The general forced himself to remain calm as a powerful wave of panic threatened to overtake him even as the cabin’s floorboards shook with the sound of the two F-22s flying overhead.
They’re still alive…still alive. If they intended to kill them they would have done so and just left the bodies here. That means I have to stay alive too. Everyone thinks I’m dead. I can use that. Get myself back to D.C. and find out where they took them. There still has to be people who aren’t part of this. There must still be others like me fighting this takeover.
The entire cabin began to shake violently as one of the F-22 jets passed just above the forest that encapsulated the compound. The general knew the pilots were preparing to drop their bombs following an initial flyover-assessment of the target area.
Only a few seconds likely remained.
General Thompson pushed the dark-wood coffee table away from its place in front of the light green fabric couch that made up the cabin’s small sitting room area and then removed two floorboards to expose a narrow set of concrete stairs illuminated by a series of softly glowing red bulbs that were powered by a substantial battery bank that resided in the bunker below the cabin.
The general scrambled down the steps and then came to the smallish, steel-plated door that served as the bunker’s entrance. The door was similar in appearance to the kind found in military submarines or a bank vault, its access requiring one to turn the thick, steel wheel at the center of the door counter-clockwise which would lift the locking mechanism and allow one to then pull the door open.
At the very moment General Thompson crossed over the door’s threshold and began to pull the door closed a powerful explosion erupted above him. The longtime military officer knew it was just the first of four JDAM detonations. With a loud grunt he pulled the door shut and turned the wheel until he heard the locking pins fall into place. Then another explosion nearly knocked the general off of his feet as the frame of the bunker door groaned its discontent. The red glow of the bunker lights flickered but remained on as a third bomb detonated followed by a fourth explosion seconds later.
And then all went silent.
The only sound heard from inside the bunker was that of the general’s own breathing. The red-tinged glow of the battery-powered lights gave the rectangular space a more than subtle hint of hellish character though General Thompson knew the true hell was that which awaited him above ground.
As his eyes continued to adjust to the gloom, the Joint Chiefs of Staff Chairman found himself kneeling down onto his left knee while resting both his elbows atop his bent right knee and then he clasped his hands tightly together, closed his eyes and began to pray to a god he hoped had not yet forsaken a nation that had so clearly forsaken Him.
I’m not one accustomed to asking for help, but I’m doing just that right now. There’s a terrible darkness that has come to this land and frankly, I have no idea if I’m capable of the fight that is so clearly before me. I’ve seen bad and I’ve seen worse, but I’ve never seen anything quite like this. Please keep my wife and children safe and give me the strength to overcome those who would destroy this nation and its potential future.
Amen.
General Thompson’s eyes opened while he remained kneeling, thinking perhaps he would receive an answer from the Almighty, perhaps a divine whisper of acknowledgement.
No such whisper came to him. He was all alone in the near-darkness of what felt increasingly to be no more than a concrete-encased tomb. The general considered the possibility that god had no use for the words of a recently deposed general.
Well to hell with you then, I’ll do it on my own…
The general decided then he should get moving. Soldiers were likely already on their way to the compound to assess the results of the bombing and he intended to be well away from the area by the time they arrived.
He was alive, armed, and had a mission.
For an old soldier like him, that wasn’t so bad all things considered. General Thompson nodded to himself as his hand rested atop the butt of the sidearm that hung from his right hip.
He was ready to return to the world above and determined to do his best to save his family and set things right.
------------------
1,700 miles away near Fortuna, North Dakota…
Silas Toms once again had his sleep interrupted by one of the most vivid dreams of his life. It had been the third such night in a row the very same dream visited him. He realized then how futile it was to try and ignore them. Though he had put his wife Grace into the ground several days earlier, she had taken to speaking with him nearly every night since then. It seemed she refused to be ignored.
Each dream-conversation began with the same exact words, the same words Grace had in fact spoken to Silas just before her death.
They will come to you, Silas. They are already on their way. He’ll send them to you. The good ones…and the bad ones too.
Grace appeared to him not as the frail and confused, dementia-riddled woman he had watched slip away from him in the final years of her life but rather the vibrant, and unquestionably beautiful creature he had made his wife when the world seemed a so much younger place for the both of them.
I just want to be left alone.
Grace would smile knowingly and then lightly brush the fingers of her right hand atop the rough hairs of Silas’s heavily bearded face.
I know, Husband. Destiny is rarely interested though in what someone wants. This is a burden you must be prepared to carry on those impossibly strong shoulders of yours. It is your burden and yours alone. You have been preparing for it without knowing so, guided by forces far beyond either one of us.
Silas shook his head while ignoring the gaze of his wife’s painfully young and healthy eyes, eyes that only served to remind him of someone he wanted so badly to see again.
I’m no hero and certainly no leader.
Grace’s tone hinted at her growing concern over her husband’s stubborn nature.
Do you remember that time outside the Fortuna store when those men were bothering me?
Silas scowled, not understanding what that event from so many years earlier had anything to do with the here and now.
And do you remember when I told you to let those two men you had by their throats go – that you didn’t need to hurt them any more than you already had?
Silas nodded once but said nothing.
Well this time, Husband you don’t need to stop. This time when the evil comes to this place, our home, you go on and use all your strength to make them hurt. You do what needs to be done to protect the others.
Grace leaned over and kissed her husband gently on his lips, the taste of her mouth lingering on Silas’s for a too-brief moment after she once again vanished into the retreating mists of his subconscious.
Silas opened his eyes and then abruptly sat up in bed and noted the normally comforting confines of his longtime family home felt…wrong. It wasn’t so much a dangerous feeling, but that something was different. He stood up and peered into the darkness trying to determine the source of his discomfort. The off-white long underwear he wore to bed each night hung loosely off his tall, sinewy-lean frame.
Something was moving in the night just outside the house.
The rancher took two long strides toward the front door and then reached down and grabbed the already loaded double-barrel shotgun that had been handed down to Silas by his father nearly sixty years earlier.
Silas was about to open his front door and step outside when he suddenly froze at a sound he had not expected to hear.
It was a knock followed by the voice of a man who spoke in an accent unfamiliar to the rancher who had spent his entire life in the upper northwest corner of North Dakota.
“Hello, is this the home of Silas Toms? I’m sorry it’s late but I was told to come here as quickly as possible and…I’m afraid. I think someone is following me.”
Silas gripped the shotgun tightly in both his hands and then leaned
toward the curtained window nearest the front door. The almost full moon allowed him to make out the figure of a short, dark-haired man standing on his front porch.
Like Silas, the man was holding a shotgun as well.
The rancher bellowed his next words with enough force the man outside both felt and heard them being spoken.
“YOU DROP THAT SHOOTER AND STEP OFF MY PORCH!”
The young man appeared startled by the volume of Silas’s words and then quickly placed the shotgun at his feet.
“It’s not loaded! I promise!”
They will come to you, Silas. They are already on their way. He’ll send them to you. The good ones…and the bad ones too.
Silas grunted softly to himself as he continued to peer at the uninvited guest on his front porch.
“So which is it, Grace? Is he a good one or a bad one?”
The man outside heard Silas’s question and thought it was meant for him.
“Uh, what do you mean?”
The door was opened and then the young man’s mouth fell open as he took two panicked steps backwards and looked up while standing in the imposing, six foot nine shadow of a clearly unhappy Silas Toms.
“What do you want?”
The much smaller visitor cleared his throat, glanced behind him and then slowly lifted his eyes and looked directly into the rancher’s simmering stare.
“Are you Silas Toms? You must be. She said you were a big man. I had no idea you would be this big, though! My name is Lu Phan. I have travelled all the way here from Chicago.”
Silas lifted his shotgun and pointed it at the Asian man’s head.
“Why did you come here?”
A thin layer of sweat covered most of Lu’s face as he found himself staring at the gun pointed back at him and wondering if his journey was some terribly misguided mistake.
“Because she told me to.”
Silas growled his next question between tightly clenched teeth at the frightened younger man.
“WHO?”
Lu’s eyes suddenly opened wide and then he smiled like a child seeing something wondrous for the first time. His right hand pointed to an object directly behind Silas.
“It was her.”
A sliver of moonlight was passing over Lu’s right shoulder and appeared to be pointing to the same thing inside of Silas’s cabin as Lu was.
Silas turned his head to look behind him at whatever had so completely captured Lu’s attention. The rancher fought back tears as his eyes came to rest upon a wood-framed photograph of Grace taken nearly twenty years earlier that sat atop a small side table that was at that moment illuminated by the soft glow of moonlight.
They will come to you, Silas. They are already on their way. He’ll send them to you. The good ones…and the bad ones too.
Silas slowly lowered his shotgun and then stared down at what was, according to Grace, to be the first of many others who would make their way to a place most would consider well beyond the boundaries of civilized America.
“It’s nice to meet you, Mr. Phan. My name is Silas – Silas Toms and this is my home. Please, come in…”
---------------------
Shortwave radio transmission:
Things are bad and getting worse, listeners. Let’s not waste any time pretending otherwise. I’m getting reports of food and water shortages across the country. We’re talking tens of thousands who will be dying in the coming days, and then hundreds of thousands. And after that, God help us…
For those of you living in the militarized large urban areas, your survival is now fully dependent upon whatever the existing government will give you. For the rest of the country, we are now truly on our own.
Don’t think for a second any of this was an accident! No sir! This was all meant to facilitate an intended outcome. We are now seeing the real beginnings of Protocol X, the self-inflicted destruction of rural America. The powers that be are culling the herd, ladies and gentlemen. You and I are expendable you see, a waste of precious resources. As the millions now trapped in the cities being kept there at gunpoint fear dying of thirst and starvation, they will demand their government save them. That saving will be the death of all of us outside of those urban areas. If you have saved up food and water, those things and likely your very life will be taken from you.
Rural local law enforcement is now non-existent. I estimate over a thousand murders of various small town police officers and county sheriffs in the last month alone. These men and women were shot dead, stabbed, and in some cases, torn apart by the very people those officers once risked their lives to protect.
And now, unrestrained by the laws that once governed our society Protocol X would have us turn on ourselves. Sadly, that very thing is happening in ever increasing numbers. It seems nowhere is safe anymore.
My friend Moses says it is often darkest before the light and that good can yet prevail. He’s an optimist. I on the other hand, am a realist.
These are dark days, listeners and I see no evidence of any light coming soon. Your own survival and the survival of those you love are entirely up to you.
As dark as it is now, there is likely much more terrible darkness ahead.
Don’t give up, stay alive, and fight back…
----------------
EPISODE NINETEEN:
Preacher squinted at the still form that lay in the middle of the road no more than a hundred yards ahead of the classic Harley motorcycle he and Sarah rode upon as they continued their journey with Akrim toward a still-unknown destination west.
Akrim slowed his own motorcycle as he too spotted the thing in the road. Soon both bikes came to a complete stop as all three struggled to make out if it was human, and if so, if it was alive or dead.
“Any ideas?”
Preacher shook his head at Akrim’s question. It had been nearly two hundred miles since they had last seen evidence of human life. They had left Indiana two days earlier, passed through much of Illinois, and were approaching the Illinois-Iowa state line. Preacher hoped to reach the outskirts of Fort Madison, Iowa by nightfall.
They were low on gas again though, and increasingly desperate to find a place to refuel.
“Look, it’s moving!”
Sarah pointed toward the body. Preacher confirmed with his own eyes that it was human, and did appear to be alive. He looked up into the clear Illinois sky and guessed it to be just a few hours until darkness. They would need to find a place to camp overnight soon, and that meant moving past whoever was lying in the road.
“Should we see if they need help?”
Preacher remained silent, scanning the area for any signs of trouble. He looked back at the road they travelled from and noted the gradual but steady rise in elevation. Someone watching from their current position would have been able to look down at their approach while also remaining out of sight.
“Preacher, you want me to go check it out?”
Preacher glanced at Akrim and then looked at the body in the road. Something felt wrong and it had nothing to do with someone potentially needing their help.
“No, stay put and get the AK ready. You too, Sarah.”
“Preacher, you aren’t going over there alone are you?”
From her position behind him Sarah tightened her grip around Preacher’s narrow waist. Preacher pushed the bike’s kickstand down with his left foot and then gently escaped Sarah’s hold on him.
“Do as I say, Sarah. Get your rifle out. I need you to cover me in case there’s trouble.”
Sarah’s face tightened into a worried frown.
“I’m not the one you want shooting at someone, Preacher. I’d be just as apt to hit you instead!”
Preacher grinned as he lightly squeezed Sarah’s left shoulder with his right hand.
“You’ll do fine. You’re almost as tough as you are pretty.”
It was Sarah’s turn to smile.
“I appreciate the compliment, Preacher, but it won’t make my aim any better.”
; The former boxer and recent Attwood Prison inmate turned toward Akrim.
“You be ready, ok? I don’t know what someone would be doing in the middle of the road way out here, but if they do need help, I can’t just leave them to die. If it’s something else though…”
Preacher’s voice trailed off as Akrim indicated he understood with a brief nod.
“I got your back, Preacher. And I’ll protect Sarah to my last breath if I have to. Don’t you worry.”
Preacher reached down toward the Harley and removed one of the two bolt-action hunting rifles he had been given days earlier from his Uncle Joe. Sarah was already holding the other one and Akrim gripped the M16 tightly in both his hands.
American Survivalist: RACE WARS OMNIBUS: Seasons 1-5 Of An American Survivalist Series... Page 24
