Humanity Gone (Book 2): Facade of Order

by Derek Deremer

  “Yea. Maybe we can take one of them alive like last time, or maybe one of them has some record of the workers,” Cait says, nearly repeating my same words. In a few of the outposts, we did come across incomplete documents of the movement of prisoners and workers across the territory from the past several years. One thing these men seem to be fairly competent in is paperwork. They knew the values of the workers and couldn't afford to lose many of them.

  “Cait, have you ever given any thought to what these outposts are for?” These new posts kept popping up all over, and I really am not sure what they are up to.

  “What do you mean?”

  “Well, what’s the point of having all these posts with the military at them?”

  “I don't know, Walter. I'm not one of them. Focus.”

  “I am focused,” I say back with some agitation.

  We move slowly to the rear of the old restaurant while keeping a safe distance from the patrolling soldiers. As we move along the high grass and weeds, I count exactly ten guards stationed all over. A pair is talking in a Jeep and a few others seem to be preoccupied with a card game on one of the wooden picnic tables in the front. Only a few on the roof seem to be paying any attention. I can't say I really blame them too much. Even if they saw us, are two scrawny seventeen year old kids really that threatening? I look over and see Cait holding her bow with an arrow at the ready.

  Yea, I guess they should be worried.

  We slowly move up the jungle parking lot and plant our backs against a dumpster close to the back door of the restaurant. I reach into my belt and pull out three knives and grip the handles between the fingers in my hands. Before Cait, I spent hours working on throwing knives – it is a skill that I am still trying to master. They were all I had managed to find when I found myself alone in the beginning. I became good enough that I could even take out a variety of animals from yards away. Being hungry accelerates learning. We found a few guns in our ventures, but we always chose stealth. I kept a few pistols in my backpack, but they will stay there this time. It needs to be quiet.

  Shhh.

  Not too far from us there are two soldiers. One is smoking and the other one is looking at an old drive-thru sign. He seems focused on the old dollar selection of the menu. All the other soldiers are around the front of the building and the ones on the roof leave my field of vision. Just these two. Caitlyn and I return our backs against the dumpster and look at each other. We both nod and stand up.

  I throw my first knife towards the man at the sign and Cait launches an arrow towards the smoker. My knife plunges into the neck of the military man and blood splashes all over the dollar menu sign. At the same time an arrow pierces the neck of the man beside him. I think he tries to scream, but all I hear is a slight gurgle of blood as I pull the knife out of my victim and Cait pries the arrow out of hers. She re-notches the bloodied arrow and goes beside the door. My eyes look her up and down briefly. She really is good at what she did. Not as good as me though.

  No.

  She is better than me. And maybe it was for that reason that she meant so much to me. I think I love her. I just never thought that would happen. I just know I could spend the rest of my life running through the woods with her. I always am excited for winter because that means I get to spend nearly every day with her. It's something I want to talk to her about. Maybe after this is all done.

  I run up to the back door beside her. It is propped open by a gray cinder block along the ground. Cait pulls the metal door slightly open from the side and I peer into the dark kitchen. A musty smell greets my nose.

  From the little bit of light that illuminates the dark room, it looks empty.

  I move inside against a tile wall and Cait follows me. She gently closes the door behind us, and the room darkens again. We creep through the remains of a kitchen while moving behind steel commercial kitchen appliances. The little light that helps us comes from the windows in the front of the restaurant. I crouch behind the row of stoves and move closer to the edge. Each foot steps carefully and silently. I peak around the corner and see one of the guards with his back towards us. He sits about ten feet in front of me on the ledge of the counter with his arm propped up on the cash register beside him. His uniform is a little bit different than the rest. It isn't so generic. I assume that he is the one in charge. Perhaps we could try to take him alive. There isn't anyone else and maybe we can just grab him and quickly drag him out. He didn't seem to be paying the kitchen behind him any attention. If anyone here knew where we could get the information we wanted, he would be it.

  “I think we are okay,” I whisper as Caitlyn moves up right behind me. My ear barely picks up the sound of her breathing. I peek around the corner of the stove and step towards the middle of the kitchen.

  I look up.

  The soldier is now joined by a few others, but they are all facing me.

  They look right at me as their guns take aim.

  My mouth opens to yell to Cait who is still behind the stove, but there is not enough time.

  I see the flashes of their guns. I never hear the shots.

  Chapter 5: Caitlyn

  Walt's body slumps to the floor in front of me. Continuous bursts of light illuminate the tile wall covered with dark red blood and pieces of his...

  I feel vomit in my mouth, but their gunfire quickly suppresses it to my stomach. The taste in my mouth and the thunder of the gunshots makes me dizzy. I support my body against the side of the stove that also was keeping me safe from their bullets.

  “Walter...” stumbles from my quivering lips. There was nothing I could do. The shots continue all around me and ricochet off the stainless steel ovens and porcelain walls. I take a final look at his remains as the muzzle flashes continually light up his body lying on the tiled floor. The back of his head rests against the concrete. His eyes are still wide open, and above his nose is a savage hole where the bullet entered. In his fist that fell stretched out towards me, he clutches a knife. With little effort, I pry it from his dead fingers and slide the blade into my boot. As the gunshots continue, I pull myself to my feet and crouch backwards as pieces of tile continue to fly off the wall and bounce off my face and lodge in my hair. This isn't a fight I can win. Retreating back towards the exit is my only way to freedom. Luckily, there is nothing blocking it except for the dust building from the shattering tile.

  I back out of the kitchen and then stand up to make a break for the door. Gunfire still echoes throughout the restaurant. My feet push against the floor until I slam my body into the exit door and it flies open. Please don't be waiting for me...

  When the daylight blinds my vision, I slam the kitchen door behind me and sprint for the grass and weeds. My vision focuses in the bright sun as I escape from the asphalt and leaves and bushes begin to slap against my face and ankles. The gunfire ceases as I continue to run through the woods. Perhaps they are now running after me.

  I won't let them catch me.

  After what felt like hours of running, I dive behind a large maple tree. Every muscle in my body aches, and I can feel hot sweat gathering on my face and neck. On instinct, I grab the lowest branch of the tree and climb up it as fast as my arms allow. When I reach a few dozen feet up, the restaurant is no longer in view, but I hear the roar of the Jeep and a few random gun shots. I place my bow in my lap and set the arrow on top of it at the ready.

  A tree-house flickers in my mind for a moment.

  I should be safe amongst all the green leaves. It would be hard to see me up here. My breathing is heavy and erratic as I try to calm down but find little success. A few strands of hair have fallen in front of my face and I tuck them behind my ear. A few pieces of tile fall out of my hair as well.

  I look out over the woods with my back against the trunk and my right leg up on the branch as the other hangs. It soon is silent except for a few birds chirping into the mild breeze coming in from the west. So many years I have been running through the woods. It has never felt like this. Walt's dead f
ace flashes in front of me, and my body shudders. His eyes rolled into the back of his head as he lies in a pool of his blood. I lift my hand to wipe tears away, but there are none that come out. When I withdraw my hand, my fingertips are red. Immediately, I wipe again with the back of my hand – more red. In a near panic I grip my sleeve with my right hand and violently rub my entire face with it. It takes a moment to realize that it isn't my blood. Then I wipe the blood off my face even harder.

  Walt was the only thing I had in the world, and he is gone. He's dead, and the only thought that remains is how much harder it will be to find my sister. Am I really this selfish?

  Feel something. Feel anything damn it.

  I punch with my left fist into the bark of the branch below me. Some blood oozes from a new cut on my knuckle, but the pain doesn't help. I slam the back of my head against the tree trunk behind me.

  Feel human. Please.

  I pound my skull a few more times, but nothing. I feel nothing. My mind clears, and I slowly calm down. I wrap my fist in my shirt at the waist. It's already red and has hidden the addition of blood many times before. My fist is not bleeding too severe this time. I lean back and close my eyes and take in a few deep breaths. Part of me is home out here with wild beasts, but another part of me wants everything to go back to normal - to live how Sara wanted to. Go back to normal. Yet, the longer I stay out here in the woods the less and less human I feel anymore. I haven't felt a thing since the cabin. Pain is merely a nuisance, and no one else really mattered aside from my sister. I never mourned for Jon or any of those I lost five years ago. I'm unable to mourn for Walter and I doubt I ever will. Even with Walter dead less than thirty minutes, I can only think about Sara.

  And myself.

  Yet, sometimes I have no idea why I need to find her so badly.

  I haven't missed her. It's just some sort of obligation that I cannot shake.

  What kind of beast have I become?

  * * *

  Darkness falls and I climb down from my perch in the tree. In the black of night, I manage to find the same foot holes that brought me up so many hours ago. I look at the stars to quickly get a bearing. Our, rather my, campsite is a few hours walk from here. I doubt I will be able to sleep, so I decide to move through the night. As I push aside branches and grass in the darkness, I try to figure out what my next move is going to be.

  That entire trip was a waste, and from what I can tell at the very least Sara is not there. No workers are. Maybe there is some paperwork, but that is the longest shot of them all. I have been up and down this territory, and have found none of the workers they have taken.

  Where they took all the prisoners is still a mystery.

  The trail is again cold, and now I am alone. It was nice to know that Walt was watching my back.

  Oh well, it's easier to only feed one person.

  Chapter 6: Ryan

  It feels like we have been driving all day as we finally reach the rendezvous point. We had to take as many back roads as possible so New America would not have the slightest clue of our plan at the Mill. I push open the passenger's side door and walk toward the other vehicles in our caravan. Most are SUVs and trucks. They use up a lot of gas, but the stabilized gasoline stockpile and our experimentation with bio-fuel have been successful. One thing most of the vehicles could use is some body work to help with all the dents and occasional bullet holes. They have been through a lot these past years. All of the squad leaders from the various cars are quickly around me. “Squad leaders” sounds odd, but I didn't know what else to call them. The Resistance is largely militaristic, which was discomforting at times, but it was the only way to remain safe. The squad leaders circle up and I take a knee in the dirt and lay the map out in front of them. It shows a rough sketch of the entire farm and gives each squad their designated quadrant.

  Silent faces stare at me as they wait for me to begin talking. Sometimes I hate that others look up to me. I'm nothing special. This started with a bunch of kids that I helped to survive. Now it is a militia.

  “Alright boys - quick recap. It is an old Amish farm they have taken control of. The entire property is roughly a square and divided into basically these four even quadrants. It's largely flat in this central area. These first two are the open fields. It is daylight so expect workers to be out there. Watch your fire. Amongst them are hostiles, so stay frosty. In this other quadrant are two houses and three mobile trailers. We believe the New America military is staying in the houses, and the forced laborers are in the double-wide trailers. Once the exteriors are cleared, sweep the interior. Remember how we practiced. In the final quadrant is the barn. We imagine cattle, military, or forced laborers are in there, but we really don't know about that one; so be careful on that one David. The entire property is surrounded by corn, so it should give us an edge as we move into position. Make sure your watches are set to 1035 exactly. We all move in at 1100. We still have the element of surprise on our side so wait until the last minute to open fire.”

  I look up and all of the squad leaders are nodding. I would prefer to do this attack at night, but that felt even riskier. Most of the night vision goggles David once had are now dead or broken. Besides, most of our raids have been at night, and they will not expect this in the middle of the afternoon. I assign two leaders to each quadrant and they head out. That is about twelve men to each and should be plenty.

  I hope it's plenty.

  Our men aren't the best trained, but they are capable and have proven it several times. David took it upon himself to train most of these men himself. He was able to get into his police station's armory and provide us with the firepower that we needed for training and missions like this. Firepower that rivals what the New Americans typically wield. We've practiced a lot. Stories of Matthew’s brutality give the men all of the motivation they needed. Surprisingly, in the few raids we have run, the men never have seemed to mind taking lives. I guess that was a good thing, but it worried me. I've seen where that road goes...

  “Alright men,” I shout out, “Check your weapons and watch each others' backs. I will see each of you in an hour after we take the Mill. Be safe. We know they won't show you any mercy so use discretion if you give it to them.”

  A few of the vehicles move out. Carter sits in the passenger's side of the front car headed to the barns. That wooden structure is the wild card in this entire operation. We have no idea what they would find in there: goats, a weapons stockpile, or a tank. I'm hoping it's goats. I join up with the group going into the fields. One of the squad's men, Kevin, I believe his name is, walks up to me as I check the rifle slung over my shoulder. He is a recent addition that we found on a scavenging mission. His eyes are down - concentrated on preparing his own weapon as he speaks.

  “Are you sure you should be going in with us?”

  “I would never send you anywhere I wasn't willing to go myself.” I load a round into the chamber and Kevin looks at me with a slight smirk and a nod. I hate being treated differently.

  My group climbs back into the car, and we head to the outskirts of the corn field. I check my watch. We are to all move in at 1100; it is 1050. I pull out my radio and check with David. His group is ready. Our pair of mobile radios is the last ones we have left. We once had a whole set, but batteries expired and the rechargeable batteries stopped living up to their name. They were a bit over-used in the beginning. We have a large radio back at home, but we don't have too many people to communicate with. We only scanned for New American frequencies. If we would ever be able to listen in on their chatter, we would gain a serious upper hand.

  We exit the cars and begin walking through the corn field in a large line about arm lengths apart. The husks are nearly eight feet tall and ready for harvest. They should allow us to sneak right up on them. I take point in the center along with the squad's leader.

  We stay low.

  We stay quiet.

  After several minutes of walking, movement and the brightness of daylight appear throu
gh the corn in front of us. We are close to the field. I glance at my watch. Two more minutes. The rest of the squad kneels at the edge of the corn row, hopefully adequately camouflaged among the husks. In the distance, I can see the barn and barely make out the houses and trailers. This place is even bigger than I had imagined. Dozens of workers toil over the land that stretches for acres. Guards walk among the workers. Eight workers, some no older than twelve, weed the open garden directly in front of us. A pair of soldiers with sub-machine guns draped across their chests patrols the perimeter around them at a steady pace. Their current route will bring them in front of us. The two guards round the corner and begin to walk directly in front of my line of men. Judging by their dumb smiles, they don't see us.

  I look to the left and right with a finger to my lips. The New Americans continue to walk right in front of my men on the far right side. Only a few husks separate them – just enough to keep us hidden. We could probably reach out and touch them. The guards make their way slowly towards the middle of our line. They pass in front of Kevin who has a knife in his hand and glances at me.

  I shake my head. Not now. It's still not 1100.

  The pair continues their stroll. They are almost in front of me. I check my watch. We still have a minute to go. I glance to the squad leader beside me. We have to chance it.

  I nod to him. I release my rifle to the shoulder strap and grab the knife from my tactical vest. The squad leader does the same. We'll take them both at the same time. This won't be the first time I have taken a knife to someone, but I didn't like it. The New Americans get closer.

  And closer.

  I take a step forward and begin my lunge out of the husks when all of a sudden a shot rings out in the distance.

  Then another shot. Both men in front of me turn towards the barn. Instinctively, the squad commander and I are both behind the New Americans and have our left hands over their mouths.