After the Fall

by Darrel Sparkman

  After the Fall

  Darrel Sparkman

  Whiskey Creek Press

  Copyright ©2007 by WHISKEY CREEK PRESS

  Copyright © 2007 by Darrel Sparkman

  ISBN 978-1-59374-815-9

  Editor: Joanne Walpole

  CONTENT

  Dedication

  Hymn

  Prologue: The Fall

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  Chapter 11

  Chapter 12

  Chapter 13

  Chapter 14

  Chapter 15

  Chapter 16

  Chapter 17

  Chapter 18

  Chapter 19

  Chapter 20

  Chapter 21

  Chapter 22

  Author's Note

  About The Author

  Dedication

  This work is dedicated to my wife and family for their support. A special thanks to my editor Joanne Walpole and the Whiskey Creek staff. To Dusty Richards and the Ozark Creative Writers for dealing out tough love when needed, and accolades when deserved. Thank you all.

  Hymn

  Like flowery fields the nations stand,

  Pleased with the morning light—

  The flowers beneath the mowers hand,

  Lay withering in the night.

  Isaac Watts, 1719

  Prologue:

  The Fall

  THE MAN IN black stood on a balcony overlooking the inside of a vast warehouse in the waterfront district of New York City. His reflection in the glass partition separating the balcony from the rest of the warehouse showed how stark his long blond hair looked against his black shirt ... and the black background. Black. His uniform of choice. It was fitting.

  "How much longer?” he asked the man named Krueger standing beside him. Krueger was a mercenary, and good at his job. The man in black had used him before.

  "Soon. The last group will be here in a few minutes. They are stuck in traffic."

  "Who is coming? Tell me again what groups you have recruited."

  "We have representatives from sleeper cells of our own people in nearly every state. They will carry out the most important missions. The rest assembling here are a mixed bag. Patriots. Survivalists. Posse and Aryans. All trained and willing.” Krueger chuckled, but there was nothing funny about it. “We even have several religious groups."

  "How many in all?"

  "There are over a hundred people under our control—all sworn to secrecy about their assignments. Each of them leads a group of their own. They won't even talk to each other."

  "Do they know the real purpose of our cause?"

  "Some will guess,” Krueger said. “Most will not. They know only what we tell them, and what they wish to believe."

  The man in black turned and glared at his companion. “You told me all was in readiness. I have brought the weapons with me. Disappointment at this juncture in time will not be tolerated."

  "Take it easy,” Krueger said softly. “Our cause is theirs. They all want simpler lives. All of them mistrust the government. To a man, they believe the collapse of the United States is what it will take to achieve this, and that collapse is inevitable. So, why not make it come sooner, at a time when they are ready for it, and can control it? They think of it as revolution."

  "Do these groups actually think they can retain control? Really?” His mocking tone echoed in the empty room.

  "I don't believe they understand the scope of what we are doing, or how quickly the end will come.” Krueger gestured toward a few of the men below who, even in this gathering, were openly carrying weapons. “And some couldn't care less."

  He returned his attention to the man in black. “Your predictions? The two weeks? It seems such a short time."

  The man surveyed Krueger, then glanced away, knowing the mercenary was one of those who didn't care.

  "Not really, it is actually very simple.” The man in black held up his fingers, one at a time. “Electricity. Fuel. Transport. Food. The fall will come in that order. If we interrupt these things for just a few weeks, the collapse will come. Nothing can stop it."

  "But in two weeks?” Krueger scoffed.

  "Ultimately, it is the food. Most stores carry, at most, a two-week supply of canned goods. Some have more, some less. Perishable goods will spoil more quickly. So, if there is no electricity to run the refrigerators, everything will spoil. People won't be able to eat the perishables quickly enough and most won't even understand that they should try."

  Krueger's interest finally piqued. “Portable generators? Local power plants?"

  "Where do you get the fuel to run the generators? And, there are never enough of them, even when there is a small power outage. Gas pumps need power. Hand pumps take a long time, and by then people will be killing for possession of what above ground tanks there are. If the trucks have no fuel and cannot deliver food, then the masses will be hungry. Even though people can go several weeks without eating, they will be hungry in three days. Hungry people do terrible, desperate things."

  The man in black smiled mirthlessly at Krueger. “There will be millions of hungry people."

  "What of the government agencies?"

  "Ah, a true Socialist waiting for a government program to bail you out. Oh, the government will try to cope. FEMA and the Red Cross will send people to assess the situation. Governors will call out the National Guard. By the time they get everything mobilized, and realize they must release their own stockpiles of fuel, and start food drops, it will be too late. The same problems will apply when other countries try to help. They will try, but it will be too late. There simply will not be time."

  "In the end, what is it you hope to achieve?"

  The man in black turned a cold smile on him. “Chaos. We want it all to come down. Nothing less is acceptable."

  Krueger pointed toward the floor. “The last group has arrived."

  The man in black stalked toward the door. “Then let it begin."

  * * * *

  Krueger listened as the planning and lectures began. Two weeks.

  Hand-held tactical weapons could not penetrate the nuclear and hydroelectric power stations. Everyone knew that. All the elite university think tanks and government experts proclaimed the premise impossible, so everyone believed it. Facilities were hardened and guarded. The security around all key facilities stayed on high alert.

  "The solution is simple,” the man in black had remonstrated. “Your groups will detonate small tactical nukes and conventional explosives around the perimeter of your targets, which will take out all the trunk lines delivering electricity from the power stations. It will also leave strategic areas so hot with radiation, repair will be impossible. Most of the electrical grids will go down immediately. The ones that hold on won't be able to isolate themselves quick enough. Like a long row of dominoes, one after the other the grids will drop off line. The nation will go dark.

  "The government has huge stock piles of fuel, but will refuse to allocate it to the transportation system, which in turn delivers and disperses most of the food to the country. With the rest of the world in a constant state of chaos, and fearing an imminent attack from abroad, the United States Government will confiscate all shipments of fuel and earmark it for the military. And without electricity, only fuel stored in above ground tanks will be obtained easily by the people. In less than a week, the largest transportation system in the world will stop moving.

  "Millions of people living in the huge metropolitan areas have to buy food everyday from markets or restaura
nts to survive.

  "Millions of people will be hungry. Millions of people will begin to move. There won't be any place to go. People will die. Millions..."

  * * * *

  Within the first year of the fall, at least eighty percent of the population died. After a time, even the military units stopped trying to cope, and pulled back to the east and west coasts, reasoning that the coastal waters could support at least a rudimentary existence.

  The people in the interior of the United States, from the Alleghenies to the Rockies, were on their own. Experts would have predicted survival of the fittest, but in fact, it was mostly survival of the lucky.

  Within a few years of what people called ‘The Fall', an old breed of man began to re-emerge; survivors with pioneer spirit, relying on no one but themselves. By necessity, the country evolved into a culture of shoot first and ask questions later. Slowly, the people began to start building again. Slowly. In the new America, death is always just around the corner, and a heartbeat away.

  Chapter 1

  QUAIL EXPLODED INTO the air, leaving the clump of sumac with rocket-like force. In the silence following their departure, small brown feathers drifted slowly to the ground in the filtered sunlight washing over the small clearing in the forest.

  John Trent left his horse in a long dive, rolling up behind a log next to the trail. After the initial flurry of movement, he became completely still. Trent tried to blink away the sweat trickling into his eyes. A black wood ant, flushed from the crumbling bark of the log, crawled across his knuckles. Trent still did not move. This was the new frontier. The first to move often became the first to die, and he did not intend to die.

  He cast a quick glance at his horse standing a few feet away, a horse that seemed very unconcerned with the actions of its master. A big help you are. The horse did not even glance his way, entertained instead by cropping grass at the edge of the trail and swatting flies with its tail. Bunched clumps of tall fescue seemed to be the only thing holding the horse's attention. The roan gelding seemed unaware of any danger, and it was usually a good sentry, especially where other people were concerned. Maybe something else had flushed the covey of quail. Maybe a fox or coyote. Maybe.

  He sighed as his glance went to the leather saddlebags with the circle brand of U.S Army. Experience told him if someone wanted the courier bags, they would have tried for the horse right away. He had been a courier between the few remaining army outposts left on the new frontier for the last three years. Documents in the bag were of little interest to most folks. What was left of the army was impotent at best, rarely conjuring up anything but disdain and contempt.

  That left one other alternative. Someone wanted him, and not for a moment did he consider any other option. There were hunters out there, and he was the prey.

  Trent took stock of his weapons. The black SKS Paratrooper, with its thirty round magazine, folding stock and bayonet, was in its boot on the saddle and as far away as next weeks rabbit stew. The 9mm single action Ruger, his fighting knife, and a sore shoulder from rolling over the log, were all he had with him. They would have to do.

  He suddenly had a humorous thought. In the old books, the hero would whistle for his horse and it would come bounding up, eager to save the day. This horse would end up sixty miles away if he whistled at it.

  Normal sounds gradually came back to the forest, creeping on silent feet and whispering in the wind. The curious brown thrush and raucous blue jays finally went about their business, throwing disgusted looks back at the bushes where nothing was moving anymore. It was hard for them to be nature's sentinels when there was nothing to see.

  In the distance, Trent could hear a mockingbird making its idiot calls. Closer in, a marmot came out of its burrow, nose up to the wind, red fur shimmering in the sun, deciding it was safe to go back to digging roots. A bumblebee came and went in an avalanche of sound, shattering the silence. Its fat body tagged by scientists as being unable to fly, the bee navigated effortlessly through the trees.

  Cursing silently, chiding himself for not keeping better watch, Trent began a slow scan around the surrounding forest. The day was hot, too hot for early May, and the small brown lizard perched on the log just inches from Trent's eyes was panting to rid itself of the heat. Looking at the lizard directed his eyes to the log he hid behind. No wonder the ants were out in force. The log was so rotten he could practically see through it. Nice protection.

  Minutes later, Trent eased his position a little, moving his leather-handled hunting knife around for a better grip. The wide, heavy blade, honed razor sharp, was used for everything from shaving to cutting wood. Under his heavy buckskin shirt, sweat ran in rivulets down his body, and pooled in the small of his back. Trent's mouth was cotton ball dry and the canteen hanging on his saddle momentarily distracted him. But, wishing wouldn't bring it to him.

  The grazing horse snapped its head up, and the raiders leaped out of the undergrowth. Where nothing had been but low bushes and rocks and a few forest ferns, appeared half-naked men burned brown by the sun. Disdaining the use of firearms, true to their newfound mantra, the raiders favored knives and clubs. The first raider came over the bushes in a magnificent leap, brandishing a knobby-ended club, screaming in primeval fury.

  The man's blood-curdling cry was abruptly cut short as Trent's knife buried itself just under his breastbone with an audible thump. While the first raider slid loosely to the ground, the second came bounding in. Still on his knees behind the log, and out of position to do anything else, Trent reluctantly palmed his gun and fired. The slug took the running man in the chest and jerked him backwards to the ground. Hearing a grunt behind him, Trent whirled in a flurry of leaves and sweat and partially evaded a swipe at his belly with a knife. He winced as the blade swept away, then blocked an overhand stab from the young raider. Trent's Ruger flew from his sweaty hands.

  It was obvious no one had ever taught the young raider how to fight with a knife, and he was not old enough to have learned from experience the vulnerability of an overhand stab. He should have stayed with the sideways slashing that left the burning gash in Trent's side.

  Even though he was just a boy, the raider did not have any more time to learn. School was over and this was the final exam. There was a man-sized knife in the raider's hands, and a real sense of urgency driving Trent. If there were more raiders around, the sound of the shot would bring them in droves.

  Trent, stepping quickly inside the boy's downward swing, caught his wrist and twisted the attacker's arm around and up behind his back. Heaving upward to dislocate the shoulder, the knife came away in Trent's hand. Hearing another raider coming from behind, he shoved the screaming boy away, slashing his throat left to right in a shower of blood. Pivoting on the follow-through, Trent faced the last raider amid the retching sounds of the boy behind him drowning in his own blood.

  Trent crouched with his weight on the balls of his feet, lightly holding the captured knife with the cutting edge up and wishing he could dry his bloodied hands. He willed his breathing to slow, but his heart trip-hammered in his chest.

  Except for the one shot, this encounter had been relatively quiet. Trent wanted it to stay that way. Raiders rarely traveled in large groups, so there was a good chance this was all there were of this bunch. He glanced around for his own knife, but it was too far away and he could not easily get to it. Looking quickly around for more raiders and not seeing any, John Trent returned his gaze to the man before him.

  The last raider, standing well over six feet and heavily muscled, confident of his prowess, had seen Trent glance toward his own blade.

  "Go ahead,” said the grinning raider, with an expansive gesture toward the body holding Trent's knife, “I'll wait."

  Trent, warily watching the big man, walked over and retrieved his knife, taking his time as he wiped the blood off on his victim's jeans. He stood drying his hands on his pant legs, waiting for the raider to make his move.

  The man walked around flexing his muscles,
putting on a show of loosening up, preening and showing off before his next kill. He had crazy looking eyes that never left Trent, or the hand that held the knife. One man had already been lost to Trent's knife throwing skill.

  Trent knew he could not match this man on strength alone. He did not intend to try.

  "You're pretty good,” the raider said. “You took care of them three boys real fast, but don't you get your hopes up. I am better than them. I have killed lots of men better than you, and I'm going to gut you like a pig. You afraid of dying, boy?"

  John Trent smiled coldly. “You going to talk me to death?"

  The smile faded from the raiders face. He contemplated Trent for a moment. “No, boy. I'll use this.” He raised his wide-bladed knife toward Trent.

  With a shout, the raider lunged, the point of his knife held forward like a spear, hoping to catch Trent by surprise. Trent faded to one side, seeming to narrowly evade the lunge, but the move kept him close enough for his blade to flick out and nick the man's arm.

  Blood welling from the small cut, the raider snarled. “You'll have to do better than that, boy."

  Furiously, the raider attacked Trent with broad sweeps and furious lunges, and the small clearing came alive with the sound of clashing steel. Both men were breathing heavily and, as if by common consent, stood apart a moment. Trent remained calm as he watched the man before him, a man whose arms and shoulders were covered with blood—a man who was tiring quickly because of what he thought was insignificant blood loss.

  Trent glanced cautiously from side to side. This encounter was taking too long. Every second he stayed in this place increased his danger. He needed to end it.

  With a curse, the raider renewed his attack, sweeping wide with his blade and giving Trent the opportunity he needed. Slapping the knife aside with his free hand, Trent came in under the outstretched arm and buried his own weapon in the belly of the big raider. He pulled the blade up and over in a figure seven. Then, placing his left hand on the raider's chest, pushed him away. It was short and brutal, leaving no chance for retaliation.