Burning Skies (Book 2): Fallout

by Druga, Jacqueline

He had returned from the water pump to the barn. Joe moved a mat, lifted the floorboard under steamer number three and exposed a staircase. He carried the water down and placed it against the far wall.

  The downstairs storage area was filling up nicely. Soon he would be well stocked. He needed it to be that way. Word of the resistance had reached him and he knew those foot soldiers fighting for freedom would need a safe place, one stocked with provisions, so they could hide away, rest, and gain strength for the battles.

  That was Joe’s plan. His contribution to the cause. He wasn’t in shape enough to fight. He would if he had to, but his part would be to keep the soldiers strong.

  He was stockpiling nicely and secretively. Even though the invaders had set up a headquarters in San Joaquin Valley with the mayor perched on their lap, no one had even approached him or visited his farm.

  That was about to change.

  He pulled the string on the light and as he started up the stairs he heard the sound of motors, a truck motor. He hurried, shut the floor hatch, covered it with the mat, and peeked out the window. Sure enough, a jeep and a truck were parked outside.

  Figuring he might as well see what the visit was about, he left his canning building.

  Four foreign soldiers stepped from the truck, and from the jeep an Asian man wearing a suit accompanied the mayor. Joe had never met him before personally but knew his face.

  Mumbling under his breath, “Snitch,” Joe took a breath and placed on a fake smile. “Morning, gentleman, what can I do for you?”

  “We are looking for Mr. Fajo,” the Asian gentleman said.

  “Excuse me?” Joe asked.

  “Mr. Fajo.”

  “Fajo?”

  “Yes.”

  “Oh.” Joe chuckled. “Fat Joe.”

  “Yes. Fajo.”

  “Not Fajo. Fat Joe. Fat …” He patted his stomach. “Joe. Fat Joe. Get it?”

  “No.”

  “I used to be large. Fat Joe is a nickname and now trade name. My name is Joe Garbino. Anyhow … what’s up?” Joe asked.

  “You are a large producer in the area,” he said. “We have reason to believe that you may be … what is the word?”

  The mayor stepped forward. “Hoarding. They’d like to check the property.”

  “Hoarding?” Joe asked with ridicule. “Why in the world would you think that? I mean you are welcome to check but, come on, hoarding?”

  “Joe,” the mayor said. “You didn’t drop your Wednesday order off at the school or Mavis’. You also didn’t show up at UPS to ship out.”

  “First of all, who the hell knew UPS was still running. Secondly … I don’t stockpile, my orders are made fresh and shipped out the same week. From farm to can in hours, that’s my motto. My farm is dying. Because right now I only pick what I can eat. As far as production, how the hell am I gonna do that without any workers? You wanna know why nothing has gone out? I ain’t had anyone here to work.”

  The suit gentleman looked at the mayor for clarification.

  “He’s not hoarding. He’s not producing right now,” the mayor said.

  The suited gentleman looked around. “He has a large farm.”

  “Yep.” Joe nodded. “I do.”

  “You must produce.”

  “Oh, I produce the food,” Joe said. “I just can’t produce the Fat Joe product. You’re welcome to go out to the fields and get whatever you want. Otherwise it will rot on the vine. In case you didn’t know, war broke out and my employees never came back to work.”

  “How many hand workers do you need to produce your normal quantity?” he asked.

  “I lost sixteen employees.”

  The suited man nodded. “You will have twenty tomorrow. The liberation movement will pay their wages and will compensate you for the products. But you will produce what is asked of you.”

  “Will they be my workers?” Joe asked.

  “They will be workers.”

  “Will they know what they’re doing? Trained?”

  “If not, you will train them.” He turned and walked back to the jeep. “But you will deliver the orders.”

  “You mean fill my standing orders?” Joe asked.

  The suited gentleman ignored him but the mayor answered.

  “No,” said the mayor. “You will be given a quota to deliver daily.”

  “Daily?” Joe barked. “My system is set up for weekly.”

  “Then I suggest you change.”

  “Change what?” Joe argued. “My system? You’re sending me workers that may or may not know what they’re doing. Not only do I have to push them, I have to train them. Weekly? You’ll bleed this farm dry.”

  “I doubt that. You’ll keep up. If you need more workers, let us know. But you will produce daily.” The mayor walked to the jeep as well.

  Joe stood there watching as they backed up and the truck and jeep drove away. At least they didn’t search his property, his stash under the warehouse would remain hidden. That didn’t make things any better. He had no idea what they would want him to produce. A part of Joe feared it was going to not only be a hard quota to fill but one that would interfere in his underground movement plan. However, it wouldn’t stop it. He’d figure out how he’d get things done. In the meantime, he’d break his routine and do an afternoon production just in case it was going to be a few days until he could stock his private stash. Before that, he headed back to the house. He wanted to call Saul and see if he received a visit and demand on his strawberry farm. If not, he was going to give Saul the heads up. It was only a matter of time before they showed up. The foreign invaders were making it known they claimed the land and that included their farms.

  Chapter Eight

  Hanlen, WV

  There was never an instance in his life, at least that Cal could remember, when he felt so sick. Maybe he did and just forgot, but he couldn’t recall feeling as bad as he did, lying on a cot in a packed high school gym.

  His chest was sore and black and blue, the nurse told him that was from them doing a cardiac thump on him. He felt weak and short of breath, and to top that all off, he couldn’t keep anything down or in him.

  If he wasn’t leaning over a basin, he was asking for help changing the bed pad.

  The odor was horrendous, not just from him but everyone else around him.

  Cal wasn’t special. Not there, not when the closest sick person in proximity to him was an arm’s reach away. At least he was grateful that he wasn’t seeing any blood in his regurgitation unlike the poor man next to him. All that man brought up was blood and it smelled putrid.

  The guy’s face was spotted with a burn on his cheek. His arms were blackened with what looked like bruises and his hair was thin and scarce.

  Cal wondered what he looked like but dared not to ask for a mirror.

  He just wanted to get better. To stop floating in and out of consciousness and find his friends, find … Louise.

  When Leana searched for them, all she could report to Cal was that all of them were being treated for radiation sickness.

  “It’s not a short game,” she told him. “You’re not gonna feel better in a few days. It’s not the flu. And you especially will take a while. You’re recovering on many levels.”

  It wasn’t like Cal to just do nothing, sick or not. From his cot, he watched the number of workers dwindle. The healthcare worker to patient ratio used to be good, but over a period of a few days, he only saw one and Leanna wasn’t the worker.

  What happened to her? Was she alright?

  While he tried to focus on the goings-on of the aid station, he drifted off again.

  The brief slumber bred a vivid dream. The wedding that never happened, all the guests, the purple and gold decorations. Staring at his beautiful wife. When he woke, at first, he believed the entire war, the bombs, the sickness was all part of a dream. They weren’t. Just as he started to close his eyes again, he saw the lone health care worker struggling with a patient and Cal decided, sick or not, he couldn�
��t lay and do nothing.

  With a grunt he sat up slowly and swung his legs over the side of the cot. He took a moment, let the dizziness subside before he stood.

  When his feet touched the ground he swayed left to right nearly losing his balance. Hand to the cot, he caught himself. He wasn’t attached to an IV and that was a good thing. He took a deep breath and slowly, nursing the cots as a crutch, made his way to the health care worker.

  Cal couldn’t tell if the patient was a man or woman, only that the worker, who was male, was having a hard time.

  The patient thrust up and down, legs kicking. The worker was trying to secure the legs, give some sort of medication while pleading with the patient to be calm.

  The closer Cal drew the clearer he saw that the bedding was a mess and so was the floor. Smeared with blood and bodily fluids, Cal brought his hand to his mouth as he made it even closer.

  The stench of rotten bile burned his nostrils

  “Calm, please, I just want to help you,” the health care worker said.

  “Here,” Cal said as he made his approach. “Let me. Hold them down, I’ll inject. I don’t have the strength.”

  “Thank you so …” The worker peered over his shoulder and saw Cal. “No, get back in bed. You shouldn’t be up.”

  “I can’t … I can’t just lay there.”

  “Yes, you can.”

  “No … I can’t. What can I do to help?”

  Exasperated, the worker exhaled in defeat. “Here.” He handed Cal a syringe. “Just inject it in the thigh. Do it fast, I’ll only be able to hold her down so long.”

  Cal nodded and stepped forward. He could see the woman’s legs were frail and thin, covered with sores that bled and looked bruised. When he made it directly to the cot, he saw her arms were the same, and she shook her head violently. Her head was void of hair and covered with brown birth-like burn marks.

  “Get ready,” the worker said.

  Cal prepared to deliver the medication. He watched as the worker secured her legs. When that happened, Cal froze.

  “Now. Right now,” the worker ordered.

  It took a second for Cal to snap out of it and he plunged the contents of the syringe into the thigh, then stepped back and froze again.

  He couldn’t move, couldn’t think. His heart dropped to the pit of his stomach when he saw poor woman wasn’t a stranger … it was Louise.

  Charleston, WV

  It was something Madeline didn’t expect to feel … guilt. Not for being taken as a prisoner of war, but she felt guilty because she was relieved.

  She tried to rationalize the relief, but it was hard. She was leader of the free world, which was no longer free. She wasn’t supposed to be relieved she was captured. Yet, she was.

  There was a sense to her that it was over.

  The invasion, the war, even the domestic terror strikes, were a lot for an experienced sitting president to handle. Madeline was tossed into the fray, full body and mind, and there wasn’t a solid plan. They couldn’t even come up with one because there was no way to know what was going on.

  She was stuck in an old cold war era bunker, wearing a military uniform that was far too big for her. She was cold, hungry, tired, and confused. She hated herself for it.

  Given the time, Madeline would have come up with a strategy. Now, that was time was done.

  She was taken, like the queen in a game of chess.

  Madeline didn’t know where they were taking her. She raised her arms because she didn’t want a shot fired, she didn’t want her men and women at the bunker hurt. She assumed those who were there would be taken as well.

  There were two trucks and she was loaded into the back of one alone.

  It was when the truck began to roll away that she heard the shots fired, the explosion. She closed her eyes and wanted to cry. Her yielding to the soldiers was for naught, they hit the bunker anyhow.

  Troy and the others were more than likely gone.

  Madeline was the only surviving member of the senate or congress, that she knew about.

  She was now a prisoner of war.

  The one voice to represent the fight and defense was silenced and in the back of a truck.

  With each mile she rode the more she realized, there would be no battle, no fighting back, no conquering the enemy.

  It was over.

  In fact, it was pretty much over the second the enemy landed on American soil.

  They drove for a while, at least an hour. She couldn’t see where they were. Madeline wasn’t shackled or handcuffed, nor was she treated roughly. She was escorted by two armed guards who didn’t speak to her at all.

  When the truck stopped, the curtain in the back opened and her armed guards stood there. They offered her assistance in getting down and that was when she saw she was at an airport.

  It was a short walk from the truck to the aircraft, a private jet with no name on it.

  “Where am I going?” she asked. “Where are you taking me?”

  She wasn’t sure what she expected, maybe it was shock that had kept her from speaking up earlier. Instantly, she panicked. Her pace slowed and her footing became more resistant. They led her more than before and inched her up the outer staircase through the open door of the plane. The engines were already running and warming up.

  The interior of the plane was beautiful, clean, and comfortable. Eight rows of wide white leather seats lined one side of the plane, and on the other was a sofa and table. Her escorts left as soon as they got her inside.

  Madeline’s heart raced.

  A few moments later a female flight attendant came out, dressed in a crisp uniform, and pointed to a seat.

  “Where are we going?” Madeline asked. “Where are you taking me?”

  The flight attendant smiled and pointed to the seats.

  After a brief pause, Madeline took a seat and the attendant handed her a soft blanket. As soon as she sat, she closed her eyes. The seat was comfortable and warm. The blanket felt wonderful. The flight attendant left and returned with a cup of coffee and a warm wet towel that smelled of lemon. She placed them both on the small table area next to Madeline’s seat.

  Madeline grabbed the towel and placed it on her face, then after it cooled, she set it down and lifted the coffee.

  The guilt returned when she took a sip. It felt like ages since she’d had a cup of coffee.

  She had to remember what was happening. She was taken during a siege, yet, Madeline didn’t contest. It wasn’t that she was weak, she was just at a loss.

  There was no point in arguing or putting up a fight because she didn’t know anything. She was in the dark. She had no clue who had taken her and where they were headed. It had to be all part of the process.

  A foreign country had invaded.

  She was the leader.

  In fact, there was nothing she could do except drink her coffee and wait and see where she landed. Hopefully then, someone would talk to her and tell her what was going on.

  Cleveland, OH

  It was a great place to stop for the night, in fact, Toby found it and called it irony. It was one of the few remaining intact buildings on the outskirts of Cleveland. A wholistic healer of Western Medicine. The windows weren’t busted and just inside the small building was the reception area. It was a cross between a store and waiting room.

  The back had examining tables which made a great place to sleep.

  Toby walked a good twenty feet ahead of Marissa and Harris. He was the scout, keeping an eye out. They wanted to find a car, but any that were viable didn’t have keys or gas and none of them were savvy enough to get one working.

  When Toby realized the day was winding down he started looking for a stopping place.

  They had made it out of the city on a south-bound path. Harris would stay with them until they reached his home, then he was stopping while Toby and Marissa went west.

  Harris was convinced that everything was fine once they cleared the perimeter of Cleveland and de
struction. That somehow there were rescue crews abound, walking and searching.

  Toby knew that wasn’t the case, or at least they weren’t nearby. He didn’t hear any dogs and that was the telltale sign to Toby no one was out there. Rescue workers, that was.

  They did see a few people who, like themselves, were walking south. They met a woman and her two young boys. They looked dirty and tired, the youngest boy looked ill.

  Convinced help was not far away, Harris gave them water and food from his ration. He claimed that he didn’t need them, rations were probably plenty outside of Cleveland.

  They had however cleared the worst part of destruction, and the farther they walked the more buildings they saw.

  Even he knew it was a limited strike and wasn’t like the entire country was blasted away. They just needed to get out of the area and see what was happening with the world.

  For that night, they were staying put.

  Toby closed the window blinds, had some of his food, rummaged through what the store had that was useful, then went to the back to turn in for the night.

  None of them said much at all that night.

  He was the first to wake up. The health store had protein bars and he had one of those. It was when he was gathering his stuff that he heard the sound of a truck. It sounded like a big one, too.

  When he heard it, his immediate thought was that maybe Harris was right.

  “Dudes, get up,” he told them. “I am hearing trucks outside. I’m gonna go check it out.”

  Harris immediately jumped up and Toby raced out before he saw if Marissa woke.

  Once outside he caught a glimpse of the large truck. It was military and Toby smiled, running back in.

  “It’s the military,” he said. “Harris, looks like you might be right. They’re probably looking for people.”

  Instantly they grabbed their gear and raced out. The sound of the truck had faded, but they were hopeful.

  “We need to get out into the open,” Harris suggested. “We veered off the main road. Which way did the truck go?”

  Toby pointed and Harris took off in that direction.