by Franks, JK
The rear seat was bolted to the floorboard in several places. The head of the bolt was sharp enough to use on the strap binding his hands. He found the edge by feel and began rubbing it fast. He was very familiar with the nylon tie strap and all the ways the little restraints could fail. While it seemed solid, it was nothing more than plastic. Thankfully, these were not the better quality type that law enforcement often used. This was the kind you might get at your local hardware store. It took longer than he expected to get the strap to fray and eventually break. Once free, he didn’t move. The man above should have a decent view of their prisoner. Right now, he had the element of surprise.
A line of sweat was dripping down his slitted eyes rendering what little vision he had nearly worthless. The watery lines of light and shadow came with a salty sting that forced him to keep them closed tightly and concentrate on his sense of touch. He slowly eased the knife from its hidden pocket. The razor-sharp blade clicked into position with an audible ‘snick.’
The moves on each target had been set in mind for several minutes. Slowly, he lifted an arm free and ran the sharp blade over the back of the driver seat. He cut through the cloth and vinyl seat covering to expose the springs and foam. He gauged where the driver was sitting then plunged the blade between the springs and deep into the driver’s back and chest. Quickly, he swung up and slashed at where he imagined the gunner's thighs would be. He made contact instead with metal.
Shit. He couldn’t see anything. He plunged the blade again and this time it met flesh. The howl of pain that erupted was cut off by a wild swerve of the out of control Humvee. He heard a sound from behind him realizing there had been a third man. The top gunner was no doubt going for a sidearm as was whoever was behind. His free hand found the door handle and he kicked himself off of the floor and through the now open door.
It occurred to Bartos that he sailed through the air for an absurdly long time. This was, of course, just his opinion. The impact into hard packed ground ripping through clothes and flesh. Somewhere ahead, he heard and felt the sound of a hard impact. The heavy military vehicle had hit something solid. He felt his shoulder give way as a shriek of pain shot through that side of his body. He bounded and rolled and eventually came to rest in a heap at the bottom of a ditch. His eyes fully closed now, his unconscious form unable to fight back even if any of the enemies were still alive.
Chapter Twenty-Nine
Bartos didn’t see the man approaching, but his eyes had swollen tight at that point. Even had he been conscious, he was in no condition to escape. The man’s round features were punctuated by a broken nose and a bloody cut creasing his forehead. He had been thrown from the rear of the Humvee into the front windshield when it crashed into the trees. Dazed and confused, he somehow had the presence of mind to take a gun and look for the bald man, the one who had killed his comrades. The thought of them dying here so far from home made him furious.
He had staggered back down the road fifty yards before he saw the single boot lying in the weeds. The blood kept dripping into his eyes which were already wavering. He knew he had a concussion, maybe more serious injuries, but this American bastard had to die. How had they beaten them? These guys were supposed to be simple farmers.
There…there he is.
The lump at the bottom of the ditch looked more like a pile of discarded clothes than a man. He raised the M16, tried to aim his unsteady hands, then just gave up and squeezed the trigger intending to spray bullets in the direction of Bartos. The gun did nothing. It was jammed or damaged in the wreck. Fuck!
The useless gun clattered to the pavement. Ho Whu Chin flipped open the Kizer Gemini knife and stepped toward the unmoving form. Fifteen feet, he stopped and called to him, “Hey you, bald man. What your name? Why you do this?”
Bartos heard parts of what sounded like someone speaking but could not push through to consciousness. He was sure all of the men in the vehicle were surely dead anyway…had to be more of the voices in his own head he was hearing. The sound…the voice came again. It sounded like someone speaking to him underwater. It faded again.
Whu gripped the blade as he had been taught by his uncle, a renowned warrior with the Chinese Night Tigers. The special forces had a well-earned and fierce reputation. He moved closer and saw the chest movement indicating life. “You battled hard, bald one. Now I end your pain.”
The flash of white darting from the opposite side of the road was the last image the mercenary saw. His pain was just beginning.
Scott and two of the SEAL team members cleared the road and sped through. “Anything?”
Rollins shook his head, “Too much cover, can just barely make out the road.” He was looking at the video screens from multiple drone feeds. The man rubbed his eyes; concentrating on the small bouncing videos on the screen was making his head hurt.
“Shit, shit, shit.” Scott hated the thought of what Bartos was going through. The man was a champion, always out there on the pointy end of the stick. He had seen the Cajun and Solo do some amazing things, but this was war, not some skirmish with thugs or religious fanatics. He needed Bartos as much as he needed anyone. In fact, he had a very important question to ask the man. If— he was still alive.
Skybox was in the passenger’s seat up front. “Scott, they undoubtedly called this in. The guys back at the farm never had a chance, but these fucks…“ he checked his watch, “…have had almost an hour. We have to assume they are sending backup from the camp in Jackson.”
Scott nodded, he knew that by ‘backup’ Sky was implying that it would likely be an overwhelming force. “How much time does that give us?”
“Assuming they don’t have aircraft or drones, we probably have less than an hour. We have to catch that Humvee, get Bartos and clear the area by then, or we will be fucked.”
Jack patted his leg, “Trust Bartos, man, he is unkillable.”
How in the hell can we catch them? Scott wondered. They had a good thirty-minute head start. The military truck screamed down the two-lane road, Scott and the others scanning for any sign of the NSF’s Humvees, Bartos or the dog. Fifteen minutes later, Rollins looked up, “Got something!”
The Jeep pulled up short of the wreckage, and everyone but Rollins jumped out and took cover.
“Holy shit,” Jack muttered.
Within seconds, each of the soldiers said, “Clear.”
Skybox took the lead and headed cautiously toward what was left of the Humvee. He motioned the others to spread wide and sweep the area. They could see a body, or at least part of a body, hanging from the top turret. Debris and weapons littered the immediate area. Jack and Scott were at the rear, each assigned the relatively safer areas of the ditch and wood line.
“Driver’s dead,” came from one of the others.
“Shit, they hit hard, there’s nothing left of the guy.”
“Quiet,” Skybox ordered. “Stay alert, we have no idea how many there were.”
Scott was sweeping the black barrel of the M16 in a wide arc as he scanned. Then, Jack’s voice from the far side of the road froze him in mid-step. “Scott, I got something.”
Scott forced his legs to move and quickly joined his friend. The something was the ruins of what might have been a human body—possibly. Now, it just resembled meat with some shreds of cloth. The face was gone, the neck had a gaping wound, it was held to the body by virtually nothing.
“It’s not him,” Scott said. “About the right size, but this guy had hair.” A few tufts of coarse black hair could still be seen on the scalp. “Looks like he was wearing black, too.” Bartos had been in olive drab cam like them.
Skybox walked up, “All of ‘em are dead.” He pulled up short when he saw the body. “Jesus Christ, what the fuck happened to this guy?”
Scott looked at Jack and almost in unison they said, “Solo.”
Rollins yelled from the Jeep, “Hey, guys, we got incoming.”
Scott started calling for Bartos, then Solo.
Skybox ran to
the car yelling instructions, “How far out are they?”
“Maybe twenty minutes, twenty-five max.”
“Ok, scan the area for heat signatures, then use visual to look for a big white dog.”
Scott and one soldier went north of the crash while Jack accompanied a group south. Each was calling for Bartos and the dog. Scott knew he was alive, but in what shape? If he was in that wreck, it couldn’t be good. Time was running out, his legs shook, they had to find his friend.
“I have paw prints heading south,” one of the men with Jack radioed.
All of them went in that direction. They searched until the very last minute, but no other sign was found. No footprints, no blood, nothing on the IR scanner. Reluctantly, Skybox made the call; they had to leave. “Now!”
Chapter Thirty
Bartos had come to with a hot, wet tongue licking his face. It smelled metallic, coppery, like…blood. “Solo. How did you get here?” He feebly reached out to blindly feel the dog. Solo’s large head pushed into him. Bartos knew what that meant, he wanted him to move. “I’m trying, Solo.”
Truthfully, everything hurt, he felt sure he was broken all over. He knew how to land to avoid injury, but with his eyes swollen shut and his feet still bound, the leap from the car had been reckless. I may need to cut my eyes just to be able to see. The swelling was so intense, no light was getting to his eyes.
He took a mental inventory of his body, happy to see everything still seemed to work. Unfortunately, it all hurt like hell. He held the dog's jaw and asked one command, “Safe?”
Solo dipped his head toward the ground. “Okay, good.” Safe—for now. Somewhere in his barely conscious state, he remembered something from earlier. He was sure the men had talked to someone on the radio. They called in the attack, must have asked for help. “Solo, we have to move―this place is going to get busy real soon. I need your help, okay?”
The dog had a limited understanding of commands, but today was not about training, it was about friendship. Solo led Bartos back up onto the road, stopping where the fallen soldier was. Bartos used his feet and then got down on his hands and knees. Here, too, he smelled blood, he knew it was a body. His fingers felt over the crumpled form. “You do this, boy? Looks like your style…nice work.”
It took a few more minutes, but he found the man’s knife and pocketed it. His had been lost in the fight with the gunner. He next found the rifle several yards away. A quick inspection by touch revealed too much damage, so he removed the ammo clip and left the gun. Solo then led him to the wreckage. Bartos was straining to hear anything, but the forest stayed silent. Unable to see, his other senses were becoming more attuned to the things around him.
“We only have a few minutes, Solo. Show me what is here.” The dog bumped his leg on the right side. He reached into the car through the missing door, eventually finding the straps of a small molle pack. Possibly a first aid kit. He and the dog spent several more precious minutes looking for anything of use before vacating the area. He rested a hand on the dog’s shoulders as Solo led his friend deep into the woods to safety. Limbs and rocks kept hindering the escape, but Bartos trusted the dog completely. How in the hell had he caught up to them? he wondered.
By the time Scott and the others reached the crash, Solo and Bartos were many miles away. Solo briefly stopped and turned his head listening for a sound, but in the end, dropped his head down and kept leading his friend farther away from the road, from the others, from danger.
Bartos could tell it was nearly night. The heat of the day was beginning to wane, and he could no longer feel the sun on his face when it made it through the canopy overhead. He could feel frustrated with his temporary blindness, but he didn’t. It was simply an additional challenge. He was just thankful to still be alive. Solo had been his lifesaver, of that he was sure, but now it would be up to them both to get through this. He sat under a rocky overhang, Solo had left him, probably to go hunt for food and scout for dangers. Bartos took the time to inventory his meager supplies.
He had the folding knife from the soldier. It was sharp and seemed to be good quality. The first aid pack had been a disappointment. Just by feel, he could tell it was nearly empty. He’d recovered one assault rifle and four clips of ammo. He could tell the clips were nearly full just by their weight. The one other backpack he’d managed to retrieve from the wreckage was a mystery until now. He went through feeling everything, trying to assess the contents. Some were obvious, some much less so. A poncho or possibly an emergency blanket. A thermos or metal drinking bottle that seemed to be half full. A handful of what he guessed were protein bars. Obviously, this squad had not expected to be out for long or anywhere they couldn’t get food and water.
The backpack had several other items he couldn’t identify. One seemed to be a lighter and another probably a compass, but he couldn’t determine how to open it simply by touch. He repacked all the items. He took a tentative swallow from the container, and, determining it was water, he drank it all. There would be streams in the forest, he knew he could get more. What else did he have? He felt up and down the legs and pockets of his clothes coming out with a small set of lock-picks. Not so useful. A PSK, or pocket survival kit, with fishhooks, line, razor-blade, matches and a piece of mirror. He repacked everything but the razor—that he might need if his swollen eyes didn’t decrease soon. His bootlaces were paracord, so he could also use those in a pinch. All in all, it wasn’t much, but…he’d had less and survived.
Movement sounded off to his left. He cocked his head to hear better. Four feet moving in unison, not two. The dog trotted up softly and licked his face and arms. “Damn, buddy, glad to see you, too.” The dog had never been affectionate to him. Bartos thought briefly that he might just be seeing if the meat needs seasoning. He took the rare opportunity and hugged the dog who accepted the touch but only for a moment. “I hope you got yourself some food and water, Solo, cause we ain’t got shit.”
Chapter Thirty-One
Thunder Ridge Protectorate
Archangel studied the maps looking for flaws in the plan. The Praetor commander had underestimated the new president. She was even more reckless…more dangerous than he had expected. Levy was right in the urgent need to rein in the woman. That was not Archangel’s job, though, not this time. Someone else would be called on for that.
His job was even more challenging. How to keep the former military forces away from the aid camps. The protectorate strongholds like this one were dangerously close to failing. Vincent had done a good job assembling all the intel. Archangel was shocked to see how little supplies were left. The camps had been going for nearly two years but should have been self-sufficient by now. Instead, they were using the makeshift ‘aid’ camp occupants as forced labor to supply food and manpower.
What went wrong? He had seen the Catalyst plans, they were well thought out. The facilities, even the selection process for who got in, was all very meticulous. The teachers, CEOs, doctors, engineers. The near absence of most politicians, military types and the overly wealthy. It had been the core plan of what should have been a near-Utopian society. The foul odors assaulting his nose indicated it had not fulfilled its goals.
While the occupants of the small city were all brilliantly talented, that did not mean they all had skills that were immediately useful in the new throwback society where they found themselves. He watched as a man and woman struggled with a wheelbarrow loaded with hay. The man, he’d been told, was a runner-up for the Nobel prize for physics several years back. Now, he was mucking stalls for the horses. That man probably resented the fall from grace even more than the average Joe Schmo did. Not only that, he sucked at this new role. All his Ph.D.s did little to help food grow or chickens lay more eggs. In his gut, Archangel knew that was the issue. That was the real reason these camps were falling apart. They didn’t get workers, they got thinkers. They needed more doers and fewer talkers. In time, the brainpower might be helpful, but for now, they were just extra mouths to feed
. He watched as the hay spilled out into the road, the couple arguing over the overturned wheelbarrow.
Vincent dropped a set of photos on the table and followed Archangels’ eyes to the scene. He shook his head, “Getting these people to work together is like herding cats.”
“Worse,” Archangel said. “At least cats would have a common understanding when it comes to survival. These people are clueless. They’ve held top positions and led comfortable lives, many had scores of people under them doing the real work. Now it’s up to them.”
Vincent shrugged, “The original plan included a fair share of workers, farmers and such. Sadly, they were some of the last to be picked up—so only about half of the ones on the list were ever brought in. Once they were here, it went downhill fast. The others looked down on them, maybe not intentionally, but the work itself was obviously manual labor. Most saw the farmers as worker bees, just a drone needed to keep the hive alive. That attitude more than anything else drove most of those people away. Of course, the farmers and ranchers were independent types anyway and didn’t take kindly to being told what to do.”
“So, they all left?” Archangel said.
“No, not all, at least not here, some camps they did. All the farmers, carpenters, mechanics, even many of the nurses and teachers. The losses were too much. The NSF boys started trying to keep everyone in the protectorate zones by force, and it started getting ugly.”
Archangel pointed to a small device on one of the shelves. “Those are the new hive drones?”
Vincent nodded, “They are damn good, they basically provide an umbrella of coverage for security and can even project an image that conceals what is below to fool satellite imagery.” The body of the unit was small, the vaguely double-helix wings looked almost like gossamer versions of DNA strands. “This one is solar powered. The ones for nighttime are a bit larger.”
