No more than a thousand people could have resided there. Nothing moved. The town seemed still. An abandoned town filled with only the ghosts of the past. The only things that moved were Kinnick and his men.
A few of the buildings near the center were blackened and burnt. Kinnick scooped up his radio. “Captain Boucher, take Madison One and Two, Franklin Two and Three and Jefferson One and Three and continue down the river. Let me know of any issues coming up.” Kinnick was giving the captain most of the ODAs under his command, the best soldiers for training the civilians, but he thought it better to keep the captain tied together with the other Special Forces soldiers.
Boucher’s voice had a Cajun twang to it. “Copy,” echoed from the radio.
“Good luck, Captain.” He looked back at the other boats closing in from down the flotilla column.
“Don’t you worry ’bout us, sir. We’ll get them civvies all trained and ready for a scrap.”
“Thank you, Captain. Our rally point is Hannibal, Missouri.”
“We’ll see you at Portage des Sioux.”
Six pairs of SURC engines kicked back up from a low idle and they motored away through the water.
Kinnick set the radio down and stared at the dead town. The clouds above were thick enough that he thought it might rain, adding a high level of misery to the mostly open-decked watercraft.
Master Sergeant Hunter leaned over the side of the boat and pointed. “Look at those things.”
Gray bloated bodies floated in the river. Fish nibbled at their heads and bodies.
“Fatter than a hog in heat,” Hunter said.
Sergeant Hawkins stared, unmoving. He pointed at the small town.
Kinnick barely could make out the residual figure that ran between the buildings.
Kinnick rubbed his eyes. “Thought this was a ghost town. Looks like we got somebody to talk to. Take us in.” He waved at Coffey.
“Aye, aye, Colonel.” Coffey turned the boat hard and oriented them to the shore.
Master Sergeant Hunter shouted. “You heard the colonel. Get ready to get hot.”
Kinnick picked up his microphone. “Hamilton Two and Adams One. Move in with us.” For this operation, he thought he’d bring it back to the beginning. All his boats were named after Founding Fathers. His SURCs would be known as the Founding Defenders.
Coffey took Hamilton One right alongside a riverside dock. It was made of warped faded gray wood. Neon-green water mold grew up along the supporting legs in the water.
Hamilton Two and Adams One slid along docks farther down river. Marines stormed the ashore. “Get moving,” Volk shouted. Marines clambered onto the dock of a riverside restaurant.
Hunter launched himself onto the dock like a gymnast and offered a hand to Kinnick. Kinnick took it and the soldier yanked him onto the dock.
“Washington.” Volk pointed the African-American corporal toward the building. Marines ran beneath a large porch overhang. “Boone.” Volk pointed at another building split by a boat landing. The gangly lance corporal and three more Marines ran that way, and with a glance back at Kinnick, Volk followed. Kinnick hefted his M4 and followed Washington’s men, who scrutinized the inside of a dark restaurant that was filled with empty tables. They all took cover against the windowed wall in a single-file line.
Master Sergeant Hunter jogged down the line and did a quick check around the corner. He pointed out at the other fire team. He presented his fingers. Three. Two. One. Both fire teams burst onto the sidewalks of the main street. Guns were pointed in varying directions but never at one another. The streets were empty of traffic and people alike. Abandoned cars had collected a brown dust that coated them from lack of use.
The Marines and Green Berets hustled down the street searching for the person they’d seen.
“Nobody’s here,” Hunter whispered.
“Somebody’s here and they’re hiding,” Kinnick whispered back.
An American flag fluttered above a shop. It whipped back and forth, cracking and snapping in the wind that threatened rain. Signs swung in the turbulent air and softly creaked as rusted hinges were worked. Small studios, businesses, eateries, and a bank lined the main town block. They moved quickly down the street. We could be too late. What if every town was just like this? Abandoned or dead. There will be no one left to fight.
The Marines’ combat boots padded down the street. Kinnick looked behind him. The other SURCs’ soldiers and Marines spread out to side streets. His men tested door handles down the other side of the street.
A door groaned and Kinnick turned. He scrutinized a blue door cracked open only an inch. He could see nothing but darkness inside. He touched Hunter’s arm and gestured. The door closed. Kinnick, Hunter, and Hawkins stacked on the door with Washington’s fire team. They waited a moment as the men collected themselves to make entry.
A second later, Washington put a big boot to the left of the door handle. The doorjamb splintered and the door swung open. The Marines charged inside. Kinnick was the last one in and button-hooked to the left. People cried out in terror.
A tall man stood behind the counter and pointed a shotgun at them. He took turns aiming the gun at one Marine and then another. People crowded near his back, cowering.
Washington’s voice roared at the man. His stance was compact for such a big man and his voice aggressive. “Drop the gun.” He repeated himself again and again.
“Hold,” Kinnick shouted. He let his gun swing down to his side.
The thick-mustached man frowned. Glasses sat atop his nose. He gestured with his shotgun a tiny bit. “Get on out of here. You got no right busting in here.” A little girl looked out from behind him.” He swatted at her with his off-hand. “You’re in so much trouble, young lady.”
Kinnick took a step forward, holding out a helping hand. “Sir. We are here to help.”
“Prove it. The last batch of you robbed us blind.”
Kinnick held up his hands showing him that he was unarmed.
“I am Colonel Kinnick of the United States Air Force. What is your name, sir?”
Behind him, he could hear Hunter snort a laugh about the air force comment.
“I’m Brian Watson,” he said with a little nod.
“Mr. Watson, we are here to help. We don’t want to rob you or harm your family. We are here to make sure they survive.”
Brian dropped his gun a fraction. “How’s you suppose that?”
Kinnick kept his hand held in the man’s direction. “We’re going to train you to fight.”
“To fight?”
“To fight against the dead.”
“How do I know you’re telling the truth?”
Kinnick peered over his shoulder at Hunter and nodded. Hunter ducked out of the building.
“Give me a minute, Brian.”
After a minute, Hunter came back inside holding a large box. He brought it forward and set it down in front of Brian.
“Go ahead, Brian. Take a look.”
Brian’s brow furrowed, but he bent down slow as if his back hurt and picked up a brownish tan package. He held it up, inspecting it. His eyebrows rose. “MRE?”
Kinnick held his hand up. “It stands for Meal Ready to Eat. There’s five hundred there and we have more. We want to make sure your folks are taken care of.”
The tall man gulped but nodded his head gravely. “I trust ya. You got a better look than the last bastards. Thank you.” He lowered his shotgun all the way to the ground. The tension faded from the room.
“It’s all right now,” Brian shouted behind him.
People flooded out from the room that he blocked with his life. Men, women, and children came out to look at the Marines and Green Berets. A little girl and boy, who were clearly siblings, walked up to Kinnick. They both had bleach blond hair and blue eyes.
“I wanna be a soldier one day just like you,” the girl squeaked.
Kinnick bent down.
“You will. What’s your name?”
“Monroe.”
Kinnick reached out a hand and ruffled her hair.
“And yours?” Kinnick asked the boy.
The boy stood silent.
Kinnick smiled at the boy. “Would you like to be a soldier?”
The boy nodded his head slowly.
The little girl stared at her brother and back to Kinnick. “His name’s Alfie. He’s the quiet one.”
“Alfie the soldier.”
Monroe gave him a tough look. “I’m the big sister. I look out for him.”
Kinnick chuckled and gave her a smile. “Well, you keep looking out for him. You both need each other. Remember that. Always look out for one another. When you’re ready, I expect you to join one of our units.”
Her eyes drifted back and to the left as she thought. “I’m only seven now, but when I’m eight, I think I’ll be ready.”
“And we’ll be waiting.” Kinnick stood back up.
The little girl seemed satisfied with his response. “Bye, mister,” she squeaked. She took Alfie’s hand and they ran off together.
Kinnick stood. The people hugged and shook hands with the Marines. Master Sergeant Hunter picked up a child. “Thank you” and “God bless” and “Our prayers are answered,” could be heard over and over from the people.
A white-haired woman wrapped her arms around Hawkins. “We knew you’d come.” She reached a hand up and squeezed his cheek between her fingers. Hawkins blinked fast. His stoic face almost showed a sliver of emotion.
“Such a handsome lad too,” the old woman said.
Hawkins looked at Kinnick, his eyes wide. Hunter barked a laugh and shifted the child in his arms.
“Are you a pirate?” the child in his arms peeped. Hunter laughed.
Hunter did his best pirate voice. “Of course me am, laddie.”
The tall, mustached leader stepped in front of Kinnick. His shotgun hung loosely in his fingers and was casually pointed to the ground like he was walking through a forest to hunt quail. Two tall young mustache-lacking men stood behind him, clearly his sons.
“Now, Colonel, how can we help you?”
Kinnick looked up at him. “Can you fight?”
Brian looked back at his sons. “Yes, sir. We can fight. We ain’t got no formal training, but we can learn.”
“That’s all I ask.”
STEELE
Pentwater, MI
Gunfire penetrated his dreams, echoing across his semiconscious plane of existence. He awoke in sweat-soaked sheets. His damaged arm ached. It held a permanent itch in and around the wound and felt claustrophobic underneath the bandages.
He inhaled deeply. Touching the bed next to him, he was reminded she wasn’t there. He crumpled a handful of sheets with his functioning hand. The emptiness of the room gnawed at him. The vacancy on the other side of his bed made him ache even more. He embraced the void of her absence and exhaled loudly. She is safe.
Sitting up, he let his feet fall to the floor. The floor was cold beneath his rough soles. He brought his good hand to his forehead, running his fingers through the hair that still remained on his skull.
A faint sound touched his ears. His eyes darted to the black M4 that leaned on his bed nearby. His tomahawk rested on his bedside next to his black M9A1 Beretta sidearm. Still, he was drawn to the window.
Shirtless, he limped over to the windowsill, resting his hand on the wooden frame. The darkness of the early morning sat waiting outside, begrudgingly giving up its stranglehold on the land. On the west side of the fire station sat a marina leading out to a small lake. The town stretched along Pentwater Lake connected by a channel to the “Big Lake” or Lake Michigan. Steele’s window faced south of the station. Southeast sat a forested hill. It was more of a slight elevation compared to its lower surroundings.
He could make out shadows near the edge of town standing next to motorcycles. Portable floodlights poured light down the road that ran along the lakeshore. Two hunched-over forms stood exposed on the water tower, huddled together in the chill of the night. At least they’re still upright.
Smoldering fires sat outside a small office building across from the fire station. It had been annexed by the Chosen after he’d set them free. He could make out the armed brothers and sisters standing outside.
Earlier in the day and under the watchful eye of the Red Stripes and the Iron Drakes, the former Chosen prisoners had been escorted back to Temple Energy to collect their families and the remainders of their armed forces. By the time they had all trickled back into Pentwater, the Chosen numbers almost doubled Steele’s united motorcycle gangs and Sable Point members. He watched the building warily, debating in his mind if he had made a mistake. The pastor will be true to his word. The problem is his words are those of a psychopathic egotistical demigod.
Time would tell if he made a mistake, or a bullet in the back, but he knew deep down it didn’t matter because Jackson’s forces threatened them operating somewhere unknown in the countryside. He would keep the pastor close. It was the enemy out of sight that concerned him.
The dusky outside was turning a lighter gray as morning took over. Highly trained and hostile American soldiers were operating nearby. They knew only one code and that was loyalty to the unit. As far as they were concerned, the government had turned their back on them. Left them for dead. Now they wanted his head on a platter because he had defied them with Kinnick and the remnants of loyal American soldiers.
He let his head fall to his chest, not realizing he was holding his breath. By the end of the morning, his people would put some distance between themselves and Jackson’s men, hoping to disappear into the wooded north of Michigan.
The faint tinkle of glass hitting the floor jarred him. A hole appeared in the glass next to his head. Steele considered it almost casually, wondering if someone had thrown a rock through his window. The window spiderwebbed along the edges of the hole. His heart leapt in his chest as realization flashed in his mind, and he threw himself on the floor. He grunted as pain seared through his damaged arm, sucking the wind from his chest. A round shattered the rest of the glass and struck the wall above him sending plaster into the air.
“Shit.” He crawled over, using his single arm, and pushed over his pack in front of him. The door to his room kicked inward. He stared at a booted foot.
“Jesus,” Tess exclaimed. A shot embedded itself into the door. She flinched, bending down into a low squat. She scooped up his pack and M4 quick and slung them over her shoulder. “Where the hell?”
“Dunno. Keep moving,” Steele grunted as he snatched up his handgun and tomahawk, his muscles not wanting to participate in such a quick, laborious movement. Tess helped him through the doorway and into the hall. People scrambled down the dimly lit hall, guns in hands.
Margie emerged from her dorm and hopped up and down as she forced on her pants. Getting both her legs inside, she ran for him. “Scott’s crew is reporting large numbers of soldiers on the south end of Lake Shore Drive near the condo tower.”
“Tell them not to give up their position unless the soldiers advance. Give the rest of Sable time to round up.”
The perpetually worried woman in her late 50s nodded vigorously and ran down the corridor. Tess wrapped an arm around his torso and helped him down the hall. As they hobbled down the metal steps, the fire station garage erupted in chaos.
Motorcycles zipped by. Men loaded trucks. Single gunshots rang out but not the sound of automatic fire. Perhaps it is a scouting party, or a lone sniper sent to terrorize us.
“Tess, please help Margie.” She eyed him for a second and nodded, tossing him his M4. He caught it and held it by its pistol grip handle. Not going to be much use.
Thunder jogged up, chest heaving beneath his club colors. “I sent War Child and the War Machines to the north end, and the Wolf Riders northeast. If they’ve encircled us, we’re done.”
“We’ll be pinned on the water,” Steele breathed. He looked over Thunder’s shoulder to the outside.
&n
bsp; “We should have left sooner.”
“We should have left as soon as we saw his forces.” Steele looked out over at the Chosen’s office building. The pastor stood outside, watching him as if he thought Steele’s men had turned on him. He quickly nodded to Steele and waved his men out of the building. His followers surged out into the street with supplies and gear.
Steele turned back to Thunder. “Get everyone loaded up. We have to leave as fast as we can.”
“I got it,” Thunder grumbled. “Garrett, let’s get the boys mounted and ready to ride,” he shouted.
The big sergeant-in-arms nodded his head and shouted, “Let’s mount up.”
Steele eyed the trees. How many enemy soldiers do you hold?
A small red pickup truck rolled up and brakes slammed it into a halt. Tess was behind the wheel. She ran a hand over her slicked back black hair. “Get in,” she said.
Steele used the truck as a brace to reach the other side then opened the door and plopped in.
They stopped as Peter stepped out into the road, gun in his hand. Steele gripped the M4 in his good arm prepared to use it. Peter ran around to Steele’s side of the truck.
He stuck his sandy curly-haired head inside and Steele was only thankful it wasn’t his AK-47 rifle.
“We’re almost all loaded up. We have a few older folk who might need some more time.”
“They have five minutes and we roll out.” The ground erupted near Peter. He ducked his head low and looked over his shoulder at the trees.
“Hurry,” Steele said. Peter nodded and ran toward the building housing the Chosen.
Tess gassed it, making the tires squeal, and she handed him binoculars. “You’re going to need these.”
Steele held them for a moment. She sped to the edge of the town and slammed on the brakes. “There.” She pointed through the windshield up at a wooded hill.
The Departing (The End Time Saga Book 4) Page 10
