“So now that we’re being civilized, I’d like you to meet my head of security, Ms. Sandra Jackson here,” he said, using her name, since they’d already indicated they’d been following them on the radio.
“John Davis,” he said standing up, his red face gone, in its place a pasty white pallor, slightly grey in tone when Blake looked close.
“Governor, we don’t take too kindly to people threatening us. I don’t know how many people you think we have, but let me tell you… My wife’s squad is big enough to overpower you. You’re also surrounded by elements of the United States Military and what blew up your fancy hummer was some towed artillery. I think it’s a howitzer, but I think it just looks like a big gun. See, I’m just a country boy and a homesteader. I’d like to see some official form or documents if you have any—“ Blake was saying but was interrupted by the Governor.
“They were in the—“
“Yeah, sorry about that,” Sandra interrupted, “it was to get your attention, or my squad would have had to gun you all down.”
“Like I was saying,” Blake resumed talking, “my wife is pretty handy with this Army stuff. She was something good, I hear. But most of the rest of us non-military types on the homestead just want to get along and grow our own food. If we can share, we will. As it is, we have an idea about working some of the crops that are going to rot in the fields. There might be excess, but I have no way of knowing who’s legit and who’s not. None of us do.”
“Sir, let me,” one of men who looked military from the governor’s group asked.
“Sure, sure,” he said, and Sandra stepped to the side and started a quiet conversation with him.
Blake turned his attention back at the men that had been disarmed. They had their hands behind their heads in a line on their knees, one leg across the other. They probably thought they were about to be executed, judging by the terrified expressions on their faces and the guns held at eye level to them, but Blake didn’t think death was coming for any of them today. He knew his wife wouldn’t have ordered the Hummer blown up to make a point if there was somebody inside there. She wasn’t like that, and in his heart, neither was he and his.
“I promise you, what I’m saying is true.”
“What’s in the truck?” Blake asked suddenly, noticing again the refer unit behind the cab of the Semi.
Chapter Two
Michael & King –
Talladega Federal Penitentiary, Alabama
“Michael, I really wish you would wait for me,” John said, watching the younger man gear up with what was left behind.
“I wish I could, I’m just afraid that if I don’t set off after him, I’ll never find out where my Mom is,” Michael told him.
“Don’t you worry,” King’s deep voice rumbled, sounding like two boulders rubbing against each other, “I’ll keep the scrawny kid safe.”
“I don’t doubt that, and you’ll have my thanks for keeping an eye on him,” John said, turning and offering his hand to the large black man who’d become one of Michael’s closest of friends in the days since liberating the FEMA camp, “but this isn’t your fight. Why go?”
“Got nowhere else to be,” King said, his voice so deep he made the narrator from the Lion King’s voice sound almost falsetto.
“I can’t talk you out of this?” John asked Michael, breaking his grip with King and offering his hand to the young man he’d grown so fond of.
“No, sir. Now that my dad is buried… Lukashenko can’t get away. He’ll know where the next camp is. We know for a fact that he knew where the women were shipped.” Michael told him.
They did indeed. Some of the guards had survived being killed by the prisoners, or they had surrendered. In fact, two of them had locked themselves inside the jail cells that used to house the FEMA inmates. They offered information for their safety. They were still being held in the cells they’d locked themselves into and were proving to be quite a fount of information for the group. Trained interrogators were driving in. Lukashenko would have been the biggest prize and, for reasons John understood, Michael had to go after him.
“You’re going to bring him back here, right?” John asked.
Michael hesitated a tick too long.
“Well then, get as much out of him as you can,” John said, wanting to say more but knowing it was useless.
Michael had wrestled with enough already, and killing isn’t something that’s ever easy, just something you learned to put up with. Michael had done more killing in the past few months than most men had ever done in their lifetime, soldiers included. John had seen the kid in action. Most people didn’t get that good without a ton of training and experience. Some were born with it, and Michael was one of them. He was passable with a rifle, but it was his father’s Colts where he really shone. The kid was deadly with them.
“I will, sir,” Michael said, a nervous smile passing over part of his face.
“If it’s all the same to you,” King rumbled, “I’ll kill Lukashenko when we’re through with it. I have a score or two to settle with him myself.”
“We really need that Intel…” John complained, but King held his hands up for John to stop.
“I was a Major before I got shanghaied and sent downstate here to break big rocks into little rocks. I know what you need. Just give us one of those fancy radios and I’ll have him singing.” King said, his voice serious but his smile was cold.
“Well damn, how do you figure on doing that?” Michael asked him, surprised at the revelation.
“With this,” King held up a stiletto he’d pulled from the small of his back.
“Messy,” John said.
“Lukashenko was born an officer; he don’t know real pain. I won’t have to use it. From what his men were telling me, he’s a pompous ass and the men all hated him, except for his inner circle… and they’re all dead,” King smiled and clapped John on the shoulder before turning and picking up a backpack and rifle from the ground.
“Bye, John,” Michael almost whispered.
“Bye kid.” John turned and walked away before his emotions could get the best of him.
* * *
Breaking camp, John was surprised at the number of people who wanted to stay there. Once the guards were gone or ‘handled’, about half of the contingent of prisoners elected to stay on and continue the work. The parts were needed and, if the rumors were true, that kind of work would be what it would take to get the country back out of the ashes. The difference was, now they were working for themselves, their families and their country. They would track down the parts needed, and handle the marauders as they found them. Having everyone locked up and concentrated worked for keeping them safe… and prisoners.
Of those who elected to leave, about a quarter were going on a hunt to search out missing relatives or check in on parents, kids and other family members. They tried to encourage them to stick together in large groups to avoid the roving bands of gangs that had formed, but they didn’t force them to do so. As it was, John had Linny and Bret to take care of, and he was being asked to handle the planning stages for the next camp. The captured APC would remain for the time being, with a couple of hastily trained operators to protect the camp, its inhabitants and supplies, but eventually it’d be called upon to join in the attack, wherever it may be.
The rest of those leaving were returning to home or to a relative’s “farm” in some vague but hard to name town. They ‘knew’ how to get there. Everyone understood that wasn’t the case anymore, but they had seen what it had been like to have their freedoms removed and imprisoned. None of them wanted a repeat of that awful feeling.
John was watching the last of them leave when he felt a gentle tugging on his hand. Small hands, warm. He turned and smiled as he saw Linny and Bret standing there, Caitlin still holding Linny’s hand and Bret sneaking glances at the former Miss Maryland. John could understand the kid’s distraction, but he knew it was also that Caitlin and Tex had taken in the kids for a day or two. T
hat was another revelation; apparently Tex and Caitlin’s banter had been the beginnings of a relationship that nobody could have believed possible.
They’d taken in the kids while John and Michael had been busy burying their dead so they could see if they wanted kids of their own someday. Judging by the smile on Caitlin’s face, the little monsters hadn’t scared them off child rearing yet. Those two were just good ones.
“Hey guys, are you ready to go camping again?” John asked them.
“Where are we going?” Linny asked.
“With some Army men,” Caitlin answered.
“As long as we don’t have to eat stinky fish every day!” Bret piped up causing John to chuckle.
“Stinky fish?” Tex asked, ghosting out of nowhere to put a lanky arm around her shoulders and hug her close to his body.
“Long story,” John said, getting himself under control.
“Oh, well then, maybe when we hit camp. Sounds like we have more units coming out of the woodwork and we need to figure out how to set up a central command of sorts. Too many people checking in and no chiefs around here to tell the Indians what to do.” Tex told them.
“We’ll deal with chain of command when it’s time. Let’s get everyone together… Here…” John pointed to a map, “where the old fort used to be in the National Forest. There’s enough grounds there for all of us.”
“Why not just stay here?” Caitlin asked.
John had struggled with that himself, “Because the people who are staying here are building themselves a new life. Having us around would be a constant reminder that they gave up without a fight. That they were rounded up like cattle, and I really hate to admit it but... I don’t know if I can keep a straight thought in my head in a place like that. It just makes me want to…”
John’s hands balled into fists subconsciously and his knuckles popped. The little kids looked, and realized John was angry, but they didn’t say anything. Bret was the first one to break the silence.
“Do you want to go to the cells and get Mr. Jenkins out to hit him again?” Bret asked.
That broke the spell, and John’s eyes cleared.
“That sounds like it would work buddy, but that isn’t the right thing to do. We’re better than that.”
“What about the ones you guys lined up by the back wall?” Linny asked.
The grownups winced in unison. The guards who had participated in abuse of the women and young ladies were executed. Each woman was given the option of letting their rapists die by firing squad, or they could elect to do it themselves. Most of the women took the offered combat knives and took their lives back, a brutal but effective way of making sure they got closure. None of the kids were supposed to see it, but the way people talked…
“Those were bad guys, they were the ones who hurt the mommies and sisters,” Tex said, pulling Caitlin even closer, his other hand snaking across her midsection in an unconscious move.
“Oh, then that’s good! Can we ride in the big tank?” Linny asked, the case closed as far as she cared.
“No, sugar,” Caitlin said, “it’s going to stay right here and keep the bad guys out.”
* * *
“King, why are you coming with me?” Michael asked after an hour’s worth of walking.
“Told you back there, I got nowhere else to be - and a score to settle.”
Michael thought about that. Maybe it really was that simple. King was a big guy, and a man of few words. Dangerous, deadly, and - if truth be told - probably one of the guys who could help Michael safely cross the country, apart from John. John and Michael had argued bitterly about leaving but, in the end, John knew that 17 was old enough to have set your heart on revenge and still too young to be damaged by it when it happened.
John had pulled King’s prison files out of curiosity, planning to show them to Michael to prove that his trust in the big man was as flawed as his thinking, but as he read through them, he realized how wrong he was. King had been imprisoned after two youths kicked in his front door while he was asleep. He’d been discharged from the Army at that point and settling into civilian life. He’d given chase and caught the first kid, knocking him out with one blow. He caught up with the second kid and was starting to administer a beating to beat the band when the police showed up.
None of them had properly identified themselves and King had been tackled by one of the cops who thought he was the aggressor and home invader. Without breaking a sweat, King broke the man’s arm and collar bone before the second cop tased him and put a gun to his head. The trial was speedy. The youth he’d first knocked out got a home invasion charge, the second one came out of a coma a month later, mostly in one piece. He was charged as well. King, on the other hand, had been charged with assault and battery, resisting arrest and a slew of other charges.
Black on black crime, so it wasn’t investigated thoroughly and the police department and the district attorney were trying to save face from the cop who got busted up. The dash camera videos had been released but that wasn’t enough to sway a jury; they just saw ‘big and ugly’, beating on someone when the cop bit off more than he could chew. Two months into his prison sentence, the Aryan Nation took a stab at King in the showers. King broke the would-be assassin’s neck and was beating another one almost to death when the guards took him down. He was in solitary confinement for months afterwards.
You’d think that’d be it, but then he was charged with the murder of the first man, same as the skinhead who lived. They tacked on more time. The second attempt on his life came a year later and that time King felt he needed to send a message if he was to be left alone. He’d be imprisoned for life, but he’d be alive. They came for him in the laundry, where he was working. He’d gotten in-between a row of machines where they had to come for him single file, and he broke the arms of the first man before breaking his neck, turning his head all the way around.
When he threw the body into the pile of awaiting skinheads they went ballistic. Two more died before the guards had everything locked down and King had earned himself the notoriety needed to ensure nobody tried again, as long as he didn’t appear to be ‘getting soft. Every now and then he needed to demonstrate how brutal and bad he was, but he never wanted to kill anybody. Circumstances and how people seemed to take offense at his color and size forced him to act just like they expected him to.
When John shared all of that with Michael, the kid just nodded. Then Michael recounted his own problems with Jeff at first and then later on with both Jeff and Les. He wouldn’t have believed the story if King hadn’t been there smiling like the Cheshire cat in the dark.
“Law of the jungle, baby,” King said, his voice startlingly deep to John’s ears.
“Respect and power,” Michael answered.
“You know, it’s a brutal world out here right now, maybe that will keep you alive for a while, but you can’t lose your humanity,” John told them both.
“You can’t lose your humanity if you’re dead,” was King’s last word on it.
All of that was going through Michael’s head as they walked. They had been offered one of the running trucks that the FEMA camp had confiscated but they’d declined, planning on picking up something else on the way out of town. They had no idea where, but they wanted to keep the running vehicles for those with kids and wives. They were loaded down for bear, having looted the NATO weapons the guards had pre-positioned in one of the cells in Solitary of all places. King wore a combat vest without a shirt, with an H&K USP in a clamshell and extra magazines.
“Never was good with the rifle, don’t know how they kept me in,” was what he’d said when they’d offered him one.
Michael had his grandfather’s old grease gun and his father’s matching Colts with enough cartridges and magazines to make walking a struggle.
“Hey, King, what happens after we settle things with Lukashenko and get my mom back?” Michael asked, curious and a bit afraid of the answer.
“Well kid, how about we
figure it out when we get there? Lots of miles between us and Louisiana.”
“Louisiana? That’s where we’re going?” Michael asked.
“Yeah, I heard of a camp down that a way that Lukashenko did trades with. Worst comes to worst, we could always let ourselves get captured. Might save us some walking.”
“Yeah right,” Michael chuckled, “that worked out well for me last time…”
Chapter Three
The Homestead, Kentucky
The refrigerated truck was filled with a variety of hanging carcasses. Cow, deer and wooden crates of what appeared to be processed chickens, all layered in sheets of plastic.
“Where’d all the food come from?” Blake asked John Davis.
“I told you, we’re doing an inventory of the surrounding areas. We’re working with people to redistribute food to those in need.”
Blake thought about that a moment and was about to answer when he noticed Sandra’s little pow-wow with the Governor’s head of security was over. He held up a finger to Davis and walked over to her.
“That could have been hairy,” Blake admitted.
“Yeah. I talked to Sgt. Silverman over there,” Sandra pointed to him, “It actually sounds legit to some degree. I guess by having the radio station we caught their attention.”
Blake let that sink in before answering, “I’m sorry, I just wanted to help. I didn’t realize doing this was jeopardizing everyone’s safety.”
“I said to some degree,” she swatted at his arm playfully, “but they did forcibly take food from some people they called ‘hoarders’ and more from a big cattle operation about an hour from here.”
“How is that legit then?” Blake asked, his voice angry.
Sandra smiled, she knew the anger wasn’t directed at her, “Right now, there isn’t any real form of government, from what Silverman was saying. Each state’s Governor was told to activate the National Guard, Martial Law, blah, blah, blah.”
Cries Of The World Page 2
