End Days Super Boxset

by Hayden, Roger

  "There she is!" sideburns exclaimed.

  Samantha was out cold, lying face-first into her pillow. Sideburns turned her over and patted her face.

  "Samantha," he said with a Bostonian accent. "Wake up, girl. Come on, come back to us."

  "Who is this chick?" Flattop asked.

  "I don't know, but the Senator sure as shit wants us to bring her back." Sideburns forewent further coddling and lifted Samantha up, cradling her.

  "Let's go. Grab her suitcase or something," he told flattop.

  "Sure thing," flattop responded. He grabbed Samantha's small travel suitcase, extended its handles, and rolled out the door. They shut the door behind them, even in its tarnished state.

  The hotel lobby was a hotspot of frantic activity. Without power, guests ran through the floors, trying to get their belongings and charge into the great abyss outside the hotel walls. Where anyone would go, no one was sure. Official channels had been lost. Communication was nonexistent. Most of everyone had heard of the East Coast attacks, and the threat of following a similar fate loomed over every man, woman, and child. Sideburns carried Samantha outside the hotel doors as flattop ran ahead to their black Ford Explorer SUV parked on the curb. He carefully placed her in the back and shut the doors. As they started the engine, others ran up to the windows begging for a ride.

  "You have to help me get out of here!" a terrified and desperate forty-something woman pleaded. "There'll be nothing of Denver left by the time the terrorists get us!"

  Sideburns put the SUV in drive and floored it out into the highway. They were privy to some shortcuts that could assist them to their final destination. Someplace safe and far away from any crazed person currently roaming the streets.

  Samantha slowly opened her eyes. She didn't know where she was. She could barely see beyond some very dim lighting and blurred images before her.

  "Welcome back, Samantha. So glad you're back with us. You really gave us a scare there," a comforting voice said.

  Full consciousness swept over her and she was able to focus on her surroundings. A familiar-looking man sat over her as she lay on a small bunk bed. She looked up and saw the flat coil webbing of the top bunk above. Her attention went back to the man. She felt she could recognize him, but a sense of delirium wasn't far off from her current state.

  "You had a very serious breathing episode there. We've been monitoring you for over an hour, and it seems like you'll be okay."

  She could feel the wetness of a warm washcloth covering her forehead. She raised an arm to remove the cloth.

  "You were very dehydrated, which I think caused you to hyperventilate and pass out. But don't worry, everything is going to be okay."

  "Where am I?" Samantha asked with a tired whisper. Her sore throat had only gotten worse.

  The man leaned in closer into the light, making his face visible. It was Senator Bryant in the flesh. His collar was a bit loose and his tie removed, but she could recognize his blue sapphire eyes anywhere.

  "Senator Bryant?" Samantha asked.

  "Yes, Samantha, I'm here. You have absolutely nothing to be afraid. You are safe among us."

  He paused briefly, marveling over Samantha, then continued. "Welcome to our bunker."

  Chapter Five

  The Impossibility of a CityWide Evacuation

  Sacha's bus of misfits came to a deadening stop a mile from the Brooklyn Bridge. The city was alive in ways Sacha had never seen. All lanes of traffic completely full, an endless ocean of taxicabs, police cars, garbage trucks, fire trucks, motorcycles, and personal vehicles. Mel, the prison bus driver, received his instructions from the higher-ups over his transmitter radio. He was instructed to travel to a detention facility in Syracuse, the furthest place away from the city within reason. The prisoners would then be further detained in a temporary security facility.

  The main subjects of interest were those apprehended following the Wall Street Bombing. Though the Homeland Security Department--and the entire United States government--had its hands full with the outbreak of nuclear war, there were still some officials looking for the answers to the day's tragic events. They believed that many of the answers started with the Wall Street Bombing and the suspects they had apprehended.

  "Hey! I want off this bus. Why are we here? Where are we going? This is an injustice!" a man in a grease-stained blue jumpsuit shouted from the back of the bus.

  Sacha recognized him from earlier. It was the mechanic who wore the patch that read: Roy. He had smiled at Sacha when they were placed in the back of the police van outside the New York Stock Exchange following the Wall Street Bombing. Like Sacha, he was most likely a terrorist suspect. He had an air of authority to him that the other prisoners seemed to follow.

  "Quiet down back there!" Sergeant Davis shouted.

  A young, aggressive, white gangsta-wannabe, seemingly American, with a face of hundred bar fights decided to chime in as well. "This is bullshit. Fucking cops got no right to do this. I'll sue the shit out of the NYPD for this."

  Davis took hip-hop's remarks personally. He stood up, clutching the shotgun in his hand. "Show some gratitude for the city giving a shit about any of you in the first place. We're evacuating you assholes, so thank your lucky stars that you're on this bus."

  "Go fuck yourself and your lucky stars," hip-hop replied.

  "Pipe down or I'll slap some cuffs on ya', got it?" Davis threatened.

  "Fuck you, bitch," hip-hop remarked.

  "Why is the city being evacuated?" a stocky black man with a low baritone voice yelled from the back.

  "Didn't you hear? Someone's gonna hit New York City with a nuke," an aging hobo with stringy white hair said with a laugh. He was in his sixties, but rough living gave him the appearance of a man at least ten years older.

  "It's only a rumor. Another way to bring hatred and suspicion towards my people," a young Middle Eastern man with short dark hair and sunken eyes interjected.

  "Get with the program, dude," the hobo said. "Someone hit Wall Street today. Blew the whole Stock Exchange building up. This shit is as real as it can be."

  Sacha tried to stay out of the conversation and just stare out the window, past the overweight man with the thick black beard sitting next to him. They weren't going anywhere fast. One look at the disorder among New Yorkers and the capabilities in conducting such a mass exodus proved limited. Lines of people walked alongside the bridge, clearly considering it the more practical measure. Police and military were in full force.

  The sky lit up in a mass culmination of helicopter lights, spotlights, and flares. The city still had power, which couldn't be said for many other areas around the country. As Sacha watched from his seat, he felt oddly safe within the confines of the bus. As long as they were the responsibility of the NYPD, he felt nothing could go wrong.

  Sergeant Davis held his hand to his ear, pushing in an earpiece connected to his handheld radio. His face was a picture of stoic concern, white in complexion. An expression of deep dismay flushed over him.

  "Say that again," he said into the radio. His eyes widened in deep concern. "What do you mean gone?" he asked. Again his expression was one of deep dismay. He yanked the earpiece from his ear and looked to Mel, the driver, and without thinking, he spoke.

  "They hit Philadelphia," he said.

  "What are you talking about?" Mel asked, trying to keep his focus on the road.

  "I'm saying that they're saying that Philly got hit with a nuke. They say close to a million people dead. A million!"

  "Nah. That don't sound right. No way that could happen," Mel replied while lighting up a cigarette.

  "I'm telling ya' Mel, that's what they just told me. These are official channels here. We need to get the hell out of this city, and I mean fast."

  "Tell me something I don't know," Mel replied.

  Sergeant Davis hit the wall next to him with his fist and shook his wrist in pain. "Shit. I just can't believe it. A fuckin' nuke."

  "What about a nuke?" the b
lack man with the deep voice asked from the back. He had been listening intently to Davis's conversation with Mel.

  Sergeant Davis looked up quickly as if he, himself, had misspoken. "Nothing," he said. "Nothing at all. Just some cross-chatter I'm getting on the radio."

  "Don't sound like no cross-chatter to me," black baritone said. "Sounds like you said a nuke hit Philly. Now did it or didn't it?"

  "Look, there’s nothing to worry about. Just keep quiet back there," Davis responded defensively.

  "I heard it too, man, you just said a nuke hit Philly," the hobo said.

  Murmurs of agreement soon followed as the prisoners grew unruly, much to the delight of the mysterious mechanic, Roy.

  "What the fuck is going on?" the Middle Eastern man asked.

  Other passengers followed in their objections. Several rose from their seats and shook their fists in the air. Some pounded the windows. Others shouted to be freed. Sergeant Davis carefully concealed his growing nervousness. Their behavior was clearly getting out of control.

  "I want off this bus," Roy said, speaking for the first time following the outcry of the prisoners. "I want off this bus now!" he added, standing up.

  The other passengers joined him in protest. Everyone save for Sacha was standing, even the cuffed prisoners.

  "You think you can keep us here locked up like wild animals?" Roy asked, staring at Sergeant Davis through his thick, dangling curls.

  "You dumbasses, we're trying to get you to safety," Davis shouted.

  But it was no use. The passengers chanted and yelled, forming the assemblage of an angry mob. It didn't take long before every prisoner turned into one collective voice of protest. Many, who faced actual charges, were more than happy to join in. The tide began to turn against Sergeant Davis, and there was little anyone could do to stop it. Sacha remained in his seat even as the black-bearded man next to him tossed up his thick, hairy arms up in protest. He shouted in a native tongue that Sacha couldn't decipher.

  Sergeant Davis spoke into his handheld radio, requesting backup with fear in his eyes. Black beard pushed past Sacha and joined the others as they marched towards the front. As Sacha sat quietly, he tried to grasp how things could have spiraled out of control so quickly. It occurred to him that most of the anger had originated from the man in the blue jumpsuit. A closer inspection showed that Roy was stoking the fire in a stealth-like manner. Roy stood on a seat in the middle of the bus, overlooking the prisoners below. To Sacha, it was no longer a suspicion, Roy was leading the charge. He shouted to the men below him. They collectively chanted back while pumping their fists in the air simultaneously. Whatever Roy chanted, they chanted back.

  "NYPD let us go! Let us free! End your hateful tyranny!"

  The prisoners who couldn't speak English simply chanted in their native language. Sacha had to admit that it was a catchy tune, then it dawned on him that the inside of the bus was now more dangerous than outside. And he was trapped.

  Mel looked into his large rearview mirror with deep concern. "You gonna do something about this?" he asked Sergeant Davis nervously.

  Davis nodded and spoke into his radio. "The prisoners are not cooperating, I'm requesting immediate backup."

  The gate was all that stood between them and the prisoners, and Mel knew that it could only protect them for so long. They weren't any closer to crossing the Brooklyn Bridge than when they first started. The main exits of the bus were at the front and the emergency exit, impenetrable in design, in the back. The windows were made up of thick Plexiglas with bars on the outside. The only truly feasible escape route for the prisoners was the front of the bus. Mel looked ahead; they were almost on the Brooklyn Bridge. The traffic congestion before them was no ordinary rush hour traffic. There was zig-zag patterns of cars filling all conceivable openings. It would take hours, Mel thought, and with the threat of a nuclear attack in the air, things could only get worse.

  Sergeant Davis stood up, pointing his shotgun past the gate.

  "That's enough," he yelled over the chanting. "Take your seats now!" He looked down at his weapon, imagining the damage it could do. Nothing in his training had ever suggested gunning down a mob of unruly passengers, but he had a potential riot on his hand, all enclosed within the confines of a prison bus. He moved his hand to his side holster where his Taser gun rested. His mind shifted to the front of the cab where there were smoke grenades, gas masks, and riot gear, if it came to that.

  "I want everyone to rush the gate. We can break through, my brothers!" Roy shouted from atop his seat. Sergeant Davis's pleas had done nothing to deter them; they were, in fact, more energized than before. In no time they were upon the gate, banging onto it with their meaty and angered fists.

  "Break through! Break through! Break through!" they chanted.

  Sacha slid down his seat as to remain unnoticed.

  "I knew we should have taken the time to cuff and chain everyone," Davis remarked to Mel in a trembling voice. Davis turned to the passengers.

  "Get back in your seats!" he shouted. "I'm not going to tell you again!" He turned and placed his shotgun in its holder against the wall. He then pulled a can of mace from his belt and held it into the air. "Okay, you asked for it," he said with determined conviction.

  The prisoners in the front of the mob held their enraged faces to the gate. Spit flew from their mouth as they chanted. Davis could feel their hot breath. They clutched the gate and shook it back and forth. Davis rattled his can, flipped the top off, and sprayed a bursting stream of pepper spray directly into their faces. Those on the front lines fell back screaming, covering their eyes with both hands.

  "Don't rub your eyes!" Roy shouted. "Let it run its course."

  Davis continued to spray indiscriminately. As one man fell to the ground, another moved in and filled his place. They were close to twenty men pushing their way against the gate, screaming, chanting, kicking, and punching. Sacha ducked down in his seat, fearing how things might escalate. Roy turned back and noticed him. While hunched down, Sacha felt a tap on his back. He looked up to see the jumpsuit man standing over him.

  "What are you sitting here for? Now's our chance to escape." Roy said.

  "I don't have anywhere to escape to," Sacha answered.

  "You can go with us," Roy said.

  "And who are you?" Sacha asked.

  "I'm with the Brotherhood of Men. You should join us."

  "That's okay. I think I'll just stay on the bus."

  Roy leaned in closer.

  "We're sitting ducks on this bus, friend. We'd have a much better chance out there than in here. Trust me."

  The commotion got heavier by the minute. Men rolled on the ground in tear-soaked agony. Davis had reached the end of his first pepper spray can. He threw it aside and went for another.

  "What the fuck is going on back there?" Mel asked while trying to stay focused on the road.

  The remaining prisoners shielded their eyes with their hands, ran to the gate, and kicked it repeatedly. The gate shook but stayed firmly place.

  "I need immediate backup!" Davis said into his radio. His eyes were wild and frantic. He suspected the gate would only hold for so long. He looked to his shotgun as a possible option.

  "There's an open invitation to join us, if you so choose," Roy reiterated to Sacha.

  "Thanks, but I should be fine," Sacha said nervously.

  "Don't get any wrong ideas about what you see here today," Roy said. "We're not a violent group in nature. We subscribe to the most effective path towards victory. Whether methods involve nonviolent resistance or violent aggression, often in life we must do what's necessary to get what we want. Wouldn't you agree?"

  Sacha nodded as Roy studied him. Suddenly a large crash sounded from the front. The gate had not collapsed yet but was getting there. Roy turned away from Sacha and rushed to join the other men at the front the bus.

  "Smash it down!" he shouted, egging the group on further. "Smash the gate and kill them both! It's the only way, brot
hers!"

  The men had Mel's full attention. He steered erratically while looking into his rearview mirror. The prisoners’ eyes were filled with rage beyond reason. The gate clung desperately to life along the side of the bus interior.

  "We need to get off this bus!" Mel shouted to Davis.

  The prisoners erupted into a joyous unit of cheering following the damage they had done to the gate. It would only be a matter of time before the divider was breached. Davis ignored Mel's plea and went for his Taser gun. Though clearly outmatched, he fired into the group from an opening in the gate. The Taser line hooked itself into one of the men, causing him to go down like an epileptic seizure. However, it did little to stop the rest of the mob as they kicked and smashed the gate relentlessly.

  "Are you out of your mind? Let's get the hell off this bus!" Mel shouted.

  Davis whipped around and grabbed his shotgun from its holder.

  "Backup should be here any minute. We can't allow a bus of suspected terrorists to roam freely around the city."

  "You're out of your mind, and I'm pulling over," Mel replied.

  Davis turned to the prisoners with his shotgun aimed.

  "This is your final fucking warning," he said with a determined glare. "I may not be able to hit all of you, but I'll take out most of you, that's for sure."

  The prisoners remained undeterred. Roy continued to egg them on. The gate was uprooted on both sides. Mel glanced in his rearview mirror in utter disbelief. He had never thought the gate so easily removable. Roy remained strategically behind the group, demanding that they dispose of their captors. The prisoners in the front were noticeably hesitant to take a shotgun blast, and they began to slowly back away. Davis noticed their ambivalence.

  "That's right," he said. "Now everyone take your seats. I will not think twice about using this shotgun." For a moment things got quiet. Davis's plan had worked; no one seemed to want to be a martyr.

  He held the shotgun with steady aim, keeping his eyes on the men.