by JK Franks
His world and his focus narrowed down to a ten-foot boat on a dark stretch of water. Steve dug the paddle hard to carve a path around things he felt more than saw. He had come down this river in an inflatable raft just after the whitewater course opened. He briefly remembered how much fun it had been. Even Trey seemed to enjoy it. What else could he recall from that day? Would anything help? Everything seemed to be moving in slow motion. Another attacker had started firing an automatic rifle. He watched each round’s impact as they entered his tunneled field of view. The bullets stitched a line across the water and right across his kayak. JD screamed out in pain. Even in the dim light, he could see a dark patch spreading across the boys back. “Shit!” We should have gotten back in the water, sitting on top was stupid, he thought.
He had no time to think about the child’s injury. Just get away. More shots came, this time from another position downriver. He caught sight of the red kayak again as it darted in front of him at an extreme angle. The incoming fire was coming from another bridge just ahead. Gerald was attempting to distract the shooter. The slight glow of the burning city provided little illumination here. The banks were higher, and the river current slowed. The barrage of shots was relentless. Steve could feel the kayak becoming sluggish to maneuver and knew it must be taking on water. More shots came, and then the shadow of the bridge passed overhead. It was a four-lane with a gap in the middle, so the shooters on top couldn’t cross and had no line of sight to the river on the far side. The two kayaks slipped through and into calmer water.
“JD? Hey, JD. Talk to me, man.” Steve whispered between paddle strokes. He couldn’t stop paddling but wanted to know if the boy was ok. JD let out a moan as he reached a hand toward his bloody back. Steve’s focus zoomed back out, and he now recognized the sounds of battle receding as well as the shouts and jeers from the attackers. The edge of the kayak was just inches above the water and handling like a fat cow. “Hang in there, buddy. We’re nearly out of this.” His voice was shaky and unsure, not at all reassuring. “Leighton, you out there?” He called again in as loud a voice as he dared. JD moaned again from the front. “Gerald, our boat got hit. JD is hurt. We are sinking.”
He tried to remember what the river was like on the other side of that bridge but couldn’t recall. He wasn’t sure they had even come this far on that whitewater rafting trip. The only thing he remembered was afterward he had gone to a really cool place in the old downtown for a beer and some barbecue. Well shit, that’s helpful.
The dark silhouette of a large building passed by, and he recalled it was an indoor arena. Beyond that seemed to be a parking lot, and if he recalled correctly, mostly undeveloped land. He saw JD’s hand motioning at something, then caught sight of Gerald’s kayak just up ahead.
“Oh damn!” The older man was slumped over the kayak which was now drifting in lazy circles.
42
“JD, listen to me. Where are you hit?”
The boy was still sitting upright but unresponsive. Steve was paddling hard toward the circling red kayak ahead. He scanned the bank on both sides seeing nowhere to land. All he could really see was shadows, but it seemed the overgrowth on each side was thick with plenty of concealment for more attackers. He also couldn’t move forward in the small boat without tipping JD out. “Shit, the boat is sinking anyway.” The water was running freely in and out of the flimsy plastic shell, but it didn’t seem to be getting any lower in the water. Must be some trapped air somewhere.
Steve knew how totally screwed they were. “JD, find where you are hit and put pressure on it. Hold it tight with your hand or arm.” He saw some movement from the boy, but it was achingly slow. Gerald’s kayak was coming into reach. “Leighton, how bad are you hit?” Gerald was slumped forward in his boat. His head was resting on the plastic hull. Steve hooked the kayak with his paddle and brought it alongside.
Putting a hand on the man’s shoulder caused no reaction. He felt cold, but that could just be the wet clothes. “Gerald, hey man, stay with me.” The two kayaks picked up a current and began moving faster into the darkness. Steve struggled to keep the other boat beside his own. God, don’t let us run into any boulders, he thought. If either of his friends went in the water, he knew he wouldn’t be able to find them in the dark. He checked Gerald over the best that he could with one hand. He thought he felt a slight pulse when he touched the side of his neck but couldn’t be sure. His own heart was racing so hard he might just be feeling that.
Find a place to land. The river banks were closing in, narrowing the channel and increasing the current. He scanned the dark shore, but saw nothing but trees and brush crowding the approach to the bank. As he neared one side, tree limbs began whipping by—some crashing into JD up front. He used the paddle as a rudder to guide them back toward the middle.
He had so many conflicting ideas: get away, pull over, check on his friends, paddle faster. He should have stayed a rat. The move to go through the city had been rushed, and it had been a fatal mistake. His seat was half full of water, and he felt the bottom of his kayak scrub against the riverbed a few times. The river level had been incredibly erratic the entire trip. It might be six inches one second and twenty feet the next. They seemed to be in an area of shallows, so he decided to stab the paddle down in the mud and see if he could slow their momentum. If he could get the kayaks stopped, he could at least see how JD was doing. He dug the nose of the paddle in, and the boat spun around on its axis. JD leaned heavily to one side and let out a painful groan. The other kayak was torn from his grip and kept floating downstream. “Crap, crap, crap!”
He pulled the paddle up and counter-leaned to right the boat. JD shifted back toward the center. Ok, that didn’t work as planned. It took him several minutes to chase down the other kayak. When he neared, he realized that Gerald was close to falling out; his upper body had slid off the blood-slicked plastic and was now in the water. The red boat was riding at a precarious angle. Steve shifted his approach to the other side and came up alongside him. Lifting the man’s head and shoulder from the water he could now see the bullet wound. Gerald’s right side was a mass of blood. The darkest spots were just below his ribcage. “Come on, buddy. You can make it.”
He heard a sound from up ahead and looked up. The darkness faded in an instant, as powerful spotlights lit up the entire river. A booming voice rang out, “That’s far enough. Stop your craft. You have just entered the controlled space of a U.S. military base. Stop and raise your hands, or you will be fired upon. Do it now!”
Steve cautiously raised his one hand while holding his friend up with the other. JD still sat motionless. “We’re unarmed and injured.” Technically incorrect, but good enough for now. His panicked voice sounded weak and scared. The light blinded him from seeing much of anything. He was vaguely aware of something approaching, although the light stayed motionless. “You in the back, show me both hands!” Steve released his grip on Gerald and raised his other hand. The red kayak began drifting away. He went to grab for it.
“Let it go. We have him. Keep those hands up, no sudden moves. He saw another craft now and men lifting his injured friend from the red boat.
Steve knew they were all fucked. The Chattahoochee River ran beside Fort Benning, and why they assumed the river wouldn’t be monitored, he had no clue. At least it wasn’t the gang up on the bridges. He was quickly examined before having his wrists zip-tied and being roughly thrown into a larger black boat. To his surprise, they were much gentler with JD. He now saw the boy’s eyes were open, but his face was etched with pain. He heard calls for a medic somewhere else and hoped that was for Gerald. He would accept being thrown into a camp or even killed as long as they treated both of his friends’ injuries. A muffled engine started, and as the watercraft he and JD were in made a sweeping turn, he saw the battered kayaks drifting lazily past, all their gear and meager supplies still onboard. The little kayaks had done their job and gotten him within a hundred miles of home. Sadly, it seemed this was where they parted
ways.
He had a sense of speed as the boat skipped quickly over the water. He and JD were accompanied by at least six uniformed soldiers. None of them spoke except one who seemed to be checking JD’s injuries. Steve couldn’t hear any of what the man was saying and made a move to get closer. A hand restrained him. Looking up into the face, the man shook his head. His dark camo greasepaint making the gesture even more non-negotiable. Steve slipped back down to rest his back against the side walls. The tension, the drumming of the engine and the bouncing of the boat were too much. He felt the twinge of an old familiar enemy. “No, no, no,” he whispered. “Not now.”
An oncoming migraine hit with the fury of a prizefighter. Within minutes he felt himself curling into a ball and the nausea building. Steve hated himself for it. His friends had both been shot. Gerald may have been killed, and now he was going to be unable to do anything because of a goddamn headache. After all they had been through this night—this was more than he could handle.
He felt the soldier poking him. Steve knew he must be speaking to him as well, but didn’t hear anything. He wasn’t even sure he was still in the boat. He felt arms around him tugging, and something solid underneath, then he was out again.
43
Mount Weather Annex – Bluemont, Virginia
“Madam Sec . . . so sorry, I mean, Madam President,” her longtime aide said before handing her the file.
Irritation clouded her face as she took the envelope without responding. The envelope was coded for “Special Access Only.” It contained a sensitive “Mission Action Report” and was at the highest level of secrecy. She dumped the contents out on the table. Photos, papers and a flash drive spilled in all directions. The aerial photos showed scene after scene of utter devastation. The world had not seen a CME this large since the 1800s. Back then, it had a negligible effect as electricity was only sparsely used. Now though, it was a vital part of daily life in most parts of the world. She knew some of what she was looking at was a direct result of the CME; some was the result of the Council’s direct actions.
She inserted the flash drive into the laptop and looked at the data. Just as Ms. Levy’s letter had indicated, the death rate worldwide was soaring. Estimates here on mainland US were over twenty million casualties. In Europe and Asia, mortality was estimated at over 50 percent already. She couldn’t look at the photos of what that damn virus was doing over there. Levy had already indicated one of her elite Praetor Battlegroups had been wiped out in Pakistan. That, on top of the main Praetor 5 base getting slammed in Florida. Damn that woman, served her right. Where was Levy at now? She was glad the evil bitch was no longer here in Bluemont, but she didn’t trust that her vile machinations had slowed.
What bothered Madelyn was it could have all been prevented. She knew before even reading the reports. Systems could have been hardened to protect the power grid. Redundancies could have been put in place to make quick repairs, and FEMA could have been given an actual humanitarian mandate instead of what it really had.
No . . . this had not only been expected; it had been wanted. She understood how many great civilizations had crumbled under weak leaders and a constant bleeding away of wealth into a doomed welfare state. Even the mighty empire of Rome had fallen into this trap. The Council members must hate that reminder, she thought. Now they saw all this as its mission. It was simply . . . a course adjustment. Something to keep the republic on track.
Before the end of this, the projection was that 90 percent of the American population would be dead. The Council had identified the 10 percent they wanted to survive, many of whom had been remanded to protectorate camps already. She had been instructed to clear roads, railways and airports to allow for this to take place. Then she was to empty the urban areas to both speed up their demise and develop a new agricultural basis, the farming communes that would spring up all over the country. They were literally taking food out of the mouths of Americans and giving it to the chosen survivors. The thought of it all made her sick, but she had a duty. Something else—she realized the Council was right. Maybe not in their methods, or who they chose to live or die, but doing nothing would have meant losing it all.
This virus, though, that was another matter entirely. She knew there was another level to the story. Something major that Ms. Levy had neglected to tell her. She wasn’t even sure the other Council members knew. The clues were starting to add up, but she couldn’t see the bigger picture yet. She shut down the computer and placed the horrid pictures back in the envelope with the papers. The U.S. was doomed—the entire world for that matter. While the Council might envision this as a—what did they call it?— the catalyst for a brilliant new age, she saw it for what it was—the end.
44
Steve came to, tasting bile in his mouth. Rolling to one side, he threw up, unable to care who or what was in that direction. His head was spinning, and the intense pressure behind his eyes made every movement laborious. He heard voices, then a light so bright even his closed eyes couldn’t block it all. A deep voice asked him questions. Something about the river. He couldn’t answer, couldn’t even remember. Another voice: “No sign of a concussion. Must be something else.” He wanted to tell them it was simply a migraine, but this one was unlike any he had before. All the tension, stress, anger he had endured the past month had twisted his mind into an elastic knot. Like a rubber band wound too tight, it had snapped. Nerve synapses fired at pain receptors like machine guns. He felt his body giving up, succumbing to whatever was in store. The sounds became muffled, he felt himself sliding down into the darkness yet again.
Like a fever dream, the images in his unconscious mind made no sense, yet still had an effect on him. He was convinced he was being tortured, then paralyzed and finally drowning. He panicked for air as he tried to make unresponsive limbs swim—push—to the surface. Some of this he had experienced before, but never to this magnitude. How many times did he come to, only to be pulled back down? Finally, more of his senses began to come back online.
Eyes still closed, he dared not move as nausea and a pounding head were still there, like a cat waiting to pounce. How much time had passed? Each time he surfaced back into consciousness he took in a bit more of his surroundings. His head still swirled, and unanswered questions drifted by like flotsam on the ocean. Why am I here, who are these people, had I been alone?
Slowly, his mind began separating the dream world from reality. Most of the tortured images faded back into the fog of his battered brain. The light was back, hands on his back and shoulders.
“Sir, you are going to feel a pinch.”
They were injecting something in his back. The surprise hit him almost as fast as the spreading cold. He knew this feeling; it was a treatment for the headaches. Wherever he was, maybe they were trying to help. More thoughts returned as the pain ebbed slightly.
“My friends . . . Ger . . . ” the voice croaked and didn’t sound like his own.
The deep baritone was back asking him more questions. “Sir, what were you and your friends doing on the river? Who are you with?”
The interrogation would have to wait; he simply couldn’t focus. He tried to answer the man, but apparently, the words would not travel from his brain to his mouth. Surprisingly, the man didn’t seem to get upset. Steve thought the man’s voice was vaguely British, or maybe something . . . the thought was lost as the curtains of his mind closed again.
“He’s in no shape for this, Major. Mr. Porter, just get some sleep,” the voice he now recognized as female said. He heard soft footsteps walking away, and the muffled voices resumed, discussing someone, possibly him. He now realized those voices had been part of his dreams, they had been talking while he slipped in and out of consciousness. As he lay there, he struggled to try and separate what he remembered from what was simply a delusion. In his migraine-driven fugue-state, nothing made much sense. They were U.S. Army; he knew that. Think, Porter, think! It’s important. He slipped back down beneath the waves of consciousness.
>
War is coming! Where the hell did that thought come from? He knew he had been asleep. The spinal blocker had done its job. The massive headache was now lessening its grip. The monster was still there, but on a leash for the moment. War. The conversations he had been concentrating on before had coalesced into this while he slept. The U.S. Army, or at least this base, was preparing to go to war, but the enemy they were fighting was the most jarring part.
“Oh good, Mr. Porter, you’re back with us,” came the voice a short while later.
The light was subdued but still painful as he cracked open crusty eyelids for the first time. He rolled toward the voice and coughed. “How long?”
“Two days,” the woman said. “I am Sergeant Lackey. I’m the one who has been treating you. Are you able to sit up? We need to ask you some questions.”
He nodded, then regretted the movement. “Yes,” he said as he maneuvered up on what he realized was a real bed. Not a cot or even a hospital bed. “Where am I?”
“That can wait,” she said dismissively. “Do you have a history of migraines? Were you under treatment for them?”
“Yes, most of my adult life.” He told her the medications he had been prescribed. “Of course, that was before . . . ”
She nodded as she made notes. “So, you know what I gave you then? It is a pretty final option, but it was what I had. Sorry, this is not a clinic, but the epidural kit was part of our standard medical supplies. Our CO wants to know what you were doing on the river.”
He briefly thought of trying to lie but didn’t have the energy. “Just trying to get home, trying to get out of that city.”
