DRUMS OF WAR: A Dystopian Thriller Series (Broken Patriot Book 1)

by Long, Timothy W.

  “Okay,” he said. “I will. I promise. Just need sleep.”

  Bradley got up and moved to his side of the bed. He dug out an expired prescription bottle and popped it open. He shook out a pill into his palm and dry swallowed it.

  “Baby, you have to talk to me,” Monica said.

  “I will, Monica. I will.” He said, and then crawled beneath the covers.

  He pulled the pillow over his head to shut out the light.

  Chapter Six

  Bradley ran from Ed. The portly man had a full auto assault rifle. He was dressed in IOTV body armor and a hat that had two Coors beers on either side of his head. Straws ran out of the cans and into Ed’s mouth. He fired at Bradley and struck him in the back of the legs. Bradley went down shrieking in pain.

  “Gonna give you what for, soldier boy. See if I don’t,” Ed screamed, his mouth and chin covered in blood from where he had bitten Jessica from accounting.

  Bradley clawed at the ground and dragged himself away from Ed. But Ed was a demon who wanted to blow Bradley’s head off and eat his heart.

  Bradley bolted upright in bed and gasped for breath. He reached for the water bottle he normally kept on the nightstand and guzzled half of it. Monica wasn’t in bed. He looked at the clock and found it was nine AM. He needed to get up, shower, get dressed, and go to work, shit. He was late, and there would be hell to pay.

  Why hadn’t Monica woken him up? Was she up with Jenny? Was something wrong?

  He swung his feet off the bed, and then the world tilted.

  He didn’t have to go to work today because that place had been filled with corpses yesterday. He wouldn’t have to answer to Paul because he had been airlifted to a hospital. If he survived, it would be a genuine miracle. Although Bradly didn’t care much for Paul, he whispered a quick prayer for his recovery.

  Bradley laughed, and then that turned into a half-sob. He sucked it up and focused on things he knew. He was home. Monica was safe. Jenny was safe. Junior, he assumed, was in bed dreaming about girls.

  Ed. He’d killed Ed. It wasn’t that he hadn’t ever killed someone before, it was the fact that it had happened here. In the Army, they were taught to be cold and calculating when they shot at the enemy. How many times had it been ingrained in him that the same enemy wanted to end his life. Better to take an enemy’s life first.

  “You look better,” Monica said.

  She stood in the hallway in a nightie that was just shy of reaching mid-thigh and made a cleavage revealing V across her breasts.

  “I do?” he said as he stared at her body.

  “Yeah. The way you’re checking me out, you’re better,” Monica said.

  “I do love to check you out. You’re the most beautiful thing in the world.”

  “Flattery will get you everywhere,” Her lips quirked up in a grin, “but I need to talk to you, Brad, please stay with me this time, okay?”

  “Yeah, baby. Of course,” he said. Why was she making it sound like he didn’t listen to her?

  She took a seat on the bed next to him. She took his hand in hers and put it on her legs.

  “Still there?” she asked.

  “Of course, I’m still here. Where else would I be?”

  “Listen, baby. I looked it up, and I think I know what happened yesterday. You had a very traumatic experience and it took a toll,” she said and ran his hand over her thighs.

  “Feels nice and soft,” he said.

  “I know. I’m distracting you to keep you here,” she said.

  “Good distraction,” he replied.

  Ed had tried to kill him.

  “It’s called disassociation, and it looks like you want to go there again. I can’t really help unless you let me. Even that might not work. Time might be the only thing that does,” she said.

  “What are you talking about?” he asked.

  “Last night, you were like a robot. You had no emotions. You barely looked at me, and you scared Jenny half to death. Did you feel at all like you were floating?” she asked.

  He had. That was the best way to describe it. He had felt like he was floating through his routine, but nothing had been routine about last night. He hadn’t even eaten any supper. He’d come home, stood under the hot water, then taken a sleeping pill and slept. The nightmare had been waiting for him, though.

  “Yeah, I guess,” he said.

  “I’m going to make a few calls as soon as the doctor’s office opens. You need to get in to see someone right away. They might have something you can take to help.”

  “Baby, it’s not the first time I’ve seen and done stuff like that. I’ll be fine in a day,” he said. “It’s just hard seeing co-workers gunned down like that.”

  “I looked it up. The news might be focused on other things, but the internet is always ready to splash the local stuff. They said he killed eleven people. They named you, Bradley. They called you a hero.”

  “I just did what I had to do.”

  “Sit here and tell me about it after I get back. I’ll brew up a pot of coffee,” she said.

  “I can do that,” Bradley said.

  “Oh, I didn’t want to say anything, but have you heard from Junior?” she asked when she reached the doorway.

  “No. You mean he’s not at home?”

  “He said he might stay at Kirk’s house, but he was supposed to message me. The last time I heard from him was around nine last night.”

  “Why didn’t you say anything?”

  “Because you weren’t hearing anything I was saying last night,” she said. “Now wait right there, and I’ll bring you some coffee.”

  When she was gone, he dug out his phone and remembered it was dead. He dug around next to the bed and found a charger cable. After a couple of minutes, he was able to turn it on and read on the Android device while the battery replenished.

  He checked his messages, but there were none from Junior.

  Where are you? he texted his son.

  Monica returned with a mug of steaming black coffee. He took it, gratefully, and sipped the rich brew. They might not have a lot of extra money, but they occasionally splurged on the good stuff. This was from a small roasting house in town, and it was just what he needed.

  “What else did the police say?” Monica took a seat next to him.

  “Not a lot. They reviewed some of the video tape that identified Ed as the shooter. They don’t have any video of me but they took my statement. They asked me to stop by the police station and fill out some papers. Not sure what all that entails,” he said.

  “You made a few internet websites. I read about what happened. You don’t have to talk about it right now, but I suggest you see a therapist. I know you have resisted it in the past but, baby, you just went through a traumatic experience, and you need to talk to someone.”

  “I’m talking to you right now,” he said.

  “No. You can’t talk to your wife about this,”

  “We can’t afford it. And I’m probably out of a job. I don’t even want to go back there,” he said.

  They had little in savings, not enough to cover more than a week or two out of work. Maybe he could plead with AlgerTech for some kind of settlement, provided they were still in business after today.

  His phone dinged. He picked it up and read the message from Junior. I’m at Kirk’s. School was canceled today.

  “School was canceled?” He turned to Monica. “Where’s Jenny?”

  “I kept her home today. She has the sniffles,” Monica said.

  “If school was canceled, I guess it’s just as well.”

  “I didn’t hear anything from the school. They usually send an alert,” She retrieved her phone from the living room and walked back into the bedroom, head down as she read the screen.

  Why was school canceled? If you’re skipping, I will find out. He messaged back to his son.

  “Wow. I guess it is. There was an incident.” Monica trailed off.

  “An incident? What kind of incident?�
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  “Um,” Monica’s green eyes scanned the phone. “Some kind of protest near the school. It’s weird. They say there was a violent altercation, but there’re no other details.”

  Bradley lay back in bed with a, “Hmm.” He dug around until he found the television remote and turned on the TV. The old tube was a 28”, and it had been handed down to him by his mother who upgraded a few years ago. He switched to FOX news to find out what was happening. He didn’t really want to think about anything today. He would be content to just lay here and veg for the entire morning.

  His stomach growled, reminding him he hadn’t eaten since yesterday afternoon. Then he thought of Ed, Jessica, and the other accountants. Bodies. So many bodies, and all of them executed by a mad man. He didn’t feel one bit of regret about wrestling Ed Reels’ gun away and killing the man. He deserved it.

  “We’re live in Orlando where the latest protest against President Henderson’s immigration policy has sparked outrage. Hundreds of police are swarming the scene and arresting protesters. We also have reports of shots fired, but we have no other details at this time,” the voice said. The view of the massive mob below was from a helicopter, and it turned to show just how many people were involved. The streets were completely packed with people carrying signs. Some had fists in the air, and they were clearly chanting or yelling.

  Then the view shifted to show another group approaching, and they were not carrying signs. Most were dressed in black and many had ski masks on. They carried clubs, and Bradley was sure he spotted at least one rifle on someone’s back.

  The mobs approached each other, then stopped within twenty feet between them. Someone dressed in black threw a bottle. It sailed through the air and people with signs scrambled out of the way. Then more debris and items arched into the air.

  Some of the protesters threw down their signs and pointed at the people in black.

  “Folks, it appears there is some kind of altercation unfolding here,” the reporter said. Thanks for the update, Skippy, Bradley thought. It was clear as day there was about to be a fight. What had happened to peaceful protests?

  The people in back surged forward. Clubs and sticks raised, they clashed with the people who had been carrying signs. Some of them engaged and fought back. Wild swings, haymakers, and kicks.

  The two mobs clashed together as more and more people joined the melee.

  Monica moved to her side of the bed and sat down to watch with him.

  “This is crazy,” she said.

  “What’s Jenny doing?”

  “Coloring. I got her a new book yesterday. She already ate,” Monica said. “I gave her some children’s cold medicine. She’ll probably sleep half of the day away.”

  “Huh,” Bradley said, completely absorbed in the news report.

  The scene changed to a street level view. A female reporter with long blonde hair came into focus.

  “We’re near the Dupont Circle in Washington D.C. and, as you can see, protesters have clashed. We’re getting reports of injured persons. There was also word of a shooting that left a man wounded, but details are scarce at this time,” the reporter said.

  Something flew toward them, and she scampered out of the way. The bottle smashed into the ground and left a trail of fluid.

  “What is going on with our country?” Monica said. “Same thing happened in New York and Jacksonville yesterday.”

  Bradley, “Hmmed,” again. His mind went to their emergency supplies. He kept an accurate stock and replenished when he needed to if things expired. But they were so far from all of this. It seemed unlikely to spill out into Vicksburg.

  Bradley shot up when the sound of automatic weapons fired sent the television’s speakers buzzing, the noise so loud it overrode them and made the shots sound like static.

  Someone fell, and then another person. The camera shifted, and a group of people dressed in black came into view. There was almost a dozen, and they carried assault rifles and multiple magazines. One of the men, who had to be at least two hundred and twenty pounds and built like an NFL player, had words spray painted across the back of his shirt that read: “2nd Amendment or Death!”

  More gunfire rippled, and a row of protesters fell. The mob of people panicked and some fled. People screamed as smoke rose from the firing weapons. They shot indiscriminately.

  One of the shooters on the end of the gang turned to regard the reporter. Then he lifted the rifle and unleashed a hail of bullets. The reporter looked shocked for a split second, and then dropped without a word. The cameraman lowered his camera and the view shifted to a street shot as he made a run for it. Then more rounds sounded, and the camera feed went to static as it hit the ground. The view resumed a second later, but all it revealed was a hand and feet rushing past the operator.

  “This isn’t happening,” Bradley said.

  Then he realized Monica was squeezing his hand intensely. He looked her in the eye and found horror.

  The live news feed cut back to a shocked couch filled with FOX regulars.

  One of the men pressed his earpiece and spoke to the camera. “We’re trying to get confirmation regarding what just happened. I, for one, am horrified.”

  “That was terrible. We apologize to our viewers at home,” A woman dressed in a skirt said. “It happened so fast. I don’t know what to say.”

  “That’s a first,” Bradley said.

  “I can’t watch this anymore,” Monica said and got up and left the bedroom.

  Bradley wished he felt the same way. Instead, he flipped through channels, trying to find out what in the hell was happening to his country.

  After ten minutes of nothing but bad news, he rose and put on some clothes.

  It was time to go downstairs and unpack his gear, just in case.

  Chapter Seven

  Chris Miller tightened the straps on his upper body armor. The chest guard would protect him from a direct shot, but it left his body exposed.

  He checked his Armalite AR-10 Tactical one more time. It had an Aimpoint CompM4s red dot sight that could be utilized with both eyes, providing a wide field of fire. Chris turned the switch to test the red dot, then moved through the other settings, stopping short of going to night vision. The scope was overkill for their mission, but it was something he trusted, and with their benefactor footing the bill, he had ordered up what he would take into a fight.

  He wore an SOE split front chest rig that held four Magpuls of .308 ammo, each with a capacity of twenty-five rounds. He liked the vest because the Fastex buckles allowed him to quickly doff the rig.

  After a long night of alternating four-hour watch shifts with Ryan, Chris felt like he hadn’t slept a wink.

  Daniel Kennington loaded his Remington shotgun, and then strapped a bandolier of rounds over his chest. He shrugged into a black overcoat and checked his sidearm. Looked like a Springfield, or so Chris guessed.

  Chris didn’t know the first thing about Kennington. He was a squirrely little guy with thin rimmed glasses, a buzz cut, and a small US flag tattooed on his neck. Chris wasn’t impressed. They were supposed to be unmarked. A tattoo like that made for easy identification. Daniel bitched and moaned the whole time they gathered their gear. He complained about the cold room, the loud generator, the bodies in the corner of the room. Said they were stinking the place up with their body rot even though they had only been dead for an hour.

  Ryan Fudge had gone old school, asking for a classic AK-47. He pushed it into a large duffle bag with an assortment of fully loaded magazines filled with 7.62 rounds.

  The rest of the squad were, like him, unknown to each other. But they were patriots, one and all, and had agreed to this potentially suicidal mission without reservation. Money had already been deposited in their accounts from a bank in the Cayman Islands. But it had gone through a number of proxies, with routing numbers that had been spoofed. At a cursory glance, the money would appear to have arrived in many deposits over the course of a year.

  Chris didn
’t really care about the particulars, all he cared about was that it had arrived as promised. If anything happened to him, the money was to be diverted to an account for his niece and nephew so they could have a head start on their schooling when they were eighteen years old.

  The last guy in their team was a Hispanic man who didn’t care to talk. He nodded at them as he pulled out his bag of weapons, and then quietly picked through them, loading magazines and placing them in his belt.

  Chris wasn’t married, but he saw a woman named Patricia from time to time. It was best to keep things casual. He was out of the country for months at a time, and she was a busy professional who wanted to concentrate on her career. When he was home, they hooked up. When he was gone, they exchanged very few messages.

  There was a second squad below, four men, and a woman who handled an M4 like she was born with it in her hands. She had dreads and wore dark eye makeup. Her skin was porcelain white, and he’d caught himself checking her out more than once when that group had arrived. The two groups stayed out of each other’s hair and didn’t bother getting chummy.

  Ryan dropped his duffle bag on the floor near the stairs. “Back with the van in a minute.”

  “Cool, man. We’ll be here,” Chris said.

  “Squad two left a few minutes ago. We’ll go out nice and slow. I’ve been keeping an eye on the street this morning. If anyone notices us, I’ll be a shocked.”

  “Yeah, because five guys dressed in black, carrying big black bags is something you see every day. I say we go out at five minute intervals and meet a few blocks from here. Fucking stupid if we get caught now,” Daniel whined.

  “No time. Just stick to the mission,” Chris said.

  “Okay. Whatever, Commander Stick-Up-His-Ass,” Daniel muttered.

  Chris thought he could take the little guy apart, but he knew from experience that size did not always make an opponent weak.

  Ryan shot Chris a wink, and then took the stairs two at a time.

  Chris took out each magazine and slapped them against his hand so the rounds lined up. Every AR-10 he’d ever fired had trouble picking up rounds from time to time. Might as well help the process along if he could.