Righteous Bloodshed: Righteous Survival EMP Saga, Book 2

by Timothy Van Sickel

  At that moment a deep low rumble rolls across the mountaintops. A reddish glow can be seen to the north. We all look and wonder.

  * * *

  The blast is enormous, as expected. The lead five-ton, what is left of it, is hurled backwards onto the next truck in line. The shockwave from the blast has knocked down small trees. Older and failing trees have broken in half or been uprooted. Large chunks of metal wiz through the air, severing branches, gouging trees and tearing into the ground. If Randy hadn't prepared himself for the blast, he would have been tossed about like the small trees or ripped apart by flying metal.

  Ears ringing, despite the earplugs, Randy crawls over the small protective mound of earth, and brings his scoped M4 to bear on the frenzied people below. Before he fires his first shot, heavy fire erupts from the hillside around him, bearing down on the people below.

  Four of the six trucks have been rolled over from the blast. Two more trucks roll into the kill zone, not knowing they have just entrapped themselves. A second boom echoes across the mountaintops, the explosion blowing another huge hole in the road, and trapping those below in the hail fire raining down from the hillside.

  Within minutes most of the men and women on the road have been killed. There are two groups of holdouts, both cowering behind the beds of overturned trucks. One group of four men decides to try and skirt back to the compound. They don’t make it, cut down by the ambushers on the hillside. The second group runs away from the main ambush. Randy has only two men on that side of the road. Three of the four methheads escape, heading for the hills or back to the Wagerlys' compound. They have only moments before the rest of the Wagerlys roll out. One more blast echoes across the mountains, and a smile comes across Randy's face. The only two roads out of the Wagerlys' compound have been blown. Bikes may be able to skirt the massive holes, but the trucks have been denied access to the rest of the world, denied access to pillage the countryside. Randy sends his runner back to the trucks to report their success.

  * * *

  At control point two the scene is ugly. The initial attack was held off, but they lost one young man being a bit too lackadaisical in his duties, caught off guard, he was shot dead in the initial rush. The crew there, being manned stronger, because of its key position, got serious and hunkered down for a fight, a fight that got very heated. A dozen of the Wagerlys' where throwing serious fire power at the eight men at the control point. A satchel charge blew a truck over, and killed two more men. Two bikes, and an old Torino blew through the gap, and took out the two remaining men on the road.

  The four men hidden on the surrounding hillsides tried to regroup, but dissension and confusion slowed them down. Four more bikes, and a small truck blew past them before two of their own trucks from the Central City roadblocks could come up, and fill the void. Then the large blasts, and heavy gunfire to the west, let them know that Randy had let loose on the main enemy convoy.

  But, as many as six bikes, and a truck where headed straight towards their relief convoy. One of their relief trucks, and two of their scout quads screeched out, burning tire to try and catch the meth heads before they get to the relief convoy. They also relay what they could back to Central City over their CB.

  * * *

  "We got trouble!" Jerry says as he swings the truck broadside onto the right side of the road, covering as much of the berm as he can. The guard truck behind him swings to the left, and all eight guards get out and get ready, as two bikes roar down the road at them.

  "Hit the dirt!" I yell, fully expecting one of them to throw another satchel charge, but the boom does not come. A few men manage to get off some shots at the fleeing bikes as they turn, and head back down the road. One bike swerves a bit but makes it over the rise in the road.

  Jerry sends two men to flank each side of the road. His runner let's him know that pursuit is coming from checkpoint two. He pulls his runner off his bike, and sets him up in the defense he has established. One hundred and fifty innocent people lay in six farm tractors barely two hundred yards behind us. Some of them, hearing the gunshots, begin to panic, thinking their fate is sealed.

  Sporadic gunfire is heard, as is squealing tires, and revving engines. A few minutes later the trucks from checkpoint two wave us forward. The few Wagerlys that escaped Randy's ambush have been dealt with or are heading for the hills. The road is open to continue our relief effort for the Flight 93 Memorial refugees!

  Chapter 14, The Refugees

  Central City

  September 17th

  Randy lies in the dirt, panting, soaked with sweat. He sends his runner to tell his men to secure the area. The wounded, enemy and friendly, are to be brought to the other side of the blast area, so that they can be transported back to Central City, or interrogated. He makes his way down to the rally point as his people move in.

  "Set up security." He barks, "You're not amateurs, those drug heads will be coming out here, we just killed half their crew, they won't be happy about that. You three, that were assigned medic duty, go grab anyone living from their crew. Johnson! Get a head count from our guys! Speigle, take Morris and Randle, go hook up with the other detail on the side road. The five of you set up security, and report back on the CB."

  Randy takes a moment to himself, to regroup. They just ambushed and killed as many as twenty-five or thirty men. He knows they were bad men, as bad as the Taliban and ISIS. But, killing men puts a stress on your soul. He is not a religious man, but he needs to justify in his mind that he has done right. 'I have just saved my neighbors and friends from crazed hooligans, that has to be a good thing, right?'

  As he hears back from his men, he breathes a sigh of relief. No one was lost in this ambush. Some scratches and bruises due to falling debris, but no serious injuries. 'Thank God!' he thinks, followed by 'where did that come from? You never 'thank god', you don’t believe in god.' He shakes it off, and continues organizing his people for the standoff that will be coming when the remaining Wagerlys try to break out of their compound.

  * * *

  Over one thousand people are still at the Flight 93 Memorial. Over the next eight hours, until well past dark, our convoys move the beleaguered people to the large school compound. As much as we tried to prepare in the short time we had, we are overwhelmed. We cannot prepare enough food fast enough, and keep up with the need for clean water. More importantly, we are not ready to deal with the disease and confusion that is spiraling things out of control.

  The medical teams separate the sick from the healthy. Many refugees turn belligerent when a child or spouse is designated as sick, insisting that they are fine, they refuse to be segregated, stating that it is un-American. But, this is exactly what happened when their ancestors came through Ellis Island, the sick where quarantined. They were not allowed in. Our small community is trying to use the same commonsense of our forefathers. Most of the refugees understand, but a few cause problems. Fortunately, self-preservation steps in, and the refugees themselves separate the troublemakers, not wanting our people having to deal with their few disgruntled comrades.

  We employ a quick process to bring the refugees into the school. The first question, what is their profession. Anyone with medical skills is immediately pulled aside and put to work, their families allowed to enter too, unless they are sick. Their families are sent to a separate quarantine area. The same goes with anyone with military experience, farming knowledge, and craftsmen. The people with needed skills are being given special treatment, no political correctness here, just a survival mentality.

  A group of DC fat cats, lawyers, bureaucrats, lobbyists and paper pushers get organized and begin to complain loudly of this perceived mistreatment. One claims to be a high ranking FEMA official who demands to be given control of the whole operation. “This situation has reached a point where martial law has been declared. That gives me authority over all local police departments, military personnel, both active and retired, and all assets that may be need to assist in recovery. I demand to speak
to whoever is in charge here”

  The local school principal responds appropriately. “Sir we appreciate your offer to help, but we a very busy right now. You may be able to contact your people from the Murtha Airport, in Johnstown. But right now we need dish washers, that line over there is where you can sign up to help out. Or you can move to the football field where we are assisting those who wish to move on.”

  “I don’t want to move on, I am supposed to be in charge here!” he responds.

  “Well, sir, you’re not in charge here. You can help out or you can move on. The choice is yours.”

  “I am John Abernathy, Third Undersecretary for Domestic Production Stability. What you are doing here falls directly under my authority and I demand the respect my position deserves.”

  “Yes Sir! Mr. Abernathy. Our domestic production stability requires that we need clean dishes to feed the people we rescued. I am very glad that we can accommodate you in your skill capacity. The kitchen is right through that door over there.” With that, the principal turns and walks away, leaving Mr. Abernathy and his group stunned.

  “Obama was right, these rubes cling to their guns and their bibles. They have no respect for the elite. They have not heard the last from me,” he states as they turn and head out the door towards the football field.

  As the refugee groups are being established, they are told of what we know has happened to the country. Some get it, and understand the dire situation. Others insist that things will be set right soon. They are all offered to be allowed to stay, or they can try and move on. Anyone wishing to stay will need to find work, or provide some service to the community. Protests rain down about finding work, but it is explained to them that medical people, farm hands, craftsmen, and security people will be needed. Or they can find their own niche to make a living. No able bodied person will be allowed more than one day's food without providing a service to the community.

  Our miniature Ellis Island proves to be mainly successful. We recruit five doctors, fourteen nurses, two dentists, several dozen with military experience, some retired, some active, and many craftsman; plumbers, carpenters, electricians. But many have no skills to offer, and many wish to try and return home. Farm hand and guard duty positions are offered to them. But to many, they are too proud for such a lowly position, and they elect to move on.

  * * *

  Knowing we have the renegades from the Wagerly's compound contained, we once again set up a farm truck convoy to get people to Windber. We send two scout bikes to Windber, to make sure the road is open, and to let them know several hundred refugees will be heading their way. The scout bikes return quickly, their report is bad. Mobs of people are heading out of Johnstown and Windber, into the countryside, looking for food.

  The bikes first ran into these stragglers at a small beef cattle farm, about five miles from Windber. About fifty people were roasting a couple of cows they took from a small time farmer. The farmer, with a few neighbors, had set up a defensive position to protect the rest of his small herd of twenty-five cattle. The city crowd was set up in a small tent city across the road, cooking the beef. More people could be seen walking towards this impromptu cookout. The scouts went a few miles further towards town, and there they encountered many more people heading out towards the country, hoping to find food.

  The scouts stopped to talk with a couple smaller groups, the situation is very bad. The one grocery store in Windber has been picked clean. Many people are already without any food, so they are heading towards the countryside, in hope that they can find food. They also tell of a battle starting between Richland and Johnstown, Richland people have shut down anyone coming across the Route 219 dividing line that they established. What was a control point has now turned into a battle line.

  We have over one thousand refugees from the Flight 93 ceremony to take care of. We have our own locals who need to be fed, and now we have people from the Johnstown area that are heading our way, hungry and looking for food, some of them sickly from bad water and bad sanitary situations. Decisions need to be made quickly, and some of those decisions are going to be hard to make. The migration from Johnstown is still probably two days away from Central City. But, what about all our friends and neighbors that will be overrun by these mobs. What do we do when these mobs hit our roadblock? Start asking us for food?

  The town leaders discuss this new information and decide that we cannot take the refugees from Flight 93 to Windber. We offer anyone who does not want to stay, safe passage to Rte. 219. From there they can walk to Johnstown, and the Airport, if they want to.

  We decide to start moving people to Route 219 the next morning, about a third of our refugees agree to take this option. About another third of the refugees have decided to stay with us for now, and will join our effort to make some sense of the situation. Doctors and nurses are helping out. Some people with managerial skills are trying to help with the processes. Some are willing to just cook, clean and help with security. It is all very haphazard, but some semblance of order continues to be established in the midst of chaos. The last third of the refugees are either the sick, which have been quarantined, the belligerent, demanding that FEMA helps them, or the shell shocked, still not comprehending what has happened.

  The pastors and city leaders, who are coordinating all of this, are overwhelmed. It is controlled chaos as they try to send people where they are needed, try to get food prepared, try to provide medical help as best they can. Just to try to maintain some sanitary conditions, an entire crew is sent out to dig and build a large latrine for the new refugees. Life is not the same as it was a few days ago.

  Chapter 15, Pay Back Time

  Wagerly's Compound

  September 17th

  Frank Wagerly hears the explosion and jumps up, pounding his fist in the air. "We just blew one of their roadblocks sky high guys! We’ll get these bastards!" He shouts. "Let's get the rest of these trucks ready to roll. Let's go teach these bastards a lesson! You don't mess with Frank Wagerly!"

  The people in his compound are all up and about, even the drug addicted, and hung over are moving with haste as several more blasts echo through the valley. The do-gooders from Central City are trying to rescue the hopeless saps at the Flight 93 Memorial. This needs to be shut down. They can hammer these local yokels while they are spread out, roll them up, and put them on the run.

  Another half dozen bikes and a few of his last running trucks are fired up and loaded up, ready to roll, everyone is fired up to go win the battle. Two bikes come screeching back into the compound, they look pale and sickly.

  "Boss, boss. We got shit kicked! Boss, they kicked our ass. Georgia got killed, most everyone got killed. They blew up the friggin road! I ain't shittin, the whole friggin' road is blowed up! And then hell fire rained down. A few made it a bit, fightin' back, but they got cut down."

  "Screw all that!" Frank rages." We got them on the run, we just blew their roadblock! Let’s roll up these bastards!" Frank screams, not wanting to hear what he has heard, his rage driving him.

  Hairy, a lieutenant who saved him from a deadly attack before, puts a strong arm on Frank, trying to calm him down. "Frank, that explosion was too close, that was not a roadblock we blew up. We need to listen to this guy. If they got ambushed, we need to move slow. I'll send out a few guys I trust to see what they can find out. We can't just go rushing into the unknown."

  Frank yanks away from Hairy's grip and turns on him viciously. "You don’t understand, you city shit, these bastards have kept me down all my life. Now is my time to rain hell down on them. There is no law! I want my revenge!" He turns and paces a bit, looking at the scout being bandaged up. A scowl crosses his face. "So what happened out there you pussy ass punk? Why'd you come screaming back in here? Those pussy ass farmers scare you with a few huntin' rifles!"

  "No boss, no! They blew up the road, I ain't shittin' you! About a mile from here. The convoy was rolling fine, our first two groups rolled through fine. From what I could hear,
they were hitting a roadblock up on 160. Then BLAM! The friggin' road blew up! Georgia's truck with the M-60 got flipped! Then BLAM again, behind us! All eight trucks got caught between the blasts. Our guys started to fight back, but they had guys in the woods, up in the hills, a hundred men I swear! They just picked us off like we was fish in a barrel. We only got out because we were on bikes and scooted past the blasted out road. Frank, I ain't shittin', dude, they was set up for us, they got us good."

  Frank is seething as he hears this report. Veins in his head bulging, he pulls his 9mm and aims it straight at the scout's head. In a flash, Hairy slaps Franks forearm from below, then smacks his hand from above, and the pistol falls harmlessly to the ground. Hairy steps on the pistol and looks Frank in the eye sternly. "You will not kill my men! You got to get your head out of your ass Frank! You don't kill a man because you don't like what he says. Now let me send out a scout to check on the situation."

  Frank looks at Hairy, the first man in many years to defy him. Hatred is raging inside of him, but he is smart, now is not the time for retribution, and Hairy is actually right. He needs to scout first. But he will not forget the humiliation of being slapped down, literally. He turns his rage to the bible thumping son-of-a-bitch that started everything to go downhill.

  "Mark Mays! And his vile offspring! I'll kill them all! He has his do-gooder handprints all over this. We need to take him and his down! Him, and his bullshit religion, he killed my boys. I'll 'do unto others'! Hairy, let's figure this shit out. Tonight, we're heading to that bastard's farm. It's got to be the one way out by the state game lands, high up in the mountain. Righteous son-of-a-bitch, farm high in the mountains! We'll take that bastard down!"

  "Get your scouts out there and find out what's going on. Tonight we take down that righteous son-of-a-bitch!"