Thompson chuckled. He didn’t intend to do so and certainly not with such apparent amusement, but he found Meyers’ premise to be so absurd laughter was the only possible outcome.
“And you think Briggs and Sage, the President, Congress, or whoever else involved in this self-inflicted catastrophe is going to just let me waltz back into my office and get to work leading this so-called resistance of yours? C’mon Meyers – that’s delusional.”
General Meyers wasn’t about to be dissuaded. He pointed a finger down at his former military colleague and snarled his retort.
“Then what the hell are you doing here? Why bother trying to look me up if not to find out if there are still people willing to fight?”
Thompson gave Meyers a long, hard stare as a hint of a dangerous smile threatened.
“I came here to see if you needed to die, General Meyers. I’m happy to find that I don’t need to kill you. Knowing that, it’s my intention to move on to the next one until I find someone who knows where my family is.”
Even as he said the words, General Thompson recalled the prayer to God after he survived the Camp David bombing:
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.
That prayer had been issued by a man who still considered himself a soldier. In the days that followed, that soldier quickly dissipated, leaving only a father and husband increasingly desperate to save a family he feared might already be permanently gone from him.
“Maybe the best way for you to save your family is to be the leader you were always meant to be, General. My request is both sincere and valid – you are the one to lead the resistance. You can’t do it alone and if you try, you’ll only die and then guarantee the worst possible fate for your wife and children. You know this is true. You know what you must do – for your family and for your country.”
Thompson watched what little whiskey was left in his glass as he slowly swirled the contents from side to side. While his mind told him Meyers’ request was a choice offering little more than likely failure, his heart knew it to be the choice he must make.
If there was in fact a resistance in need of a leader, he would do his best to meet that need. If there was to be war against those controlling the government, he would be that war’s general. And if there was an opportunity to see Fenwick Sage held to account for the wrongs committed against thousands upon thousands of Americans, General Reg Thompson wanted to be the one to pull that trigger.
The night’s silence was again interrupted by an enthusiastic chorus of coyote howls. The pack had located its prey.
“Ok, General Meyers, I’ll do it. Where do you suggest we start?”
Meyers gave Thompson a grateful smile and then tapped the map in front of him several times with the tip of his right pointer finger.
“You start there.”
Thompson looked at the location and then shook his head, slightly confused by the choice.
“That’s a small military airport primarily used by the West Virginia National Guard.”
Meyers was showing far more enthusiasm for the location than Thompson.
“That’s right. I know the base commander – a Colonel William Jones. He has direct and ongoing contact with the current Air Force Command. Plus, that base is no more than a three hour drive from here. You could be there by late morning tomorrow.”
“And you trust him?”
Meyers nodded.
“Absolutely! He’s prepared to die fighting, General and I assure you that he’s not the only one.”
General Thompson found it a rather uninspired beginning to what Meyers hoped to be a victorious insurgency against the current government.
“So after I make my way there, what then?”
Meyers shrugged.
“That’s for you and Colonel Jones to decide. Assess the situation, evaluate his input, and then go from there. Be the general we both know you’re capable of being. This thing we are doing, the resistance, it will take time. We cannot afford to strike until we are certain all is ready because if we fail, everything America once was will be lost.”
Thompson returned the glass to his lips and then paused before emptying its contents.
“So what happens to everyone until that moment arrives? What of all those people living outside the urban militarized zones, all of the Race Wars bloodshed, the bombings? We have to leave them on their own to face Sage’s army and its determination to carry out Protocol X?”
Meyers had by then picked up his own glass and prepared to drink from it as well. He stopped to nod his agreement at the terrible yet hopefully temporary fate that would continue for so many fighting to survive.
“Yes, that’s exactly right General. All of those people must do what they can on their own to exist from one day to the next. Unfortunately many will likely lose their lives but I am equally confident they will prove far tougher and more resilient than Sage realizes. There are those out there who have prepared for this kind of scenario. If they can hang on for just a little longer the cavalry will arrive, and we are to be that cavalry.”
General Thompson held his whiskey glass up and then General Meyers did the same as the two glasses clinked together and Meyers uttered a brief toast.
“May we find victory at the end of this dark and troubled road.”
Thompson’s voice took on a growling-whisper quality as he added his own words before emptying his own glass.
“And let us make it a road paved with the blood of our enemies.”
--------------------
EPISODE TWENTY-SIX:
A city of over five thousand people was somehow gone. Little more than smoldering, broken rubble remained.
Tom Dolan slowly walked what little remained of the paved street that he knew had once been the primary road travelling through the center of Salem, Missouri. Where rows of red-bricked buildings once proudly stood as testaments to a bygone era of Middle America there remained shattered shells with broken bricks that appeared to bleed out onto the pockmarked pavement below.
The noon sun watched silently from above as Tom scanned the side streets for any sign of life. After three blocks he finally spotted an olive colored single-story home that appeared to still be largely intact.
“Anyone in there? I don’t mean you any harm! I’m just looking to see if someone needs help!”
Dolan paused to consider his disheveled, mountain-man appearance. He had managed to walk over a hundred miles on foot but the journey had left his clothes drenched in equal parts sweat, rain, and mud. He adjusted the backpack behind him and held the AK-47 in his right hand as he waited to see if any response was to come from inside the home.
The silence remained firmly ensconced both around the home and throughout the area that had once been a thriving small city.
Tom glanced to his left and then his right before slowly making his way toward the home’s concrete, three-stepped stoop. Once at the home’s front entrance, Dolan gave the closed door a light knock and then paused. He couldn’t detect any movement from inside. Tom knocked again, this time more forcefully.
“Hello?”
Tom reached out with his left hand to turn the door handle but it was locked. He leaned down to peer into the home’s small front window but found the blinds closed tight.
Try the back.
Dolan moved as quietly as he could down the left side of the small home until he reached a chain link gate that allowed him access into the back yard. It was there he found the horrifying proof that the home had not actually escaped whatever terrible event had decimated the city.
The back half of the home was a ruined mess, its roof and w
alls torn asunder and caved in upon itself. Wisps of smoke still smoldered from inside the structure, indicating the attack had been somewhat recent and very reminiscent of what had happened to the isolated bug-out cabin Tom had intended to use to protect his family.
The small yard appeared largely untouched. Only the grass nearest the home had been scorched by the explosive impact. The remainder rose up lush and green and need of mowing, dissected by a narrow gravel path leading to a dilapidated single-car garage at the back of the yard that adjoined the alleyway behind the property.
Tom looked around once again to ensure he wasn’t being watched by someone hiding amidst the ruins of a city he had personally driven through numerous times in recent years. Having confirmed he was in fact alone, he proceeded to approach the garage and marveled at the fact the small building’s single-pane windows had somehow survived the bomb blast.
A wood door was located in the right corner of the garage, its green paint faded and chipped. Tom turned the handle and pushed inward, pleased to feel the door give way and allow him entrance into the low-ceilinged structure.
He was immediately greeted by the strong smell of gasoline, oil, dirt, and aged wood. Dolan paused to allow his eyes a few seconds to adjust to the gloom of the garage interior. He scanned the wall to his left and found several old tools hanging from it, carefully organized by size and purpose. A work table ran the length of that same wall and atop it Tom discovered found a box of unopened containers of 30-weight oil, an old oil filter, a badly corroded car battery, an empty container of fuel stabilizer, and two newer and nearly full plastic five gallon gas cans. An orange extension cord was plugged into an outlet located in the center of the wall which then ran down onto the floor where it disappeared underneath a large, off-white canvas tarp.
How about we have a look at what’s underneath that tarp?
Tom removed his backpack and carefully placed it and the AK-47 on top of the work table and then proceeded to remove the tarp underneath which he found a rust-covered, forest green, 1947 Ford Super Deluxe. The extension cord disappeared between a narrow gap in the vehicle’s partially open hood. The car sat atop four badly worn but still useable, white wall tires. Tom’s excitement over the unexpected find intensified as he discovered the Ford’s grey-cloth interior had been in the final stages of a complete restoration. He hoped to find the engine to be in similarly good condition.
Dolan raised the hood, looked down, and then muttered a disappointed curse. The engine was covered in dirt and rust. The only thing new appeared to be the battery which was connected to a small trickle charger plugged into the extension cord.
You don’t bother keeping a battery charged for an engine that doesn’t run.
There was no power to the garage of course, which meant the charger could no longer indicate the battery’s capacity. Tom moved himself behind the large, ivory-colored steering wheel and then smiled to himself as his eyes settled on the metallic glint of a single key inside of the ignition. The new-fabric scent of the car’s interior was in stark contrast to the dank dirt and oil combination that permeated the air of the garage.
Check it out first. Don’t risk killing the battery. It might only have a few cranks left on it.
Dolan exited the front seat, his eyes gleaming like a sixteen year old preparing for his first drive. He scanned the engine bay once again and though neglected, found everything appeared to be in place with the exception of the carburetor cover.
The trunk.
Tom recalled that when his own father would work on the family vehicles, he would leave the parts in the trunk to ensure they were not misplaced. Tom thought perhaps whoever had been working on the Ford might have followed that same practice.
Tom grasped the bottom of the trunk and pulled it open and was immediately rewarded with the sight of the missing carburetor cover. He also found another box of tools, a flashlight, and an unopened set of windshield wipers.
With a push of a button, Dolan discovered the flashlight still worked. He placed it on the passenger seat and went to the other side of the Ford and unscrewed the car’s gas tank cover. Tom put his nose to the opening, took a deep breath and was rewarded with the unmistakable scent of reasonably fresh fuel.
Looks like I might finally catch a damn break.
Tom moved himself back behind the wheel, pumped the gas pedal four times, made certain the three-speed floor shifter was in neutral, and then prepared to turn the ignition. His right hand hovered just above the key and then froze as the rumble of approaching engines from somewhere outside vibrated through the Ford’s interior.
The former police chief crept back to the work table to retrieve the AK-47. He then peered through one of the two small garage windows that looked back out onto the back yard but was unable to see to the street. The noise of the engines grew louder. Tom knew them to be motorcycles but was unable to determine how many.
He feared whoever was passing through the town would be drawn to what appeared to an undamaged home just as he was. From there they would most likely make their way to the garage.
The roar of the motorcycle engines caused the garage windows to shake within their frames as Tom gripped and then re-gripped the assault rifle in his hands.
Keep moving you bastards.
Tom could hear voices shouting, and then someone spoke the very words he had at that moment feared most.
“Hey, man check out this house! It wasn’t even touched!”
Oh, shit.
Dolan moved himself away from the door and hid behind the other side of the Ford, grabbing his backpack which contained two handguns as he did so.
More voices joined with the others as motorcycles came to a stop in the street in front of the home.
“You think anyone is still in there?”
“Maybe your momma! She’s waiting for me to come give her---“
“Shut up! I said shut up! Slack, you go check it out. We’ll cover you from here. Don’t give me that look, get your fat ass up there and check it out! Everyone else be ready for any trouble.”
Even from inside the garage Tom could hear someone attempting to open the home’s locked front door.
“It won’t open. I can’t see inside.”
“Well then check around back you lazy sack!”
Tom shook his head from his hiding spot behind the Ford and held his breath without knowing he was doing so. The man’s voice was much louder as he stood no more than fifty yards from where Tom crouched in the gloom of the garage.
“The place is a disaster, man! No way anyone made it out of there alive. Hey, wait…there’s a garage back here!”
Tom crouched as low as he possibly could behind the old Ford and waited. He could hear heavy footsteps approaching the garage and then heard the sound of Slack pressing his face up against one of the thin glass windows.
“Hard to see what’s in there, it’s pretty dark.”
Tom prepared to aim the AK-47 toward the garage entrance as Slack moved toward the door. As Tom’s finger tightened around the trigger the sound of a motorcycle making its way toward the front of the house resulted in Slack whirling around and calling back to the gang waiting for him in the street.
“Who’s that?”
The motorcycle shut off and then Slack repeated his question.
“Hey, what’s going on? Who is that?”
Slack’s impatience was made clear by the increased volume of his shouted question.
“Dammit, somebody tell me what’s going on!”
A second voice barked out a command.
“Slack, we gotta go! It looks like we got a lead on a nigger travelling with a young white girl. And guess what? His name is Preacher!”
Tom Dolan could easily hear Slack’s stunned response though it was spoken barely above a whisper.
“Preacher? Now wouldn’t that be something? Bet Ripper wouldn’t want me to tell the others how it was Preacher who kicked his ass in the pen. He might be an uppity nigger but he must be a tough o
ne too.”
“Slack, I said it’s time to go! We’re out of here!”
Dolan heard Slack cursing to himself as the biker made the short trek across the yard on his way back to the street. Then the former police chief waited for what felt to be an eternity for the sound of motorcycles departing. He could hear talking but was unable to make out the words until the same voice that had ordered Slack to return rose up louder than all the others.
American Survivalist: RACE WARS OMNIBUS: Seasons 1-5 Of An American Survivalist Series... Page 32
