, but his throat felt as dry as Death Valley.

  They might stay under indefinitely?

  He couldn’t imagine being injected with that torment only to be forgotten and left to burn for what felt like centuries before death in the real world overcame the hell of the dream.

  “Copy that,” Victor replied, shaking his head with disgust as he glanced up at his own IRD. “Castle out.”

  “So what now?” Sergeant Hardy asked as the main fleet of small drones began to pass overhead.

  “We move in,” Victor said, “Order the artillery to commence. Target the trading post. The first Yellow Jackets should be there by now.”

  “Won’t we take out some of the men and women fleeing north?” Will asked.

  “With luck,” Victor mumbled, eyeing the IRD above again. “My hope is it will slow them down long enough for us to reach and infect the survivors that are already clear of the trading post, preventing them from escaping across the bridge. Now mobilize the tanks and ready the anti-air. I need a wall of missiles and gunfire to block the Imperium from hitting us when they reach this side of the city. Until then, we stay on the Interstate and move north. And give the orders to execute anyone the IRDs hit who looks as though they are not able to wake.”

 
“What orders for the Recruits who do wake?” Will asked. “I can reprogram the loud speakers on the IRDs to command whatever you want.”

  Only I can save them now, Victor thought, as his tank began to rumble north. Only death can save them.

  “Order those struck to kill or burn,” Victor replied after a pause.

  “Should I specify for them to attack the Yellow Jackets?”

  “No,” Victor replied, hoping secretly that those who are injected might kill those who are not, saving them from the fires and torment. “They’ll know what to do.”

  “Stop!”

  Rick held up his hands and shouted in the middle of the street, trying to halt the final fuel truck. When the massive rig failed to slow, Rick jumped to the right, diving out of the way. The semi-truck barreled past him, leaving the shouting men who guarded the truck to disappear down the road.

  Thousands of other terrified refugees fled in all directions, their cries of horror battling against the thunder of approaching battle. Panicked fathers, horrified mothers, and crying children ran along the streets next to Rick and his family. Some escaped into nearby homes while others continued onward in an effort to flee the city all together. Rick watched as one pistol-wielding man one hundred yards ahead ran with his wife toward a house and began kicking in the door, risking the occasional frantic stare back at the distant explosions. On the third kick, the door flung inward just as the man flew backward with his arms flailing—the flash from the shotgun that had killed him bright against the darkened interior. The man landed hard on the front lawn behind him, dead upon impact. The lifeless man’s hysterical wife cried a defeated shriek of madness, her screams beating against Rick’s own sanity.

  The flashes of war that you never forget, Rick thought painfully as he attempted to push the frenzied woman out of sight and out of mind.

  “Trey!” Eric shouted, “I need you to see if you can—”