Table of Contents
PREFACE
MEMORIES FROM THE GLADE – THE BODY OF OLIVER HECHT
BLOOD ON THE STAIRS
MEMORIES FROM THE GLADE – JIMMIE’S WATCH
BLOOD ON THE FLOOR
MEMORIES FROM THE GLADE – MICE AND MEN
SNITCHES END UP IN DITCHES
THE RED CIRCLE
REUNION
CAT'S OUT OF THE BAG
READ SAMPLES OF BOOKS BY L. DOUGLAS HOGAN ORDER BLOOD CORPS
ORDER ACTS OF DEFIANCE
ORDER TYRANT
BOOK ONE THE RISE
ORDER NO LIGHT BEYOND
ORDER OATH TAKERS (FOUR-TIME BEST-SELLER)
COPYRIGHTS
This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, businesses, places, events and incidents are either the products of the author’s imagination or used in a fictitious manner. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, or actual events is purely coincidental.
No part of this book may be reproduced in any manner whatsoever without permission except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical articles or reviews.
Cover by Deranged Doctor Designs
Edited by Pauline Nolet Editing Services
Interior art by James B. Hogan
Copyright © 2018 Disgruntled Dystopian Publications
L. Douglas Hogan
ALL RIGHTS RESERVED
PREFACE
I’ve spent the last twenty-five years doing jobs that a rational person wouldn’t do, i.e., military, law enforcement, maximum-security environments, etc. I bring this up in my preface because it has a direct effect on my writing style. Everything I write is an influence from someone, something, or someplace that has affected me in some way.
In February 2015, I wrote Oath Takers because of the political divisions and ideologies that were and still are destroying this country from the inside out.
In May 2015, I published my first work of fiction, Tyrant book one. It was written because of my passion and love of country. The same passion that went into Oath Takers spilled over into the Tyrant series. It reflects the best and worst of American ideologies. What would happen if the majority controlled the rights of the minority? Take a look around! It’s already happening. When did this country become a democracy? When did the will of the many take control of the rights of the few? The short answer is, we fell asleep at the wheel and it was a slow casual drifting that our parents led us into, and we, in turn, are leading our children into. It’s the slow steady progressive movement from a constitutional republic, where the rights of the individual are unique to that person, to a democratic rights-controlled voting procedure, where your rights are determined by the winning party.
Why am I saying these things in a preface? Because I want to illustrate to the reader the passion behind my words. When I write a post-apoc work of fiction, it’s done for the purpose of waking Americans up to the reality of what can and will happen to America if we don’t awaken from our slumber. In my twenty-five years, I’ve seen the best and the worst of humanity. I’ve seen its love and its hate. Its division and its solidarity.
The book you now hold in your hands is not a politically motivated book. It’s not fact-based fiction like the Tyrant series was. No, this book is a work of fiction that showcases the human spirit when it reaches new levels of depravity. Despite the ugliness of people when they’re trying to survive, there is still a hope that lingers in the human heart. It’s never too far gone to change or to come back from the brink of despotism. There will always be strong people leading weak people, and there’s nothing we can do to stop it from happening. What we can do is make sure the people whom we are following remain accountable to the people doing the following.
Homestead does not get into the political events that lead up to the grid-down condition. Instead, it focuses on the human element that is affected by the political events that lead to the condition. We are the elements that must survive the coming apocalypse. We are the people who must make the toughest decisions of them all. The power of life and death are in the tongue, and we must live with the choices we make and the leading of the people we choose to follow. We cannot let smooth-speaking men beguile us with their words, or follow after the man with the biggest armory. We must work together to maintain our freedoms. Our liberty is what makes us American. We become something else when we think we can control our fellow man, whether by gun, the voting booth, or word and deed.
I sincerely hope you enjoy this series. Please be kind and leave a review when you have finished reading. If you’re interested in receiving updates and notifications of future releases, you can register for my newsletter at: www.ldouglashogan.com/newsletter.html.
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Sincerely,
L. Douglas Hogan
“Everyone has a plan until they get punched in the mouth.” - Mike Tyson
MEMORIES FROM THE GLADE – THE BODY OF OLIVER HECHT
The Glade
Mitchell Homestead
August 16th
Dirt flew from a deep rectangular hole in the earth – a man stood in its base, his eyes squinted with each thrust of his shovel into the hard layer of clay. The deeper he went, the more difficult the digging became. Sweat dripped down the man’s brow as he stopped to catch his breath. A wipe of his forehead with the leather gloves he was wearing offered momentary comfort. No sooner than he had caught a line of sweat, another would seep from his forehead. The lines on his brow were full of mud, as were the shallow crow’s-feet that stretched from the corners of his eyes. Darrick had shot a stranger, and the man’s body rested just behind his shoulder on the edge of the grave he was preparing.
I think this is deep enough, he thought.
Darrick rested his back against the dirt wall. The plan was to catch his breath before climbing out. He was a fit thirty-five-year-old man native to Georgia, but hailed from Tennessee. He had married Tonya ten years ago. She gave birth to Andy nine months later. The Pulse was two years ago. Everything changed after that.
Darrick’s older brother, Jimmie, lived with their dad, James, whom Jimmie was named after, on his homestead one state down on the southeast coast of Georgia. It wasn’t exactly a valuable piece of real estate, but the ground was fertile and the home was well hidden behind the rolling plains and forests. The property had a garden that had been maintained by the Mitchell family for generations. The temperature was a warm and bearable 50 to 60 degrees Fahrenheit in January and February. It was the perfect bugout location. Immediately after the Pulse, Darrick had grabbed Tonya and Andy and headed there on foot against his wife’s wishes. She had wanted to locate her family in New York. Her incessant requests to head east diminished in time. It took a lot of killing before she accepted the fact that the cities and rural areas were in far worse condition than the countryside. That didn’t stop her from worrying about her kin or bringing them up in conversation to Darrick on occasion. They were, after all, blood, and blood was worth fighting for.
Darrick tossed his shovel out of the pit and jumped up to the edge of the earth, hoisting himself up and out of the grave. The man he shot was about fifty years of age and had been brandishing nothing but an empty pistol holster. He had cracker crumbs in his left pocket and a few loose rounds in his right. In his back pocket was a skinny wallet with nothing more than a picture of what might have been his daughter and wife. And a photo identification card listing him as Oliver Hecht, from a town in southeast Georgia. The man was numbered among others he’d recently buried – most likely murderers of d
ozens of men, women, and children; at least that was what Darrick kept trying to convince himself of. Perhaps this man was just a wanderer, maybe a looter or even a killer; there was no way to know. Darrick’s mindset? It was the stranger or Darrick and his family. The old ways were gone. The new rule of thumb was to kill or be killed. This man couldn’t be allowed to discover their homestead. If they were discovered, others might come. In the end, they would certainly die. That was why it had to remain secret. His family’s survival depended upon it.
There was no formal ceremony, no kind words, poems, or prayers. Darrick rolled the man over toward the grave and watched him fall in. It was a hard fall. He never grew used to the sound bodies made when they fell limp from a height of six feet. He wished things were different, but they weren’t. This was the new world. It was a cold harsh reality. Turn off the feelings. Shut out the emotion. Separate yourself from any emotional response that could be exploited or cause you to hesitate. That was Darrick’s new mantra. It had worked until this day.
Darrick looked around, stood up, and thrust his shovel into the pile of dirt, scooping as much as he could manage. Looking down at the man one last time, the stranger’s eyes were wide open and facing the noon sun. His killer dumped the first scoopful onto the man’s face, burying his hazy-colored eyes in permanent darkness.
Tired and exhausted from several hours’ work, he grabbed the fingers of his sweaty leather work gloves and pulled them off one at a time. He looked at the fresh mound of earth.
I didn’t even know the man. I had to. I had to kill him. I had to kill him for family… because of Jimmie.
His brother, Jimmie – well, that was a sad story too.
BLOOD ON THE STAIRS
Mitchell Homestead
A few months ago
Knock, knock, knock , Jimmie heard from the kitchen. He always had a shotgun and rifle that he kept within arm’s reach. He grabbed the shotgun and looked back at his wife, Carissa. “Are you expecting company, hon?”
“No,” she said, running for the bedroom. She was just doing what she was expected to. Jimmie always told her to run for his dad’s bedroom. After the Pulse, he’d lifted some planks in the floor under his dad’s bed and made a temporary hiding spot between them and the downstairs ceiling. He threw a pistol in there, too, for added protection. There wasn’t a lot of space, but it was enough to hide.
Jimmie darted for the front room. His only neighbors were two married couples who lived several miles apart. Both of their homes were well out of view of each other, even from the tops of the rolling hills. He didn’t bother them, and they didn’t bother him. That was just the way things were. One of the families, the Berts, had been friends with elder James Mitchell, Jimmie’s father, years ago. James had fallen ill and eventually forgot about the Berts. Since then, Jimmie and his wife had been taking care of the homestead and his ailing father. Elder Mitchell was difficult to care for. There was no good contingency plan that didn’t involve high risk for Jimmie and Carissa. He was stubborn, loud, and had aggressive tendencies.
With his shotgun at point, Jimmie made his way through the front room and positioned himself where he could see through the curtains at the intruders. At first all he saw was a shadow, the shape of an adult male. Jimmie pointed his shotgun at the shape of the man and prepared to pull the trigger.
Nobody’s got no reason to be here, but to take what ain’t theirs, Jimmie thought.
He was about to shoot the gun and blow a hole through the window to save himself, his wife, and his father. He could always patch the door up with boards, but he couldn’t bear to lose his family. The trigger had about a four-pound pull weight to it, and he had already squeezed three pounds of pressure from it when he heard a familiar voice.
“Jimmie! It’s Darrick. Are you in there?”
Jimmie’s heart dropped. He released the trigger.
Oh God, I almost shot Darrick.
He threw the curtain open to see his not-so-little brother, Darrick, standing on the porch. His wife, Tonya, and their son, Andy, were away in the distance. Darrick knew that approaching the front door was a dangerous risk, so he’d kept them back.
Jimmie was glad to see them. He ran for the door and pulled it open. They embraced for the first time in some years.
“Pudge! I feared the worst,” Jimmie confessed, calling Darrick by his childhood nickname. “Carissa,” Jimmie shouted, “it’s my brother, Darrick, and his family. It’s okay. You can come out.”
“It’s been a long road, Jimmie. We’re tired and hungry. Do you have a bite to eat? We’re starving.”
“Well, get your family in here. I have some vittles. We can all eat together.”
“Where’s Dad?”
“Dad’s been sick, Pudge.”
“Sick? Sick how?” Darrick asked, stepping into the house with Tonya and Andy. No sooner than they were in the front room and the door was closed, Carissa and elder James Mitchell stepped into the front room.
James looked at Darrick and his family. “Who in Sam’s hell are you?” he challenged.
“Funny, Pop,” Darrick quipped.
“Get the hell out of my home,” James barked, heading for the closet, where he searched for his rifle.
Darrick stretched his arms out to protect Tonya and Andy. Each of them stayed behind Darrick, who was deeply confused at this point.
“Come on, Dad. That’s Pudge. Your youngest son. Let’s go finish reading the paper,” Jimmie pleaded, grabbing his dad by the shoulders and steering him to the kitchen area. “Have a seat, Pudge. I’ll be back to explain everything in a second.”
Darrick was beginning to realize how sick his dad was. He didn’t want to admit to the fact that his dad didn’t recognize his own son.
Darrick turned around and took a knee to speak with Andy. “How about you go outside and chase some of them chickens?” he whispered. Darrick would sometimes whisper things to Andy, making him believe that he was allowing him to do something forbidden. Andy grabbed the door handle and ran outside. Jimmie stepped back into the front room and looked at Darrick. “Pudge, why haven’t you been in touch?”
“Come on, Jimmie. Don’t pretend we haven’t been barely surviving out there.”
“I mean before that. Before the Pulse. Where have you been?”
“Adulting, I guess. You know I’ve never been a good communicator. We’ve had our own issues.”
Jimmie looked at Tonya. “Hey, sis,” he said, giving her a hug and a kiss on the cheek.
“Hi, Jimmie,” she responded. Tonya was a quiet woman. She was most vocal during her time alone with Darrick or when she had some important issue on her mind. It was in those moments she tended to blurt out whatever she was thinking.
Jimmie did a half-turn and saw Carissa entering the room and invited her into the salutations. “Carissa, this is my brother, Darrick; his wife, Tonya; and –” realizing Andy wasn’t anywhere to be seen, he looked around for his nephew.
“Where’d Andy go?” he asked.
“I sent him outside to play,” Darrick answered.
Concerned about the homestead being discovered, Jimmie asked the most obvious question. “Were you careful to make sure nobody followed you here?”
“Of course. Have you had many visitors?”
“There was a couple who passed through here two weeks back. They were headed east,” Jimmie said, looking at Tonya. “It was a man and his wife. They asked for some supplies, but all I was willing to spare was a couple of jars of canned tomatoes. I’m reluctant to give more. Especially not knowing from day to day how Dad’s going to be. I have to feed three.”
“If you don’t mind my asking,” Tonya said, “what happened to Emily?” She was curious what had become of Jimmie’s first wife.
“You don’t have to answer that, Jimmie,” Darrick interrupted, looking at Tonya. “That was rude,” he whispered to her.
“It’s okay, Pudge. Emily left me right after the Pulse. She was hell-bent on hooking back up with her mom
and dad. I wanted a family of my own. If she hadn’t left me, I wouldn’t have found Carissa.”
At first Tonya felt ashamed for blurting out the question, but she felt vindicated that the story had a good ending. Tonya had spent the past several weeks nagging Darrick about heading to New York to hook up with her family. Darrick wouldn’t budge on it. It was a sour spot in their relationship. For the time being, she was happy to be with Darrick, other than the excruciating pain in her abdomen that she was bearing from her sickness.
Darrick, on the other hand, pounced on the moment. “So you’re agreeing with me that a woman’s place is by her man’s side?”
“Absolutely,” Jimmie answered. “A woman who has joined a man in holy matrimony shouldn’t be hesitant to stay with her man wherever he goes. I tried to talk Emily out of leaving. I doubt she made it all the way to Texas in these conditions. It’s just –”
“Too dangerous?” Darrick answered, finishing Jimmie’s sentence.
Jimmie could sense that there was a rub between Darrick and Tonya over the subject matter. Tonya was squirming like she had something to add, but she held her peace.
Jimmie felt inclined to change the subject. His sister-in-law was wandering over to the window to check on Andy. “He should be fine over there in the chicken coop,” he reassured them. “As long as he stays below the ridge. Now, let’s get you guys fed.”
“I’m going to take a look around the property,” Tonya said, opening the door to go outside.
“No problem, just be sure not to travel out beyond the first set of hills. I make a habit of keeping this place a secret. The more we expose ourselves to the horizon, the more chances that some band of miscreants will find us. If you don’t mind, make sure Andy knows that.”
“Sure thing,” she answered, heading out the door.
“I’ll come show you around,” Carissa interjected before stepping outside with Tonya.
After The Pulse (Book 1): Homestead Page 1
