Prepper's Crucible - Volume Six: The End

by Andrews, Bobby

  PREPPER’S CRUCIBLE – VOLUME SIX

  Bobby Andrews

  TEXT COPYRIGHT 2015

  BOBBY ANDREWS

  This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are the product of the author’s imagination or used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, or events or places is coincidental.

  Synopsis of Volume Five

  Ben and Cory return to Prescott after having located Ben’s sons and Cory’s sister, Rachael. Tim, Rachael’s boyfriend and former corpsman turned doctor, joins the group as well. They are forced to take a longer route back to the ranch, where they find Eric and Justin, Ben’s sons, after passing through Wickenburg on the way home. After making the trip, they arrive back to discover the Mexican Army, determined to take back territory that once belonged to Mexico, is occupying the town and the rest of the state. They also discover that Don was murdered. The story picks up thirty-nine years in the future, when Cory tells his story as the last surviving member of the group.

  The contour of the land is an aid to the army; sizing up opponents to determine victory, assessing dangers and distance. Those who do battle without knowing these will lose.

  ― Sun Tzu, The Art of War

  To my readers: You have been a tolerant bunch of readers, and I appreciate that. I tried my best to put out new installments quickly, so as to not to make you wait too long for the next book. More than six hundred pages of written text, edits, rewrites, and more edits was a challenge, but I did not mind it when I saw your response to my books.

  Words fail me when I try to express my gratitude to you. I can’t thank you enough for allowing me to make a living at doing what I love to do. You are the BEST! My wife would be the only person in the world to describe me as sentimental, but the truth is, I am. When it comes to my new family – you – I do get emotional at the way you all supported me and helped me pull this off.

  I am taking some time off and going back to hunting, fishing, camping, and exploring even more the natural beauty that surrounds me here in Prescott. My shooting skills declined over the last months, so I will also get some more training and attend more competitions for a few months.

  I hope the message you take away from these books is that you really do need to be prepared. I don’t know that anything bad is going to happen. Who could know that? What I do know is that the potential is always there, so why not do something to get ready and give you and yours the best chance of getting through it intact?

  I end this series with a sense of sorrow – I really grew to love these characters. They are as real to me as your family is to you. In any event, I know I will continue writing, but am not sure what comes next. Out of every ending comes a new beginning. I really believe that, and I hope you do too.

  ―Bobby

  TABLE OF CONTENTS

  CHAPTER ONE

  CHAPTER TWO

  CHAPTER THREE

  CHAPTER FOUR

  CHAPTER FIVE

  CHAPTER SIX

  CHAPTER SEVEN

  CHAPTER EIGHT

  CHAPTER NINE

  CHAPTER TEN

  CHAPTER ELEVEN

  CHAPTER ONE

  EMP PLUS THIRTY-NINE YEARS

  PRESCOTT, ARIZONA, TERRITORIAL CAPITAL

  Horace Binkley, the official historian of the Arizona Territory, had finally managed to secure an appointment with Governor Cory Redding. The former park ranger, leader of the great insurgency and then governor of the Territory, had finally agreed to tell his story. The tiny man almost shivered with delight as he entered the downtown plaza on his way to the Pioneer Assisted Living Facility, where the former governor had lived the last four years after disappearing at the end of his first term. Although he could have run for a second term, he chose instead to live the life of a hermit, and was not seen for close to sixteen years, before he turned up at the home. In the four years he spent there, he refused to see anyone; rumor had it he only spoke to a few of the staff at the home. Horace was excited about the prospect of interviewing him not only because he was an historian; he also wrote opinion pieces for the largest newspaper in the state, The Prescott Courier. His interview would bring him national fame, as the governor was generally seen as the George Washington of his time. He was one of the very few who managed to organize an effective partisan group that later became the famous Prescott Rangers, the only militia in the Southwest that effectively fought back the Mexican Army. They paved the road for the U.S. Army, and fought side-by-side with the military until the Mexicans were forced to retreat back across the border and lick their wounds for the next twenty years. That the interview was going to take place on the thirty-ninth anniversary of the EMP strike was not lost on him. He wasn’t sure what it meant or why the governor chose that particular day, but his happiness about getting the interview outweighed those thoughts.

  Horace was a tiny little pellet of a man, with a pompous air about him that made him universally disliked. His face was pinched into a permanent frown, and he walked through the plaza with short aggressive strides, moving quickly. He looked down at his watch and realized he would be fifteen minutes early. Not wanting to appear too eager, he slowed his pace and stopped in front of the three statues that lined the front of the granite courthouse that looked over the square. The courthouse was riddled with pockmarks from the gunfire during the final push against the Mexican Army more than thirty years earlier. Two tourists were standing in front of the first statue, carefully reading the inscription on the base of the monument. Horace stopped, and seeing a chance to demonstrate his intelligence, approached the young man and woman reading the inscription.

  “I’m guessing you’re not from here?” Horace said as he approached the couple.

  “We’re visiting relatives who live here,” the woman timidly replied. She was a pretty woman, well-dressed with blonde hair carefully in place. Horace assumed the man was her husband by the fact his arm had been draped around her as he approached. The man was well-dressed and in his early thirties.

  “My name is Horace Binkley,” he said, offering his hand. After shaking both their hands he added, “I’m the state historian, and there’s a lot more story behind these statues than you can read on that piece of bronze. You want to hear more about these great men?” The poor little man looked so anxious to talk to them that the man nodded his agreement. Horace moved around them and stood in front of the statue. Turning, he said, “this is Bucky O’Neil. His largest claim to fame is that he was a captain in Roosevelt’s Rough Riders. That’s why he’s mounted on the horse. But he was also a reporter before that, and a lawyer. When he was a reporter, he covered the shootout at the O.K. Corral in Tombstone. He moved here and became sheriff, and later the mayor of the town.”

  “Really?” the woman said, clearly enthralled. Horace’s chest got a little bigger.

  “He got to know Wyatt Earp and Doc Holiday after that gunfight, and they were friends until Bucky got himself killed at San Juan Hill. Damn fool thought taking cover was a cowardly act, and was killed by a sniper as he was walking around the front lines exhorting his men for the attack that was about to take place.”

  “Was San Juan Hill during the American-Mexican War?” the man asked.

  “No, that was the last war we had here. That was more than thirty years ago. This was the Spanish-American War of 1898.” His voice sounded the least bit superior when he said it. “Let’s move to next one,” he added, after checking his watch.

  “Okay,” the man said, and the couple followed Horace to the middle statue. It was of a man holding a rifle over his head with an expression of triumph etched on the bronze face.

  “This one is
Cory Redding. He is a former governor, and you may have heard of him. Right after the American-Mexican War, he was elected by an overwhelming majority.”

  “I’ve heard of him,” the man interrupted. “We read about him in history class.”

  “Me too,” the young woman answered. “He was a great man, according to my father.”

  “That he was,” Horace replied, a little peeved at having his monologue interrupted. “And,” he whispered conspiratorially, “I’m on my way to interview him in a few minutes. It’s the first interview he’s granted in close to 20 years.”

  “He’s still alive?”

  “Yes, he is.”

  “You’re very lucky to be able to do that,” the woman said.

  “I think it has to do with more than luck,” he replied, although the shirt got a bit tighter at her admiration. “But back to the matter at hand. The governor was a park ranger when the EMP hit. He went on to become the leader of the partisans that fought the guerilla war with the Mexicans and kept our hopes alive during the darkest days in the history of the Territory. He was later elected governor and served one term, then disappeared for decades.”

  “Where did he go?” the man asked.

  “That’s what I intend to find out today.”

  “That should be interesting.”

  “I’m getting short of time,” Horace replied. “Let’s get to the last statue and then I have to go.”

  “Sure.”

  The last statue showed a man on a small hill, rifle pointed downward as though firing from above. “This is Don Murphy. He was a retired Army officer who led the fight to defend the town against a gang of bikers who were about to take it over and raze the entire town. He went on to be the first to organize the town to get hunting parties going when the food from delivery trucks and local farms ran out in the winter following the EMP. We know he and Cory were good friends, and that they lived together on Don’s ranch. We also know he was murdered about two months after the EMP struck, but that’s about it. We don’t really know much more about him. I interviewed several people who knew him; but the other people that lived at the ranch all died before I could get to them, so I am hoping to find out more today.”

  “So, this interview is really important to you?” The young lady asked.

  “The most important thing I’ll ever do if he explains to me what happened between the time the EMP hit and we began to record history again after he assumed the governorship.” His own statement struck Horace. It was the most important moment in his life, and the act of stating it gave him pause. He again checked his watch and said, “I really have to go. But if I see you again, I hope to be able to tell you more about that time. It’s important to know what happened, and why. The details matter. We have most of the facts, but none of the flavor. It’s like eating a steak without salt. It’s still a steak, but it’s not quite right.” He stalked away with his peculiar small-man gait. He crossed the square and began a gradual climb up to the assisted living facility, wondering why the governor had chosen that particular moment to grant the interview.

  When he arrived at the home, he stopped and again looked at his watch. He was still five minutes early, so he took a moment to gaze at the building and think about the facility. The home had been funded by the Arizona Legislature and was available to any native-born Arizonan. It charged a percentage of a person’s income to live there, and if you made zero, you paid zero. It was unique in that regard. It was founded in the early 1900s when the state realized it would have many founding members who would be destitute in old age. The mining boom and bust made that a certainty and the legislature moved to ensure that all Arizona founding families would have a place to stay in old age, regardless of their wealth. The facility only had 140 rooms, and the waiting list was long; but it still served the Territory. Even during and after the EMP, the home operated with volunteers and kept its doors open to the elderly.

  The home sat perched on a high hilltop overlooking the town, and each room had a balcony that faced in one of four directions. Each room was private and all had views of the surrounding landscape. Arizona took care of its favored sons and daughters in a manner unknown in other areas. Horace felt proud of that fact, and finished the climb to the home in another minute. He entered the building and stood in a huge foyer with a long desk running across one side of the room. Several large, and older, men guarded the narrow hallway that led to the elevators and ground-floor rooms. He walked to the reception desk that was staffed by an elderly woman with grey hair and a large smile. “Can I help you?” she asked.

  “Horace Binkley to see Governor Redding,” he announced in his best authoritative voice.

  “He prefers to be called Cory,” she answered. “You can follow one of our guards to his room. Eric,” she called, motioning to a man who guarded the hallway. “Please take this guy to see Cory. He has an appointment, but make sure you frisk him and keep Cory safe.” Eric, a grey-haired man with a wrinkled face and an unkempt ponytail, walked over to where Horace stood. He rested his hand on the butt of an old hog leg pistol and examined the guest carefully. “Hands over head,” he said. Horace raised his hands and suffered a brisk pat down before lowering his hands.

  “He’s clean,” Eric told the receptionist.

  “Take him up to Cory’s room,” she replied. Eric led off, one hand still on the butt of his pistol, and stopped at the elevator. He pushed a button, the elevator arrived, and both men entered it. Eric pushed another button that made the elevator rise to the third floor, and exited the elevator behind Horace.

  “Do you know the governor?” Horace asked as they moved down a long institutional hallway.

  “Served with him with the Rangers and after,” he replied brusquely.

  “You must have been pretty young,” Horace said nervously. The man’s silence and steely gaze were intimidating.

  “Nobody was young in those days.” He thought for a moment, then added, “we all had to kill people back then, no matter your age.” Horace clammed up, a bit put off by the rude treatment, and they walked down the hall until they reached a door at the very end of the hallway.

  “Wait here. I’ll let you know if you can come in.”

  “I have an appointment.”

  “I said, wait here.” Eric glanced at him with steel in his light blue eyes, and Horace again remained silent. Eric opened the door and entered the room, then closed the door behind him. He emerged a minute later and said, “he’ll see you. Go on in.” Horace entered the room and saw that it was empty. He looked to the balcony and saw a man reclined on a chaise lounge and looked at Eric quizzically. “Go on,” Eric said, motioning with his head for Horace to go out on the balcony. He followed Horace out and leaned against the wall.

  “Mr. Governor?” Horace asked. Cory was reclined on the lounger, his eyes shut. An IV bag hung off a long pole that sat at the side of his lounger. His face was slack, with folds of flesh hanging under his chin, and his rail-thin body seemed unlikely for the hero that Horace knew him to be.

  “Go ahead,” Eric whispered.

  “It’s Horace. We have an appointment.”

  “Yes, we do.” The voice was faint and Cory still had not opened his eyes.

  Horace sat at a small table beside the lounger, pulled a small notebook from the inside pocket of his jacket, looked at his notes, and said, “can I ask you why you granted this interview?”

  “You mean after twenty years of silence?”

  “Well, yes.”

  “You know there’s a vote coming up on whether Arizona should rejoin the Union?”

  “Of course.”

  “That’s why you’re here. We need that vote to pass.” Cory sat up and stared at the man sitting across the table from him. His eerie light blue eyes glowed with the look of a highly intelligent man, and one who was determined.

  “I don’t understand.”

  “I sponsored the bill that required Arizona to not rejoin the Union for at least twenty years. Ever since, the ban
is renewed every year, and that needs to change now. You got the ear of the people with your opinion column, and we need to get you on board to get the votes out to overturn that bill I sponsored as governor.”

  “Well, that’s not really what I wanted to talk about.”

  “I’ll give you what you want, if you’ll give me what I need. When I passed that law, the reason I did it was because I wanted us to have the time to be certain the country wasn’t going to do the same thing that created the disaster that followed the EMP. I wanted to buy some time for us to be able to judge if the country was going to head down the same road as the one we had before. We’ve had that phase, and it’s time for us to make the country whole again. We’re the last territory still holding out.”

  “Why now?”

  “Two reasons. The first one’s important. So, I repeat. We need to be one country again, and if our territory rejoins the Union, the country is whole. The second reason has to do with why we’re doing this interview at all, and is less important. I’m dying, and if I don’t tell the story now, it may never be told. If I don’t help get that law passed, I’ll never see the stars and stripes flying over our capitol again. Also, people have a right to know how we came back from the EMP and won the war. It might help some other generation of Americans who face another disaster like we lived through.”

  “So, the deal is if I write the opinion piece supporting rejoining the Union, you’ll give me the story of what happened in the months before and after the EMP?”