by Jim Heskett
As they neared the point where Eldora would turn into Highway 119 just outside of town, a group of three people decked out in black jackets jumped out from the trees on the right side of the road. Like they’d been lying in wait and emerged from nothingness.
The ratatat of gunfire erupted, and Quentin found the steering wheel slipping out of his grasp as the car skidded and turned sideways on the road, then lurched forward and crashed into the ditch. For an instant, all gravity disappeared inside the car.
Quentin’s body pivoted sideways, then gravity returned with a vengeance as his head slammed into the steering wheel. His world went black for a few seconds. Face felt wet. Pulsing, screeching, adrenaline spiking into a fury.
An arm grabbed Quentin, fog from nearby breath pushed onto the side of his face. At first, he could only hear the thump of his brain inside his head, clouding out everything else.
Then, Coyle’s hoarse shouts faded in. “Quentin! We have to move, now!”
Quentin understood. The people on the side of the road had shot out the tires of the Jeep and sent it into a ditch. The car had crashed. Danger.
Get out. Out of the car.
With a fuzzy brain and blurred vision, he reached for the door handle, but he couldn’t move. Felt Coyle’s hands on him, unbuckling his seatbelt. Coyle pushed him out of the car, into the snowbank in the space between the road and the trees. Coyle crouched over him, shooting. The gun blasts should have rocked Quentin’s ears, but he barely heard them. Like a television at night on low volume.
Quentin blinked, and some of the blurriness vanished. He could see three people on the other side of the road, all of them with guns pointed at him. He unclipped the pistol from his holster and squeezed off a couple shots in their direction. One missed wildly, but the other hit a man in the stomach as Coyle mowed down the other two. The blasts of weapons ceased, and the street suddenly went quiet.
“What was…” Quentin said, and he trailed off when he realized he couldn’t tell if he was speaking or thinking those words.
Coyle grabbed him by the shoulders. “You got your bell rung, kid. Can you stand? We need to get into town, right now. Figure out what the hell is going on.”
“Farrah,” Quentin croaked. Coyle nodded and dragged him to his feet.
They were only a couple thousand feet away from the edge of town, and the Jeep had two flat tires. Its nose was firmly in the ditch next to them. If there were gas leaking out, it might even explode.
“We gotta move,” Coyle said.
Quentin took a deep breath and steadied himself. “I can do this.”
They scrambled out of the snowbank and into the street, rushing toward the buildings ahead. The sounds of gunfire from town filtered into Quentin’s ears.
They arrived in town to find the streets in chaos. Amid the residents were dozens of men and women in white bandannas or with scratchy numbers 18 tattooed on their necks.
Eighteeners.
At the edge of town, Quentin and Coyle emerged from the woods to find a cluster of gang bangers faced off against some townspeople. The gang bangers were hiding behind a row of cars, the townspeople leaning out around the houses. At this angle, the Eighteeners hadn’t seen them yet.
Coyle fired. He sent two of the gang bangers to the ground before Quentin had even drawn the slide on his pistol. The Eighteeners, now taking fire from two sides, tried to leave their hiding spot and flee, but Quentin and Coyle cut them down where they stood.
But Quentin instantly wished they hadn’t killed them all. They needed to find out why this was happening. Why these invaders were pouring down over the hills now. There had to be some reason for this unprovoked sneak attack.
Toward town, pillars of smoke rose from homes and defunct businesses. The pops of pistols, the rattling of automated weapons fire. Explosions of grenades.
Farrah. Where was Farrah?
He rushed toward the townspeople hiding, shouting at them to join the fight and save the town. Then, he and Coyle sprinted into the town center.
“There,” Coyle shouted, pointing at one Eighteener standing on top of the chamber of commerce building. The rotund man was wielding a rocket launcher. He raised the sight to his eye and pointed the nose of the weapon down 1st Street, where two hundred residents were battling two dozen gang members.
Quentin lifted his rifle, paused a half second to aim, and then pulled the trigger. Missed.
From the other side of the street, Quentin’s wife Farrah emerged from underneath the awning of a building. Shotgun in her hands. She raised it toward the rocket launcher man and jerked the trigger. His head snapped to the side, the rocket launcher slipped from his hands, and he collapsed into a puddle on top of the building.
Farrah raced toward them, and she wrapped her arms around Quentin. “Willam is okay,” she said. “He’s hiding in the basement.”
Quentin nodded, too blurry to speak. Too much adrenaline. Trouble swallowing.
Eighteeners in the streets scurried. Many of them dashed in between buildings, and Quentin could already see some fleeing back into the hills.
“This doesn’t make sense,” Coyle said.
And he was right. A handful of gang bangers trying to raid a town containing thousands of soldiers? For what?
“We need to grab one before they can all escape,” Quentin said.
“What? Why?”
Quentin set his sights on one man sporting a white bandanna, trying to scurry up the side of the building that used to house the gem shop.
“Because,” Quentin said, “I don’t think this was a land-grab. I think they’re after the bunker, and they’ll be back.”
Chapter 5
George - Richmond
George Grant had spent so many years living with the name Alias, he had trouble responding when Alma and others said his Christian name. Each time, his brain momentarily puzzled when the word was in the air, then it snapped at him, like his mother shouting at him from the back porch, ordering him to come inside for supper. That old person had become like someone else. A mistake from long ago.
Not that George was no longer a patriot; far from it. But the world had suffered irreparable damage, so patriotism seemed to take a back seat. It would have to mutate in this new world. Become a series of smaller actions instead of the grand and sweeping revolution that everyone seemed to think was the only answer to the problem of rebuilding.
In the old world, power was a sword you had to pluck from a stone. The strongest or luckiest would rule. Now, power was more like a school of goldfish in a barrel, always eluding your fingers. Strategy mattered more than brute strength.
As he swept through her camp with Alma and Hector Castillo flanking him, George was impressed. She did indeed have hundreds of soldiers. And as they navigated through the neighborhood where they were quartered, they came out of houses, saluted, held their weapons high in signs of respect.
Like a real army.
They weren’t, of course. They were grungy gang bangers who had been brainwashed into believing they would earn the spoils of war if they hitched their wagons to Alma.
“How did you gain so many followers?” George said.
“Not followers,” Alma said. “They are my troops. My soldiers. The future army of America.”
George stifled his annoyance at her pretentious tone. “Okay, how did you recruit these soldiers?”
“We venture into a town, find the local pockets of them, then we talk. Show them what life will be like once we win. I’m very persuasive.”
She’d said the last bit with no trace of irony, but her words gave George pause. While she was young and seemingly inexperienced, the evidence showed she had amassed a sizable following. Could she add thousands more to her ranks, enough to defeat all the other groups vying for control of the nation?
Past the neighborhood, they swept through a park, on the way toward an auditorium where Alma was supposed to give a speech to the troops. Formally announcing George as being a member of her comma
nd staff. On the sidewalks, other men and women wearing their Eighteener garb shuffled along toward that same auditorium.
But she stopped to find a young Eighteener on his knees next to a swing set, a couple hundred feet away. The overhead sun bounced off the surfaces of the children’s jungle gym and slide.
The man’s eyes shot wide open when he noticed George and the two others. Pure guilt on his face. He was hovering over a dead body, picking through the pockets.
“Soldier,” Alma said, which made the man stop short and whip his hands back. His chest heaved, and his eyes darted left and right, probably examining their surroundings for an escape route.
“Yes, ma’am,” he said, trying to appear calm. “What can I do for you?”
She pointed at the corpse. “What are you doing with this person? Is he dead?”
“Nothing.” He pursed his lips and cast nervous eyes at the body on the ground. “Yeah, I think he’s dead. He hasn’t moved since I saw him.”
“What happened here?” she said, her face morphing into a top-to-bottom scowl. For a loyal soldier, he was showing the fear, but not the respect George figured she was seeking. He studied Alma, fascinated to find out how she would react.
The man shrugged. “I don’t know what happened. I found him like this.”
“You didn’t kill this man?”
George could see the fear in the soldier’s eyes. Alma turned to her father and held out a hand. Hector placed a 9mm in his daughter’s grip. The soldier watched this but stayed on his knees. His eyes still wandered, maybe hoping someone else marching toward the auditorium would intervene. Most of the nearby pedestrians paid no mind. A few stopped to watch, but Hector glared at them, and they promptly continued on their way.
Alma gazed down at the pistol in her hand and cocked her head at the guilty soldier. There was a handgun on the ground next to him, but the man made no move to reach for it. His eyes were on it, though, so he must have been considering making a grab at it. How could he not?
Was it his gun? Was he in the process of liberating it from this dead body? Why not admit it to Alma and explain he didn’t want to let some random scavenger take those things?
Alma pulled back the slide on the pistol and held it toward the ground as she approached the looter. “You didn’t kill him so you could go through his pockets?”
The soldier shook his head. If he somersaulted, he could probably roll over that gun and come up with it. Might even grab it before Alma could shoot him. George didn’t think he would, though. This young man was a frozen deer in Alma’s headlights.
“Show me your hands,” she said.
The man shuddered through his whole body but did as he was told. His palms were dirty, but he had nothing in them, if that’s what she was looking for. George didn’t know.
“Is that blood on your face?” she said.
He shook his head, but George could see from this far away that the young man was lying. His chest still heaved, his hands slightly vibrating as he tried to keep them still at his sides.
Alma gazed down at the body on the ground. There was a pool of red underneath the corpse, slowly spreading. Seeping into the recycled tire bits that made up the ground of this children’s play area. “This one is fresh. You could have at least lied and said he died in an accident.”
She raised the pistol, and the man tried to jump to his feet, waving his hands and opening his mouth to protest a little more.
Alma didn’t give him another chance. She jerked the trigger, blasting a hole in his forehead. The shot echoed across the park, bouncing off the wooden fences of the nearby homes.
The young soldier slumped to the ground, gasping one last time, a reflex, before his lungs expelled and he deflated. His eyes fell to the side and went blank.
George turned around to see what the passersby would think. A few of them gawked, but most carried on their own conversations as they walked in twos and threes like citizens shuffling toward a rock concert or sporting event. Oblivious—or numbed--to the violence happening close to them.
Alma stuck the gun in her pocket as she returned to Hector and George, a pacifying grin on her face. “Sorry for the interruption. I was showing you to the auditorium.”
“Wait a second,” George said. “Don’t you think, with an army of only a few hundred, it might be best to try disciplines other than a bullet in the head? You didn’t give him much of a chance.”
Alma sighed. “No, I don’t think there was another way. We’re trying to win a war here, George. Trying to reshape the country. I have no tolerance for disloyalty. It’s best everyone understand that now, rather than when it counts.”
With that, she spun and continued on the path through the park. Hector gave George a quick glance and then followed her. And George had to take a moment to collect himself, to at least let the echo of the gun blast dissipate from his ears. This Alma woman was crazier than a collective lunatic asylum.
But, George thought, she was probably also strong enough to win the war.
Chapter 6
Kellen - Nederland
He and Connor White, aka Mr. White, aka big, bald, beefy bear White, rode up the windy road along the canyon toward Nederland. White usually piloted the motorcycle while Kellen rode shotgun. Kellen didn’t mind. It gave him a good excuse to wrap his arms around White and feel those abs, tensed from controlling the motorcycle. White didn’t seem to enjoy being held much anymore these days. Kellen had to take it where he could get it.
When they neared Nederland, two separate pillars of smoke rose from somewhere up in town. Kellen pointed, and White nodded his acknowledgment but didn’t stop or slow their approach.
Ten minutes later, as they neared the barricaded gate and came to a halt, Kellen knew something wasn’t right. He shifted the sack of fresh basil he’d come to trade from his hand to his messenger bag. Prepared himself to run.
Kellen dismounted the bike. Smell in the air didn’t seem natural. “What do you think?”
“Not sure,” White said as he removed his helmet. “They would have heard us coming, so if they’re not friendly today for some reason, we’ll find out real quick.”
Kellen paused. “Thank you for coming here with me.”
“I’d do anything for you. You should know that by now.”
“I do,” Kellen said, blushing. “But thank you, anyway.”
The barricade stretched from one side of the road to the other, a rusted wall made of scraps of old farm equipment and steel girders welded together. Not much compared to the famed north/south wall in Chicago, but good enough to keep most everyone out. Hiking up into the mountains to get into town was nearly impossible, especially with land mines strategically placed in the mountains around the valley. Quite a lot harsher than a barbed wire fence, but also more effective.
A head popped up from behind the wall, and a second later, the nose of a rifle.
“State your business,” said a young woman, no more than sixteen. White girl, blond hair and blue eyes. Like someone right out of a toothpaste commercial. You could stay pretty in Nederland since threat from predators was usually low.
Kellen and White both raised their hands, as per usual.
“Kellen Richter and Connor White. Here to trade.”
The girl peered down at him. “Who do you know in town?”
“Quentin, Farrah, Coyle, and everyone else on the council. Look, you must be new at this. We come here a lot, so if you could just…”
The girl must not have appreciated the new comment because she raised the rifle’s sight to her eye.
“Kellen Richter?” she said.
Kellen nodded.
“Soothsayer?”
He rolled his eyes but nodded anyway. “A long time ago. I’m just here to trade, like we have a few times a month for the last several years.”
She raised the rifle and pointed it at the sky. “Okay, Soothsayer. No need to give me attitude. I’ll meet you at the gate.”
Kellen and White lowere
d their hands. Hadn’t been hassled at the gate this much in at least a couple years. Something was not right in town.
The gate creaked open, the metal screaming as it rubbed together. In the crack stood the girl, definitely no older than sixteen. The suspicion on her face, though, made her look at least twice that age.
She held the rifle in one hand as she flicked her chin at Kellen. “Let me see what you have to trade.”
Kellen moved the messenger bag around, and her other hand gripped the rifle. He eased open the bag and showed her. Just a bundle of leafy green basil, grown in the windowsill of the Denver Union Station.
She leaned forward, nodding at the contents.
“Right,” she said. “You two are okay to come inside if you want, but I doubt there’s any trading today.”
“Why?” White said. “What happened here?”
The girl sucked on her teeth. “You say you know Farrah and Quentin? You should go see them. They’re in the merry-go-round. That’s—”
“I know where it is,” Kellen said. “Thank you.”
They hopped on the bike as the girl moved out of the way. Kellen listened to the screech of the barricade gate behind them as White fired up the bike to lead them into town.
As soon as they passed the frozen Brainard Lake on the left, Kellen’s eyes widened at the sight of more snakes of ashy smoke squirting up in town. Some houses had turned into piles of rubble. A few prone figures that might have been corpses littered the streets. Faces down, not moving.
They were probably corpses.
“Christ,” White said, and Kellen squeezed his stomach in response.
In town, they found the extent of the damage. There were bodies, people walking around bloodied. Windows of businesses were broken. Nederland had been one of the most intact towns in America, as far as Kellen knew. But now, it was looking like the rest of this bombed-out country.
They pulled up outside the indoor merry-go-round building near the town center. Two guards out front eyed Kellen and White, but then stepped aside.
