Free World Apocalypse Series (Book 2): Citizen

by T. K. Malone

  Although it appeared to be a source of amusement for Charm, it was a real worry for Connor. As far as he was concerned, things just didn’t add up, certainly not the reasons he’d so far heard being bandied around for his inclusion. For only a few weeks, a month or so, did this compound really need light entertainment; after all, if the bulletins were designed to instill fear, then surely Kirk was ideally qualified to do that. What had Byron Tuttle said? Make yourself indispensable; grab the rope and pull on it. But Charm continued before Connor could answer, the question clearly rhetorical.

  “Teah, Connor? What of her? What do you remember of Teah?”

  Connor thought back to the first time he could recall her. The time she’d carried him, soaked and nigh to unconsciousness, away from the sewers. He’d been draped over her arms, looking up at her. Her short black hair was spiky with the wet, her stiff’s jacket soaked like he was. Occasionally, as she’d stumbled in a walk-come-run, she’d look down, and Connor had seen the mixed looks in her eyes. It was care muddled with confusion, determination mixed with the question, ‘why?’, as though she’d no clue as to what had motivated her to save him.

  And now he remembered her skin. As dark as night was her hair, her skin as white as the stars which graced it. Though his memories were new and tumbled toward him from the back of his mind, he thought they brought the remembrance of her skin glowing, as though an aura emanated from within her. And then he recalled the enormous kinship he’d felt for her at the time, as though they were inextricably linked in some way or other, as though they were bound together. She’d stared down at him, her teeth gritted in determination, and he knew his eyes had been vacant, seemingly devoid of life, but she’d forged on through the wasteland, through its toxic swamp, and Connor now knew she’d denied him his death.

  “She saved my life,” he eventually answered.

  Charm stared down at Connor, his hand still resting on Connor’s forehead, his expression strangely but undoubtedly one of love. “How could she?” Charm asked. “You were already dead.”

  8

  Connor’s Story

  Strike time: plus 4 days

  Location: Project Firebird

  In the end, Charm had agreed, but Connor had paid a heavy price. By the time the doctor had finished with him, he’d become drained, devoid of emotion. He’d wandered back to his quarters and slumped down on the bed, his tears his only companion, his sobs the only sound.

  Not content with telling him he had died that day, that his wanderings had caused his brother’s downfall, and Teah’s choices had meant she’d had to leave, to vanish, he’d also inferred a lot more people would die because of him. Yet Charm wouldn’t elaborate as to why, only hinting something had happened in those tunnels, something beyond terrible, beyond comprehension.

  But he had given them permission to venture outside.

  Though drained, Connor had eventually gotten up, showered, and turned up at the studio. He’d skipped breakfast, an inexhaustible need for coffee outweighing the grumbles in his stomach. He’d sat at his mixing desk, chugging one after the other, smoking one cigarette after another, until Kenny had bowled in. Apart from the admonishments for skipping what Kenny called “The foundation of the day”, they’d got straight to it, playing the show, recording links for the afternoon and evening, and filming another terrifying news bulletin.

  “The thing is,” Kenny had said afterward, “it’ll wear off. I mean, you can only tell folk it’s all gone to shit so many times before they think ‘still? Oh well, that’s not so bad then’,” and Connor had seen the truth in that. Charm’s plan of keeping everyone in check through terrifying them, that the outside was a soup of lawlessness and revolution would only become the mundane. In some way, Connor had found a measure of relief in the thought that Charm may have a few chinks in his armor, a reaction which had surprised him, as he couldn’t quite work out his feelings toward the erratic doctor.

  He’d also been surprised to find Byron Tuttle eager to join their party of three. He’d had the man pegged as very much book-and-study rather than action-and-risk.

  “I take it Kirk’s meeting us here,” Byron broke the silence by saying as they entered the chamber in front of Hell’s Gates.

  “It was a condition that we be escorted,” Connor told him, and he’d been relieved at that.

  “Then where is he?”

  Both Molly and Kenny were looking around the vast hangar. “So, let me get this straight,” Kenny said, coming over to them. “This is a complete complex, designed to house a military company, a division or whatever you like, and Charm hasn’t let them in? Sounds bizarre, that’s what.” Kenny wandered into the middle of the floor and looked up at the vast gates. “Bugger me, but they’re impressive. I suppose there’s some kind of cold logic behind it.”

  Molly walked over and stood by him, Connor and Tuttle joining them. “Like what?” she asked.

  Kenny turned to her. “Well, imagine you’re all camped up in here—safe and snuggly—then you open up the gates, ready to say hello to a brand new world, and boom. Some bastard has been lurking, waiting for you to rear your ugly head, and attacks and takes over the base.”

  Connor pointed up at the balconies. “I think that’s what they’re for.”

  “Won’t matter,” Kenny said. “Byron’ll tell you. Sieges: if the attackers have got the know-how, they’ll always win.”

  “Patience, Kenny,” Byron said, his voice sounding tired. “They only need patience. Know-how just shortens the inevitable.”

  Molly shivered. “Where’s Kirk? This place is giving me the creeps,” and just as the words had left her mouth, Kirk emerged from a door beneath the balconies.

  “This way,” he shouted and vanished back into the shadows. Connor looked at Byron, who shrugged and strode off that way. They entered a small corridor, Kirk standing some ten yards farther in, his arm out, indicating an open doorway.

  “You must change in there. Everything is to size; boots, combats, gloves, helmets, webbing. Have any of you fired a gun before?”

  They each shook their head as they filed in, Kenny grunting a “No”.

  “I thought not. I also think it’s something we’re going to have to rectify in general. Whatever we find out there, a gun will probably become as… never mind,” and he walked back down the corridor and out into the hangar, the sound of his clipped steps diminishing away across it.

  “He’s an odd one, alright,” said Kenny.

  “But right,” and Molly went over to a pile of sand and khaki colored fatigues. “Judging by the boots, this must be my pile.” She held up a T-shirt, threw it down and slipped off her scrubs. One by one, they all found their own piles and began to change.

  “Must have been a challenge,” Kenny said, “finding a set of combats in my size. I doubt I’m in the standard army range.”

  Byron had sat on a bench which ran the length of one wall. He was slipping his spindly legs into his combat trousers when he looked up. “If Charm’s sensible, he’d have had all sizes made. Kirk and Molly are right, we’re all going to have to learn, at the very least, to defend ourselves. Despite what I think of the bulletins, there’s a measure of truth in them. The society that’ll likely form will be one of slaves and masters to a larger degree than it was before. Without an overarching government, tribal confrontation’s inevitable.”

  Connor looked around and caught Molly’s eye as she pulled on a boot. About to say something, his words deserted him as her gaze briefly lingered on Byron before being averted. Had something just passed between them, he wondered? “I thought you weren’t one for governments, Byron,” Connor said, quickly recovering from the odd feeling that had shivered through him.

  “Everything has its purpose, Connor,” he said, looking first at Molly then straight at Connor, as if assessing something. “The problem comes when people forget what that original purpose was.” He finished lacing his boots with a flourish and stood. “Kenny, do you need a hand?”

  Ke
nny was clearly struggling with his arm. He was trying his hardest to hitch the combats up with one hand. “Embarrassing, that’s what it is. Amazing how much you miss an arm once it’s useless.” He looked around the room helplessly, then sighed. “Go on then, give it a go, but no staring at my junk.”

  Molly looked at Byron, then Byron at Connor, who visibly slumped. “I guess it’s my job.”

  Kirk was waiting in the corridor when they all emerged. He gave them a brief appraisal before turning abruptly and marching out. He headed over to one side of the Hell’s Gates. Once again, Connor took in their size as he got closer, before following Kenny through a door at their foot. They filed into a small round chamber, a metal ladder at its center. Connor looked up to see if he could make out its top, but it appeared to vanish into the darkness above them.

  “Are you sure you’re going to be okay with this, Mr. Holmes?” Kirk asked, bringing out a flashlight and shining it up. He had the hint of a smile on his lips. Kenny just unslung the camera he was carrying, gave it to Connor and stepped onto the first rung. “You just watch me,” he said, and clambered up.

  Kirk raised an eyebrow but held his hand out, inviting Molly to go next. “It isn’t quite as far as it looks,” he said.

  Connor counted a good one hundred rungs before he saw Byron step off the ladder ahead of him and onto a metal-gridded platform. He heaved himself up the final few rungs. As his head drew level with it, he saw a red-cheeked Kenny slumped against the side of the tube they were now in, a bottle of water in his hand. “Proved my point,” he muttered and gulped at the water. Connor jumped off the ladder and noticed a tight corridor leading off.

  Stone-faced, Kirk turned to him. “It’s designed first and foremost with defense in mind. Think of it as an emergency route, not one to be considered often. I’ll lead,” he said, pointing the flashlight down it.

  They set off in single file, silent but for their gasping breaths. The corridor was a series of metallic sections bolted together, Connor imagining it passed through the rock of the mountainside itself. It led, after countless steps, to an oblong room with benches on either side and what looked like the kind of hatch a submarine would have. Five machine guns leaned against the wall beside it. Kirk threw them one each. “Safety,” he said, pointing to the gun’s side. “Apart from that, point and shoot. If we’re going to make this a habit, we’ll have to arrange some proper instruction.” He spun a wheel on the door, opened it just a fraction, and peered around. Connor watched him nod, presumably at someone on the other side, and then he slipped through, his trailing hand raised as though he wanted them to stay put. From beyond the door came the sound of rapid gunfire. He looked at Molly and she at him, her look just as apprehensive as he felt, but as he was about to say something, the door swung in about a foot and Kirk’s arm waved them through.

  “Keep low, low, low,” he barked as they eased through. Connor crouched and ran. Before him was a wall of sandbags against which two soldiers sat, Connor recognizing neither of them. The sound of gunfire was all around, the zip of the odd bullet straying their way followed by its dull thud as it hit home. The soldiers dropped to a crouch and pulled them each down in turn.

  “Wait here,” one shouted, then covered his ears and motioned them all to do the same. Connor scrunched himself into a ball, the smell of dust masked by a metallic tinge searing his nose. He noticed how hot it was and chanced a glance up. Netting was stretched above them, but through it, Connor could see a sheer rock face rising up toward a clear blue sky, but nothing more. Then a huge explosion rang out and he flinched. As the noise dissipated, an eerie silence filled its absence.

  “Now,” said the soldier, and he scrambled to his feet, pulling Connor with him. Before he knew what was happening, he was following the man in a crouched run along the sandbag wall, then around its edge and out into the open. He kept his eyes trained on the man’s boots, barely noticing the dry mud, scorched in places, and a slew of rocks. The man turned sharply and ran along the length of another sandbag wall before shoving Connor through a gap in it. Another set of hands reached out and grabbed him then pulled him toward a set of descending steps, his feet struggling to keep up with the momentum of his body. Now robbed of sunlight, gloom took over as he found himself in what he presumed was an underground bunker. He came to a halt in front of a wooden desk, the others clamoring down the steps behind him. “Croft,” said a man sitting behind the desk. “I’m Commander Croft. I take it you’re from the compound?”

  He turned back to a screen on his desk as he tapped on its keyboard; clearly they’d interrupted him. Although dressed in fatigues, like Connor, Croft wore his...well...like a second skin. In late middle age, flecks of grey tinted his neat, brown hair. Eventually, appearing satisfied, he looked back at Connor, who avoided Croft’s now intense stare by looking around for Kirk, but the man was nowhere to be seen. Molly drew beside him, then Byron, while Kenny lurked in the background.

  “Compound?” Commander Croft asked again.

  “Er…yes,” said Connor. “Where’s Kirk?”

  Croft tilted his head. “He’s been detained for the moment, along with his companions. Charm’s militia have no jurisdiction out here. It’s complicated enough without a third faction. And you are?”

  “Connor.”

  “Any rank?”

  Not for the first time in the last few days, Connor decided DJ wouldn’t wash. “No, I…we are tasked with reporting on what’s going on out here.”

  “And whose dumb idea was that?” Croft asked, then shouted, “Sticks!”

  A scrawny looking soldier, presumably Sticks, appeared through a gap in the sandbag wall behind the commander. “Sir?”

  “Get our guests…” and he looked at his watch. “Get them some tea.”

  “Sir,” and Sticks made himself scarce.

  “Reporting?” Croft said, and waved his hand across the table. “Pull up a chair, then tell me: are you the DJ?”

  “Yes.”

  “Big Fan.”

  “Really?” Kenny said.

  “And you are?”

  “Kenny, Kenny Holmes. Cameraman.”

  “And Charm sanctioned this?”

  Byron Tuttle shuffled his chair forward. “Sooner or later he had to find out what was happening out here. It appears that he thought you would detain his…militia. Do you intend sending them back in?”

  Croft turned his attention on Tuttle. “And you are?”

  “Byron Tuttle, librarian—technically.”

  “When the SDF constructed this refuge for Doctor Charm, there was no agreement with regard to the militia inside. Equally, there was an agreement to close the gates only for the duration of the nuclear threat. It seems Charm has decided our agreements are null and void. Whether I return his militia will very much depend on what you tell me is going on inside. Is there some form of military coup going on? Or, to put it another way, should I be concerned, Byron Tuttle?”

  Byron raised his palms to Croft and shrugged. “Sometimes Josiah Charm’s motives are as confusing as a they are sure. He merely keeps his direction close to his chest. I’d say you just have to decide if you’re in his long term plans.”

  Another large explosion rang out. They all flinched as dust rained down on them from the planked ceiling above.

  “If you don’t mind me asking,” Molly then said, “who are you fighting?”

  “Yes,” said Kenny. “Is it the Russians?”

  Sticks re-emerged with a tray of teas. He placed it on the desk then served them around.

  “Sticks,” said Croft, “pray, who are we fighting?”

  Sticks looked around as he made to leave. “As far as I can make out, Sir, we’re fighting ourselves.”

  Croft smiled. “And therein…” and he raised enquiring eyebrows at Molly.

  “Molly.’

  “And therein, Molly, lies the problem.”

  “Hold on, hold on, hold on,” said Kenny Holmes. “How can you be fighting yourselves?”

&nb
sp; Croft took a sip of his tea. “Mr. Holmes, are you familiar with the make-up of The Free World Army?”

  “No more than the next gridder.”

  “Then no. The Free World Army is a vast machine, and like all machines, we’re tasked with different functions. Our own is to protect this state as we see fit. We are, and have emerged from, the State Defense Force. And we agreed, well in advance, that in the event of a surgical nuclear strike we would protect the evacuees selected by Charm. It seems Doctor Charm had great foresight.”

  “Why?” said Kenny. “Who’s the other mob?”

  “Mob?” Commander Croft’s eyebrows seemed to loft of their own volition. “They are anything but a mob. They, Mr. Holmes, are The Free World Army, and as near as I can guess, they’re either fighting for themselves or another agenda. Either way, we will not allow them access.”

  “Why?”

  He cocked his head, as though surprised by the question. “Because I know what they would do.”

  “And what’s that?”

  He scoffed. “I doubt you would believe me. Sticks!”

  Connor instinctively glanced behind Croft’s desk, to the gap in the sandbag wall. Sticks poked his thin head through. “Sir?” and his piggy little eyes darted from his commander to Connor.

  “Sticks, would you take…” Croft’s eyes roamed over the four of them. “Take Connor and Molly to observation point four. Let them make up their own minds. Meanwhile, myself, Kenny and Byron will discuss what’s going on inside.”

  “Four?” Sticks questioned, then appeared to remember his rank. “Four, sir; yes, four. Now, sir?”

  “Once Mr. Clay has drunk his tea, and of course Molly. No cameras, please. You will see what a difficult situation we have out there. My…opponent—yes, opponent—is a man called Banks. He’s a Free World general through and through, which is why I was initially confused about his intention.” He turned his hands up. “Tracers, mortars and grenades cleared that up in short time.”