“We’ll figure it out,” Lucas said, staring up at the sky. “We need to get moving so we can make it to Bayfield by dark.” Bayfield was a deserted town by a river where Lucas had foraged after the first melt. He knew a spot where the horses could graze and drink, and they’d be safe for the night.
“What are you thinking? Thirty miles a day?” Joel asked.
“Shoot for forty, see what happens. Depends on how the animals hold up,” Lucas said. “You boys got plenty of ammo?”
Red and Axel nodded. “All chambered, same as that M4. This ain’t our first rodeo, Lucas.”
“I know. How about you?” Lucas asked Joel.
He approached his horse and removed an AR-15. “We’re ready to rock.”
Lucas straightened and, after a nod to Ruby, whose AR-15 was always by her side, walked back to where Tango waited patiently. “All right. Mount, and let’s hit the trail.” He paused and gave Elliot a hard stare. “I hope this is worth it, Elliot.”
“With the virus spreading, we have no choice. Astoria’s got a competent physician who can create all the vaccine necessary to inoculate everyone in the northwest. I wish we knew someone closer, but as you’re aware, much of the area’s under hostile control.”
Elliot was active with his beloved radio, from which he knew most metropolitan areas in the West were under the sway of criminal elements, much as Houston and its surroundings were run by the Crew. It was natural that the most dangerous predators would do best in a world suddenly rendered a jungle, and it had been the strong and the brutal who had seized control while the more benign had focused on saving their families and avoiding conflict. Astoria had been an exception, due to the rural location and the presence of a tightly knit prepper community that had been better prepared than most for the ugly post-collapse reality.
Lucas hoisted himself onto Tango and waited for the rest to saddle up. When they were all mounted, he offered Elliot a small tip of his hat and gave Tango a flick of the reins. The stallion shook his head and took off at a brisk walk, which would be the pace for the next thousand miles. Ruby pulled into line behind him, Jax plodding along by her side, and Axel and Red brought up the rear, weapons in hand.
Elliot watched the column make its way down the main street and across the bridge that spanned the San Juan River, a grim expression of determination on his face. He hated to send anyone on such an arduous journey, but there was no other way – for months the northwest had been ignored in favor of easier distribution points, but the spreading virus had become alarming enough to require action. Riding as hard as they dared, it would take every bit of three weeks to make it to Astoria, at the very least, and even with the most aggressive vaccine development effort once there, another several weeks to manufacture enough vaccine over and above the five hundred doses Joel was carrying to enable them to put a dent in the larger population centers. There were tens of thousands of survivors in Portland and Seattle, each of them a potential victim without the vaccine, and all of their lives might depend on the four arriving as speedily as possible.
Like it or not, the trip had to be made. If Elliot had been capable, he would have done it himself, but with his back and other infirmities, a cross-country ride wasn’t an option.
Once the column had disappeared on the far end of the bridge, Elliot turned to the community center that served as his office and home. “God speed you,” he whispered under his breath, and pushed through the heavy double doors, resigned to another long day of generating more vaccine to send with a group scheduled to leave the following week, this time bound for Billings, Montana, where another associate of his was waiting anxiously, aware that the creep of the virus west was a death sentence they were racing the clock to beat.
Chapter 4
Washington, D.C.
Footsteps echoed down the brightly lit hall of a meeting room in a bunker twenty stories beneath the capital. Seven men filed into the chamber, all wearing black judicial robes over their street clothes. Two attendants had placed pitchers of purified water on an oversized round conference table, along with bowls of nuts and dried fruit sourced from seemingly endless stores that had been set aside for emergency consumption by what the planners had naturally assumed would be thousands, rather than the fewer than a hundred elites with access to them.
The group took their customary seats, their faces drawn and serious. The weekly meeting of the North American Illuminati high council was a somber affair, where the fate of what remained of the nation was decided by a handful of unelected men who’d been the power behind the official apparatus for centuries.
The attendants left the room, as was their custom, to wait outside the heavily fortified doors in case they were summoned. When the bolt had snapped shut, one of the men, a white-haired figure with hawk-like features and piercing blue eyes in a weathered face, cleared his throat and recited an incantation – all a part of the ritual. The others repeated the words, some in English, the latter parts in Latin, and when they were finished, the elder looked out at the gathering and sat forward.
“The first order of business is to discuss how our re-org is going. Good news: the Eastern Seaboard is now secure after final negotiations with our bullheaded colleagues in the South.”
Smiles all around. The Southern states had been difficult to bring under the group’s sway, but they had ultimately prevailed after a show of force – the battleship they’d arranged to have maintained as the last vestige of power had sailed into several key ports, projecting their authority in an unmistakable manner. The disparate groups that had solidified after the collapse had come around, deciding that it was better to serve a master that could destroy them than try to remain autonomous and perish. Little did anyone know how fragile the group’s hold actually was – a few thousand loyalists in New York and Washington were all that remained alive, and some, like the upper echelon, were too old for battle or to do anything but direct the world’s affairs.
“With the Crew in Houston now stabilized, we have effective control over most of the country,” the elder continued. “The various warlords will take direction from us, and we can soon embark on the second phase of our plan.” He paused and took a sip of water, the taste cool and sweet on his palate. “The only remaining problem area remains the region north of California. The groups there haven’t proved as controllable as we’d hoped. Kendrick, would you fill us in?”
A short man in his sixties with a hatchet face and black eyes cleared his throat. “The region is a difficult one. There are too many isolated pockets of self-sufficient resistance. That, as we’ve discussed in the past, is due to the composition of the population there. We knew it would be an issue due to the high number of survivalists, but even so, I’m surprised by how entrenched they’ve managed to become. And those pockets only grow more intractable with the years – managing to prosper in a time of darkness has given them strength, and we’re spread too thin to be able to effectively deal with them.”
“No progress on the talks with the Cobras or the Terminators?” the elder asked, naming the groups that ran Seattle and Portland.
“They’ve rejected our proposals. The problem is they’re too far away for us to project our power, and they don’t believe we can do anything either to help or hurt them.”
The elder’s face twisted in anger. “They will learn they were wrong on the latter.”
“Of course. But in the meantime, we have a problem.”
Another of the group grunted and sat back. “I’ve been in discussions with several candidates to solve that for us. We’ve moved forward with one, and they’re waiting for word from us to take the next step.” He spoke for three minutes. When he was finished, the elder nodded.
“We’ve looked at this type of scenario before, using the UN as our proxy. Alas, they’re no more; however, the same principle holds true now. If we’re going to remake the country in our image, we’ll need to take bold steps.”
“What if they don’t cooperate once they’re in place?�
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“They’re aware we still have the codes to the nuclear arsenal.”
“But with only limited power–”
“It would not be an issue,” the elder snapped. “The question is how to ensure they’re successful. We’re too close to our plans coming to fruition to second-guess these necessary steps any longer. We’ve tried our usual approaches, and they haven’t been effective. Enough of our energy has been spent on this relatively trivial problem. We must take action to bring the region under our control before summer if we’re to proceed on schedule.”
“How confident are we that they’ll prevail?” Kendrick asked.
That drew a dry laugh from the elder. “Over the locals? As close to a hundred percent as anything gets. Remember, these are civilians and criminals. They’ll be no match for a trained, well-equipped fighting force.”
“And we’re absolutely confident we can keep them localized once they’ve taken the region?”
“The threat of a nuke is a powerful incentive to act honorably.”
As the meeting proceeded, the discussion moved from the northwest to the southwest, the labile border situation with Canada and Mexico, and the new virus and its impact in further reducing the population size. When the discussion drew to a close, the gathering relaxed and munched on nuts as they discussed other matters – less important issues, but those of common interest. All of the members had been exceedingly wealthy and powerful before the collapse, and they had seized the opportunity to bring order out of chaos as the nation had disintegrated around them.
These were men who were accustomed to playing the long game, who thought generationally, for whom twenty or thirty years was a heartbeat. They had excelled at schemes and intrigue that would have made Machiavelli gape in awe, and had engineered much of modern society to be easier to manipulate. Over time, they had succeeded at eroding the population’s understanding of its rights, using the education system and the media, both of which they controlled, as they did every area of government and culture they found useful. These men, like their forefathers, understood that the planet couldn’t be left to self-determine; it had to be guided by a strong, if unseen, hand.
In their vision, the one world government long railed against by the rank and file was actually the species’ best shot at survival, with a group of hyper-educated, refined elites making the globe’s decisions rather than in the messy, nationalistic manner from which they’d built their fortunes. Now that the planet had been largely reduced to a collection of nation-states operated by strongmen, the next bold step could be taken, and the various groups would be coerced into welcoming their subjugation by their betters.
Of course it wouldn’t be presented that way. It would be their salvation, a way to prevent further disaster, to ensure harmony and sustainability – with their betters at the helm, of course. Who else could be trusted to run things? Politicians? Surely not. They were nothing but paid shills and talking heads. Despots? Better, as long as they marched to the same tune.
The most dangerous possibility was a return to the idea of the sovereign citizen as the seat of all power. It had taken two centuries to so corrupt that idea that it was a hazy memory, one to be avoided at all costs. Nature and circumstance had provided the means to thin the herd and begin anew, and they would not make the same mistakes again.
The men left, some alone, a few in pairs, deep in discussion of weighty matters. They returned to protected chambers guarded round the clock by privileged mercenaries whose sole charter was to keep them safe. Not that there was much to defend against – the virus had wiped out most of the Eastern Seaboard, and only subterranean Washington and New York had electricity – the cities above had been war zones for months, and then later, ghost towns. Only recently had they been rendered habitable in small areas, where the fortunate were allowed to live in return for absolute obedience and a feudal form of toil, growing the food, cleaning, and servicing those with their hands on the reins of power.
Soon, the rest of the nation would be brought under similar control, and a new era would rise from the ashes of the old, this time architected in a reasoned manner by those with the best ability to do so.
Chapter 5
Eastern Oregon
A crimson sun was climbing into the eastern sky, striations of high clouds neon tangerine veins against a cobalt backdrop, when Lucas drew Tango up short and signaled to the others to stop.
The party had fallen into a daily routine: up at dawn, plodding along at a slow pace all day, asleep just after nightfall. They lived off the land most of the time, keeping their stores of dried venison largely intact in favor of fresh-caught fish or whatever unlucky deer or rabbit crossed their path. Now, one more week’s ride from their destination, they were ready to be out of the saddle, worn down by the nearly thousand miles of trek.
Lucas peered through his binoculars and then lowered them, his eyes slits and his face haggard, the stubble on his chin gritty with road dust. He twisted in the saddle and spoke to the others in a low voice.
“Bunch of tents by the river up ahead, but nothing’s moving.”
His tone gave Ruby pause. “What is it, Lucas?”
“Some bodies out in the open. Look fresh.”
“No buzzards, though,” Red observed, squinting ahead.
“Maybe we should skirt the camp,” Joel suggested.
Lucas studied the trail. The surrounding forest was thick with blackberry bushes and bramble – nearly impassable. He shook his head. “Be nice if we could, but that’s not on the program.” He looked back at the party. “Keep your weapons at the ready. Ruby, Joel, take the rear. Fellas, let’s do this.”
The snicking of safeties coming off was the only sound other than their mounts’ breathing, and then they were out of the saddle and inching forward on silent feet, leading with their assault rifles as the horses followed obediently. When they reached the edge of the brush, Lucas made a curt gesture and they stopped, sweeping the riverbank with their guns.
Lucas counted nine corpses sprawled around a fire pit. Some were distended to the point of being barely recognizable, while others would have appeared to be asleep were it not for their mouths gaping in silent screams, their blank eyes staring at the dawn sky. Lucas’s party stood motionless for several minutes, and then a low groan emanated from one of the tents. Lucas leaned in closer to Axel. “Cover me. I’ll check it out.”
“Can you make out what killed them?” Axel whispered back.
“Nothing obvious. Watch my back.”
Lucas trotted toward the river, his eyes roaming over the tree line in search of threats as he bobbed and weaved to present a more difficult target. When he made it to the sorry collection of tents, he cocked his head. Labored breathing sounded from a yellow four-man setup discolored with grime and sap.
Another groan emanated from the tent. Lucas approached the opening, the barrel of his M4 pointed at the interior. When he reached the entry flap, he saw a man in his twenties, sweating profusely and gasping like a beached fish. A shotgun lay by his side, but he was obviously too weak to reach it. Lucas eyed him dispassionately, accustomed to death in its many permutations, and lowered his rifle.
“What happened?” he asked.
The man labored for a breath before responding, “All dead…”
Lucas nodded. “I see. How?”
Another wheezing intake of air. “Power plant. Nuke. Something went bad. Steam’s shooting out of the towers.”
Lucas’s eyes narrowed, and he held the man’s gaze. “How far?”
“Maybe…forty miles. We got out when fish started floating down the river. But…we were too late.”
“When did you leave?”
The young man coughed, the sound wet and sickly. “Couple days ago.”
“On this river?”
“Right. The Columbia.”
Lucas considered. “Runs down through Portland, doesn’t it?”
The man’s eyelids fluttered shut and he groaned again. Lucas siz
ed him up and shook his head. He wasn’t long for this world, but more alarming, the tale he’d just told meant that they might be getting irradiated as they stood at the river’s edge. Forty miles seemed like a lot, but Lucas wasn’t a rocket scientist and had no idea at what distance radiation could still be toxic.
He felt in the pocket of his flak jacket for the map he’d been using and unfolded it gingerly, taking care not to tear it. Lucas estimated their position and then traced his finger upriver roughly forty miles. There it was, marked with a red triangle – the Columbia Generating Station.
If it was leaking radiation into the river in sufficient quantities to kill fish – not to mention irradiate people with lethal doses – the river wasn’t safe to be anywhere near. That wouldn’t change much of their strategy, since they’d planned to veer away from it as they neared Portland, but it would definitely impact their journey for the next few days.
Lucas slid the map back into his pocket and returned his attention to the dying man.
“You God-fearing?” he asked.
The struggling man managed a nod, his eyes still closed.
“Can’t tell you what to do, but that shotgun isn’t going to protect you from what’s coming.”
“I…I watched them die. It’s…horrible.”
Lucas looked away. “We all meet our maker eventually.”
He muttered a brief prayer and retraced his steps back to where the rest of the group waited. As he neared the tree line, a single blast echoed off the water, and a flock of birds soared into the sky. When he reached Ruby and Joel by the horses, he gave them a short report on what he’d learned.
Ruby’s eyes widened, as did Joel’s. Lucas spit to the side and regarded Ruby.
“So what do you think? We safe?” he asked.
The Day After Never - Insurrection (Book 5) Page 3
