The Long Road - A Post Apocalyptic Novel (The New World)

by G. Michael Hopf

  JANUARY 10, 2014

  “Some choices we live not only once but a thousand times over, remembering them for the rest of our lives.”

  – Richard Bach

  South of Fort Irwin, CA

  Gordon liked the desert for different reasons; one was the contrast in temperatures between the day and the night. As he and Holloway walked back to his truck, unsuccessful in their mission, he took the time to appreciate the cool, crisp air.

  Every area of the base appeared locked up tight, and armed security was everywhere. With the incident of a day and half ago still fresh in his mind, he wasn’t about to walk up to the gate and ask for help. He just didn’t trust anyone, nor could he risk it. The walk to the truck took about thirty minutes, and then the drive back would take another forty-five. He’d be able to get a few hours of sleep; then they’d get their day started on the road. He was disappointed that the base was locked down, but in some ways he’d kind of expected it.

  Just after starting the truck he heard someone scream. “Sshh,” he said to Holloway.

  “What?” Holloway responded.

  “Listen, quiet.”

  Both men sat in the glow of the dashboard listening. Nothing, just the truck engine.

  “Let’s get back,” Holloway said as he stretched.

  “There again, did you hear that?” Gordon said as he turned off the truck.

  Again, both men just sat listening to the quiet desert.

  “I swear, I heard someone scream twice in the distance,” Gordon said.

  “Okay, but what are we going to do about it? It’s not our concern, is it?” Holloway asked.

  “You’re right, let’s get outta here,” Gordon said as he turned the ignition key again and fired up the truck. Then as if on cue, the scream came again but closer, followed by a gunshot.

  “Now I heard that!” Holloway exclaimed.

  Just as Gordon turned off the engine again, the voice screamed a third time; this time it was audible and closer. “Dad, help!”

  Gordon recognized the voice; it was Hunter. He flung open the door and grabbed his rifle. Holloway followed right behind him, armed and ready. They both ran in the direction from which they’d heard the scream.

  “Hunter! Hunter! Where are you?” Gordon yelled, a bit of panic was in his voice.

  “Dad, over here!” Hunter’s voice sounded fatigued and scared.

  “I’m coming!”

  Gordon ran hard across the desert floor. The uneven ground made him overextend his left leg and almost fall, but he recovered his balance and kept running toward his son.

  “Dad!”

  “I’m almost there! Holloway, scan the area with the NVGs!”

  Holloway stopped, put on the night-vision goggles, and began looking in Hunter’s direction.

  “I see what must be Hunter, you’re close!” Holloway yelled at Gordon.

  The night was pitch black. Gordon could not see anything, but he was determined to get to his son.

  “Hunter, yell out again!”

  “Here, Dad!”

  Gordon knew he was close; he pivoted, and in a dozen steps he ran into Hunter.

  “What the hell? What are you doing out here?”

  “Dad, I, uh, I . . .” Hunter was attempting to answer him but was out of breath.

  “Let’s go! I need you to keep running!”

  “Gordon,” Holloway said, “I have a lot of movement out there. I’m counting, one, two, four, at least eight bodies moving out there, and they’re heading toward us.”

  “Get back to the truck, now!”

  All three ran. Hunter kept falling down, but each time Gordon pulled him up quickly. No one said a word as each was breathing hard from the exertion.

  “Where the fuck is the truck?” Gordon asked loudly.

  “It should be around here somewhere!”

  “Put the NVGs on, hurry!”

  As Holloway put the goggles back on to help find the truck, Gordon held Hunter close. He listened as best he could for any sounds around him.

  “Over there, but we have to hurry. Whoever was chasing Hunter is getting close to the truck.”

  Not hesitating, they all took off in a hard sprint toward the truck.

  Gordon was starting to feel panicked. He couldn’t see, but he knew people were coming toward him and his son was there.

  “Where the hell is it?”

  “Almost there,” Holloway stated, now running with the goggles on.

  Out of the darkness the truck appeared, but so did whoever was in pursuit of Hunter. All Gordon could feel was something large hitting him in the face. The force of the hit was enough to lay him on his back. He could taste the blood from a large cut across his nose. He shook off the hit and rolled and got back on his feet. The visibility was only feet, but he could hear whoever it was all around him.

  “Hunter? Hunter?” Gordon called out. He had drawn his pistol and held it out but didn’t shoot because he couldn’t identify anyone.

  Then gunshots rang out. He didn’t know who was shooting, and he still had no idea where his son was.

  “Hunter? Where are you?”

  From what he could see, there were at least a dozen people around him and the truck. They probably had the same limitations as he did, and from the sounds of only one rifle, Gordon assumed it was Holloway.

  “Hunter? Where are you?”

  Gordon stepped toward the truck and saw a figure too big to be Holloway. He shot it. He turned and shot another one and another. The next thing he knew he was on the ground again. He couldn’t remember how long he’d been down, but the back of his head hurt badly. The sound of gunfire had ceased. He started to grasp around him for his gun, but all he touched was sand.

  “Search him for the keys,” a man’s voice said, hovering above him.

  Gordon tried to scramble away but was stopped when he was hit in the head again. He could still make out some noises, but he couldn’t do anything.

  “We found the keys on this one,” another unknown voice said after going through Gordon’s pants pockets.

  “Toss him and the boy in the back of the truck,” the first voice said.

  “What about the other one?”

  “He’s dead. Samson bashed his head in,” a third voice said.

  “Two will be fine, Brother Rahab will want to see them.”

  The men tied up Gordon and Hunter and placed them in the bed of the truck. The last thing Gordon saw before he passed out was his son’s bloodied face. With all of his strength, he inched close to Hunter. He placed his forehead against Hunter’s head. Just being able to touch his son made him feel a bit better. He kept struggling to stay conscious, but the effort was too much and he passed out again.

  USS Makin Island off the coast of Southern California

  Barone had thought his plan was working up until they began sending in teams of Marines to gather their families. The number who weren’t returning was staggering to him. When he’d executed his mutiny, he believed that he could convince many to come with thoughts of treasure and land. On the surface it appeared to have worked, but what was happening now showed that a good number of Marines and sailors were just saying one thing to their commanders and senior NCOs and doing another when they had the chance. All along he knew it would be difficult to convince 100 percent to join him, but now his ranks were decreasing. They had been able to make up for some of the loss by finding Marines at Camp Pendleton and convincing them to join. His men hadn’t really known what life was like but would find out; those who had been stateside did and now were eager to come with him.

  The thing that troubled him the most was the attempt on his life two days before. When he’d decided to go against all that he had promised to uphold and protect, he knew there were bound to be those who would try to stop him. Taking an entire ARG and then attacking a U.S. military installation was a lot for some of the men to stomach, but this new world they were in was different. His military training and experience went deep, and when h
e was first briefed on the EMP strikes and the nuclear attack on Washington, D.C., he knew without a doubt his country was gone. Those who kept the faith were like those who believed in awakening a corpse that had been dead for days. It was easy to think that their government could tackle the situation, but only a few understood the enormity of the problem. He understood and knew that to survive he would have to shift his priorities quickly, so he did. The plan was quickly laid out and executed. He felt sorry for those who had decided not to come back; their ignorance would be their undoing. Only when they were face-to-face with the realities on the ground would they know why he’d done what he’d done.

  Today would be another new experience for him. The Marine who had attempted to kill him had been taken alive. His court-martial had been swift, and so would the execution of the sentence. The tribunal had found him guilty, and his sentence was death by firing squad. Barone would do something different: Instead of gathering a group of Marines to carry out the act, he himself would do it. If the sentence was to be carried out, he felt the one in command should be the one to do it.

  He looked down at his watch; the hour was getting close. His thoughts had been all-consuming; so much had been happening. His stateroom was his sanctuary, and he took advantage of it more now than in the past. Even though he had found his wife and daughter safe, he still could not get over the loss of his son. Guilt racked him. There were moments he regretted his decision, knowing that if he had gone back east, Billy would still be alive. His pragmatic side, though, would not let him sit in this guilt because the conditions in which he’d found his wife and daughter were perilous. It was as if God had made it one or the other. Had he gone back east like a good Marine, he had no doubt his wife and daughter would have starved to death.

  He wiped the last bit of oil from his nickel-plated Model 1911 and placed it in his holster. He stood and walked to the mirror to make sure everything was in place on his uniform. He grabbed his belt and holster, put it on snugly, and left the stateroom. Each person he came upon in the passageways of the ship quickly stood next to the bulkhead and acknowledged him. Everyone knew where he was going and what was about to happen on the flight deck.

  When he exited the last hatch and stepped onto the black deck, the sun’s rays warmed his face. It took a moment for his eyes to adjust to the brightness, but when they did, he saw everyone gathered already. He approached Master Sergeant Simpson and returned his salute. Simpson handed him a piece of paper. He glanced down to see it was the Marine’s execution order, and at the bottom of the page it was signed by him. Barone looked around at the group that had been gathered for the execution; every senior NCO and officer had been commanded to attend. Barone did this for two reasons, to show them how violating their laws ended in real consequences and to strike fear into his men. He approached the convicted Marine.

  “Lance Corporal Cartwell, you have been found guilty by a military tribunal of attempting to kill a superior officer. The sentence for this is death by firing squad,” Barone bellowed.

  The young Marine stood firmly at attention with his hands bound behind his back and his legs tied together. The expression on his face did showed not a man afraid of death but one defiant as he stared at Barone squarely, not even allowing a blink to interrupt his stare.

  “This sentence will be carried out now, but the firing squad is not needed.” Barone looked around at all his senior staff and continued, “I will be the one to carry out this sentence. I am the one sentencing this man to die, so it is only right that I be the one to do it. Before I carry out this order, do you have anything to say, Lance Corporal Cartwell?”

  “Yes, sir, I do,” the man said defiantly.

  “Go ahead,” Barone responded. He lowered the paper so he could look the man in the eyes.

  “I’m not sorry for what I did, no way! This man is a traitor and murderer! You hear me out there, you are following a traitor! Our country needed us and we let them down, we abandoned our people! We are Marines and we have not fulfilled our oath! I only wish I could have been successful. You can kill me today, but I’m not the only one! You will pay for what you did to our country!” the man screamed out.

  “Is that it?” Barone asked. He didn’t show an ounce of emotion and didn’t change his expression the entire time the man shouted at him.

  “Just do it, get it over with! Today, I die a patriot!”

  Barone rolled up the paper and placed it in his side cargo pocket. He signaled to a couple of men to his right with a nod. They came running over and began to blindfold Cartwell.

  “I want to see. I want to see you do it,” he said.

  Both men stopped and looked at Barone. He didn’t respond right away, then signaled for them to leave with another nod. Once the men had taken position back in formation, Barone began. He unholstered his pistol and took aim at Cartwell. He wasn’t more than ten feet away, but for him it felt like he was a hundred feet away. Barone took a breath, held it, and began to slowly squeeze the trigger. The natural arc of movement felt exacerbated, and for an instant Barone was nervous that he might miss the man. The pressure he kept applying seemed not to be enough. He continued to squeeze, but then the man yelled out, “God bless the United States!” This startled Barone and forced him to apply the final amount of pressure to the trigger. The pistol went off with the bullet ripping through the man’s skull, throwing his head back. The man’s body then went limp and he fell to the ground lifeless. Barone lowered the pistol and just stared at Cartwell’s body. He stood for twenty seconds, then reholstered the pistol.

  “Corpsman, over here now!” Barone commanded.

  A man in his twenties ran over and examined the body of Cartwell. He looked up at Barone and said, “He’s dead, sir.”

  “Good,” Barone answered with a subdued voice.

  Barone took a few steps back and stood at attention. He ordered the formation to attention. Simpson walked over and stood in front of him.

  “Master Sergeant, dump this man’s body overboard, then prepare the ARG, we’re done here.”

  “What about the chopper that’s missing, sir?”

  “We have to assume they went UA too; time to cut our losses and move on.”

  “Where to, sir?”

  “Set sail for Oregon, our next stop will be Coos Bay.”

  San Diego, California

  Sebastian had never used crutches before, but he was getting the hang of them quickly. He paced back and forth in his room; it was close to lunchtime, and Annaliese would be bringing him his food. After meeting with her father the day before, he had many more questions, especially about Zion.

  Right on time, he heard the typical three-tap knock and then the door opened slightly. Her gentle face peered in to see him standing there with a slight smile.

  “I have your lunch. Is now a good time?” she asked.

  “Sure, come on in. I’m starving. Smells great. What is it, chili?” Sebastian replied. He looked happy to see her as he hopped over to the end of the bed and sat down.

  She quickly walked in, placed the tray next to him, and turned to leave, not responding to him.

  “Stop, don’t leave so quickly,” he pleaded.

  “I have things to do.”

  “Just ten minutes, please. I’m stuck in here all day. It’s lonely.”

  She hesitated a bit, then gave in.

  “Here, sit down,” Sebastian said, pointing to the same chair that Bishop Sorenson had sat in the day before.

  She hadn’t sat down for a second before Sebastian started peppering her with questions.

  “Where’s Zion? When are you leaving? Who are you people?”

  “I’m surprised my father didn’t answer these questions.”

  “Nope.”

  “Well, let’s see. We are members of the Church of Latter-day Saints.”

  “Okay,” Sebastian replied with a smile on his face.

  “I don’t know if I can tell you when we’re leaving, but where we are going I can.”

/>   “Zion?”

  “Yes, Zion.”

  “Where is Zion?”

  “It’s the Holy Land in Missouri,” she replied.

  “There’s holy land in Missouri?”

  “I don’t expect you to understand, but yes, there is. We are going home.”

  Sebastian smirked a bit because the sound of a “Promised Land” in the middle of the Midwest sounded funny. Annaliese caught this smirk and immediately stopped talking. She looked down and shook her head, then stood abruptly.

  “Where are you going?” Sebastian asked, now concerned that his inappropriate behavior was the cause of her irritation.

  “Mr. Van Zandt, I don’t need to sit here and tell you about my beliefs only to have you mock me. You’re in my house, and I expect some type of respect. You need to eat so you can get your strength back. I believe you have somewhere to go yourself.”

  “Listen, I’m sorry. I really didn’t mean to do . . . that,” he said while motioning to his face.

  “Excuse me. I’ll be back later for your tray.” She nodded to him and walked out of the room.

  “Please stay, I’m sorry, truly, I’m sorry,” he pleaded, but it was too late. “Damn it, Sebastian, you’re such an idiot!” he said out loud. His appetite now gone, he stood and hopped over to the window. His room looked down on a side walkway where crates and large trash cans were stored. He leaned closer to see if he could see anything, but it was useless. The walkway went for yards in either direction. Feeling frustrated with himself and with not knowing what was going on, he hopped back to the bed, grabbed his crutches, and walked to the door. He felt a little hesitation about opening the door, but he asked himself what harm it would do if he went for a short walk.

  He entered the brightly sunlit hallway and walked toward what appeared to be a large loft. On the walls hung portraits. He assumed they were her family, and by the looks of it, it was a large one. Each step he took, he felt more like a child sneaking out of his room; the thought flashed and he dismissed it as stupid. The loft was large, fully furnished, and had the appearance of a heavily utilized room. A sectional took up most of the space, a large TV was mounted on the wall, and what must have been dozens of toys were in the far corner.