EMP Aftermath Series (Book 3): Retribution

by John Winchester

  "Is that so? Well, I heard some sort of commotion downstairs earlier. I can't say that I know what it was about. After all, I can't be expected to take care of everything myself, can I?" the man in the suit asked.

  "Your men are getting sloppy, Tweed. The boy said there were three or four guards. Three or four. That's not nearly enough to keep watch over a warehouse this size. Maybe it's not just your men that are sloppy. You must be getting sloppy, too, if some dumb kid and his mother can nearly expose what you've got going on here. Makes me wonder if you're paying me enough."

  Confused, Kenny looked at the policeman. The gun was no longer pointed at the man behind the desk. The gun was pointed at him.

  "Use your finger and your thumb and take that piece out of your holster real slow, and then put it down on the desk."

  Kenny looked at the policeman with fresh eyes. In the bright light of the office, he saw something he couldn't have seen in the darkness on the street. The policeman's eyes were cold, hard, and distant, a merciless looking man. Had it been daylight, Kenny wouldn't have trusted the man to help him get a cat out of a tree. This was a man who would gun him down without hesitation if he pulled his pistol out too quickly, and would probably enjoy doing it, too. He slowly removed it from its holster and set it down on as instructed.

  Tweed cast a hurt look at the policeman. "I'm getting sloppy? I'm paying you to provide security in this town. What am I paying you for if not to prevent just this type of intrusion? No, don't put this on my plate."

  The policeman ground his teeth together but remained silent.

  Tweed folded his hands together on top of his desk. "Don't you worry about your little girlfriend, whoever she is. A lot of them come through here, so it's hard to remember them all. And the other woman... your mother? She's a feisty one. Bit one of my men's fingers clean off. Before long they'll both be far, far, away from here. I'll put them to good use elsewhere."

  "What do you want me to do with him?" the cop asked.

  "Is he going to be a problem? Are there others looking for him?" Tweed asked.

  "No. He came alone, says he's from Wheeler."

  "Send him to the mines and give him the usual treatment. A few days there and our secret will be safe. He'll forget all about this. Oh, and tell the men to get the girls out of here. Get them ready for immediate transport. We'll leave as soon as possible, just in case this young man alerted someone else to our activities."

  Chapter 14

  Bachman Detention Facility lay in the middle of a valley hemmed in by steep and rugged mountains on both sides. A long and winding gravel road led through a mountain pass down into the facility. From what he could tell at this distance, the detention facility was little more than a squat concrete block administrative building surrounded by hundreds of canvas tents. There was likely more to be seen, but he wouldn’t be able to glimpse the rest of the valley from here. Well hidden by the dense forest growth on the mountain slope, Chief Howell sat with his back to a tree, scanning the valley with a pair of high power binoculars.

  His vantage point was too far away to see fine details of the camp below, but one oddity stood out even from this distance. There were no walls, fences, or other barriers surrounding the facility. Nothing at all to define the inside from the outside. Prisons were built with solid concrete blocks, had windows with steel bars, and chain link fences topped by razor-sharp cyclone wire. This place looked more like a summer camp for youths than a real prison like Mount Olive.

  It was definitely a prison, though. He could see the striped prisoner uniforms from this distance, as well as other men in guard uniforms. Just now, two of the guards followed a crew of prisoners returning to their tents. The forest canopy was a good cover, but it also limited his view. He had to get down there for a better look, but he'd need to be on foot to approach more closely. His horse was just too loud.

  Howell led his horse through the woods, retracing his steps up the steep slope. A quarter mile away he found a quiet secluded glen out of sight from the road, and he lashed his horse to a tree.

  He stalked his way back down the hillside, taking his time and moved more cautiously as he approached the facility. Every few steps he paused to scan the woods around him and listen for others. A hundred yards from the facility, he spied a portly guard walking the perimeter of the camp through the woods. The man walked with his head down staring at the forest floor just before him, completely unaware of his surroundings.

  If he was going to get a closer look at the camp, he needed to look like he belonged here. That guard's uniform was his ticket inside. Howell moved quickly, seizing the opportunity. He inched his way through the woods, keeping tree trunks between himself and the guard until he was just behind the guard. Howell double checked the woods around him to make sure there were no other guards, and then he closed the last ten yards separating him from the guard.

  "Don't move, and don't make a sound. I've got a pistol on you," Howell said.

  The guard stopped dead in his tracks.

  "Put your hands on your head and walk backward to me."

  The guard did as he was instructed, and when he was within reach, Howell reached out and pulled the man's pistol out of his holster, then spun him around.

  "What's your name, son?" Howell asked.

  The guard gaped at him, his eyes as big as saucers. "John. John, sir," he stuttered.

  "John, this is going to sound strange, but I need you to take your clothes off. I'm going to borrow them for a bit."

  The guard's mouth hung open. "What?"

  "Your clothes, take them off," Howell said.

  The man hesitated, and then stripped his clothes off, glancing at Howell's gun nervously.

  As the guard undressed, Howell noticed the company logo on the shirt. Martin Hale Security Company.

  "Do all of the guards here work for Martin Hale?" Chief Howell asked.

  "Yeah, at least I think we do," the man said, confused.

  "OK, now toss them over to me." Howell scooped up the clothes with his free hand then motioned with his gun, pointing up the hill. "Walk up that hill in front of me. Go on."

  Howell marched the man way up the hill, far from the facility and a short distance from where his horse was tethered. He located a sturdy tree in a clearing surrounded by thick undergrowth that would hide the man from view. "Sit down and wrap your arms around that tree. I'm not going to hurt you, but I need you to stay put for a while."

  Howell put the man’s arms around the tree and cuffed him, then took the man's socks off and stuffed them in his mouth. The guard began to gag as Howell used the man's t-shirt to cover his eyes and secure the socks in place. The man uttered a muffled protest, gagging on his socks, his voice muffled.

  "Sorry about that. You might want to wash your socks more frequently in the future in case something like this happens again. I'll be back shortly." Howell stripped off his clothes and donned the Martin Hale uniform, somewhat irritated to find that the portly man's clothes fit him. Satisfied that he looked the part, he marched back down to the detention camp, determined to get to the bottom of what was happening there.

  Howell nonchalantly walked over to the administrative building in the center of the camp as if he had every right to be there. He knew from experience that the best disguise you could wear was confidence. Now that he was in the center of the camp, the forest no longer obscured his vision, and he could see the entire valley in both directions.

  Behind him lay several more canvas tents lined up in an orderly fashion. More concrete block buildings lay beyond the tents. In the other direction, the mountain slope had been stripped bare of vegetation. Gravel and dark colored rocks covered the ground. A curving road with treacherously steep hairpin turns snaked its way up the mountain. Half of the road was unpaved crushed gravel, the other half laid with railroad tracks. The tracks led to two pitch black mine shafts carved into the side of the mountain.

  Dirty prisoners led mules and horses pulling mine carts loaded with coal alo
ng the railroad, their faces and bodies covered with black coal dust. A few hundred men in prisoners garb were busy working on various tasks throughout the facility. Some carried pickaxes over their shoulders, headed into the cavernous dark mine; others carried crates into the mine, handling them delicately. Another crew manned a large water pump near the entrance to the mine, where several mules were harnessed to a carousel-like contraption that used the horsepower to run the water pump. The pump brought water up hundreds of feet from deep within the mine and sent rivers of dirty black water cascading down the mountainside.

  It was a labor camp. A private prison manned by forced laborers in a secret location. This was getting weirder by the minute, but it was hardly damning evidence. There were plenty of states where prisoners were sentenced to hard labor for their crimes. Still, it bothered him was that none of the prisoners were shackled, chained, or otherwise restrained. They carried pickaxes and other tools that could be used as weapons within feet of guards. The guards themselves seemed relaxed and unconcerned, as if the prisoners posed them no threat. It was too bizarre not to have some explanation. What was keeping the prisoners from simply walking out of the camp?

  Perplexed, Chief Howell scanned the mining operation, and then turned to walk back to the second set of concrete buildings at the other end of the valley. There had to be something more to the picture than what he was seeing. Hopefully the other end of the camp would reveal some secret. But he had to hurry. The guard he had tied up to the tree would be reported missing at some point, and the alarm would be raised.

  Chapter 15

  Kenny struggled uselessly against the two burly Martin Hale guards. They had him by the elbows, dragging him through the industrial area of Huntington towards a train. His hands cuffed behind his back, he couldn't slip his wrists out the handcuffs as much as he tried. Resisting in whatever way he could, Kenny dragged his feet through the gravel as the guards hauled him towards a boxcar with steel bars across the windows. It didn't slow them down, however, and earned him a smack across the back of the head from a guard.

  One of the guards opened the door of a boxcar and shoved him inside. The man chuckled, and then slammed Kenny face first into the wall and kept him pressed there as he removed the handcuffs. The two guards pushed him down onto a wooden bench and replaced the handcuffs with a set of heavy shackles bolted to the bench and another pair of shackles that held his feet firmly in place.

  "Let me out of here! You can't do this. People are going to look for--"

  A large fist struck him in the stomach, knocking the wind out of him. Kenny struggled to breathe, doubled over with pain. The guards exited the boxcar, snickering as they locked the door and walked away.

  As his eyes adjusted to the darkness, he saw two other men around his own age were shackled to the bench next to him, heads hung low. Both wore matching black and white striped outfits; prisoner's garb.

  Kenny jerked the manacles binding his hands up as hard as he could, testing the strength of their connection to the wooden bench. They didn't budge. They were securely bolted into the bench.

  "Forget it. We've already tried everything we could think of to get out of here. It's impossible," the prisoner on his left said.

  "I've got to get out of here. They took my mother--"

  "Shut up! I don't want to hear it," the prisoner on his right side said.

  The man on his left leaned over and whispered. "They killed his whole family. Something about them owing money to the wrong people. He won't talk to me much either. What's your name?"

  "Kenny, what's yours?"

  "Brian."

  "How did they get you?" Kenny asked.

  "I work on a riverboat. We finished unloading our cargo the other night and I got a little too drunk in town. A cop tossed me out of the bar, and I gave him some lip. He beat me up pretty bad and tossed me in jail. He said I was going somewhere and I'd never be heard from again. No court, no judge, nothing. I woke up here," Brian said.

  "They can't do this. Somebody has got to stop them," Kenny said.

  "Listen to me. The guards are dangerous. Don't try to pull anything on them. We were both in the police station until they loaded us onto this train, along with one other guy. The other guy kicked a guard in the face. They took him out and beat him to death. Right there in the police station, right front of the cop. He didn't do a damned thing, just sat there and watched, laughing," he said.

  "I think I've met the cop you're talking about. We've got to get out of here. My mother and I are trying to find my fiancée. These men ambushed her family, killed her parents, and took her and her brother. They sent her brother to a work prison or something, but he escaped almost as soon as he got there. That must be where they plan on sending us. If he can escape, so can we," Kenny said.

  "How do you plan on doing that?" Brian asked.

  "They didn't bother to change me into one of those outfits you're in. Just a second." Kenny bunched his coat up and grabbed the hem of the coat along the bottom seam. He rubbed the coat's seam on the metal edge of the bench, moving it back and forth until the hem began to fray. It didn't take much effort before he was able to rip the flimsy stitching and open it all the way around the bottom of his coat. He kept a few emergency items sewn up inside the cavity formed by the folded over cloth. His fingers touched two rings connected by a wire, exactly what he was looking for.

  "What are you doing?" Brian asked.

  "I keep a few things sewn into the hem of my jacket. A steel wire saw, flint and steel, and a snare wire. In case I ever get stuck out in the woods without my regular gear, I've got everything I need to start a fire and catch food." Kenny felt around the wooden bench to feel where the bolt securing his shackles was, and then began to saw into the wooden bench.

  "Really man, what are you doing? That wire saw isn't going to cut through those handcuffs. They're solid steel, that little saw will break," Brian said.

  Kenny kept working the saw, slowing as he neared the steel bolt attaching the chains to the bench. The saw wasn't one of the cheap department store gimmicky ones that would break the first time you used it, but he still needed to be careful not to twist the wire or torque it the wrong way, it would definitely break if he pushed it too hard. He sawed straight into the wooden bench until he neared the bolt and then cut a circle into the wood around the bolt. When the circle was complete, the section of wood containing the bolt dropped free of the bench. With the bolt gone he was able to lift his hands and move his arms about, although the shackles meant that he couldn't spread them more than a couple of feet wide. He experimented with how far he could reach and tapped Brian on the shoulder.

  "Oh shit, are you out of the handcuffs?" Brian asked excitedly.

  "No, but I removed the bolt keeping my arms to the bench."

  "What good does that do us?"

  Kenny felt around his ankles, searching for a similar bolt securing the shackles binding his feet. Hope turned to despair as he felt along the chain. It was affixed to a large metal plate bolted onto the floor by a solid metal ring. The plate was attached to the floor with four sturdy bolts. The wire saw was useless against the flat wooden floor.

  "I can't do anything about the shackles on our feet. They're are bolted down tight to the floor."

  Chains clinked as the prisoner to his right sat up. "You got the one on the bench though, right? Can you get my hands free?"

  "Yeah, I could try. Why?" Kenny asked.

  "If you can get all of our hands free we can grab one of the guards when he comes in one. Then we can get the keys off of him."

  "I guess it's our best option. What do you think, Brian?" Kenny asked.

  "You guys had better be sure about this. If we don't get him the first time, we're trapped in here. He could beat us to death and we wouldn't be able to defend ourselves," Brian said.

  "We're never going to get another chance at this. Let's do it. What's your name?" Kenny asked the previously silent prisoner.

  "Doug."

  W
ith the three of them all in agreement, Kenny set to work with the wire saw, cutting the same channel out of the bench and freeing the bolt securing the other two sets of shackles. Twenty minutes later, all three of them were able to move their arms about and stand up if they wished, though the shackles on their feet kept them rooted in place. They worked out a plan for grabbing the guard and went through every possible scenario they could think of upon his return. Now all they could do was wait.

  They waited in silence for several hours until they heard the two guards talking as they approached the prisoner transport car. Chains clanked together outside. It sounded like there might be another prisoner about to join them in the car. The guards would have to lock him down to the bench. It was one of the scenarios they'd planned for.

  Kenny tried in vain to calm the adrenaline rush coursing through his body. "Keep your hands on your lap and your legs pressed together so the guards can't see our shackles are loose," he whispered.

  The door opened and a guard held a kerosene lamp high. A second, stocky guard sneered at them, then pushed a badly beaten prisoner inside and climbed into the car after him.

  The stocky guard punched the new prisoner in the gut. The man doubled over in pain and sank down onto the bench. The guard locked the battered prisoner's shackles to the bench and then kneeled down to the floor to secure his legs.

  What happened next was like a flash in his memory, it happened so quickly. Doug, the prisoner sitting on his right, reached out and tossed the chains connecting his shackles around the neck of the guard, pulling him into a tight embrace and choking him. The red-faced man spluttered and kicked out with his legs. He punched wildly with his arms, clawing at Doug's eyes with his fingers.

  Kenny secured the guard’s arms, pinning them to his sides, while Brian restrained the man's feet on his left. He reached down to grab the guard's sidearm, only to find that Brian had already snatched it up.