Erik crested the final rise he knew would lead him down under the wooden horse fence that bordered the Colonel's property. Though he was a neighbor, when Erik was growing up, the Colonel had always seemed formidable—scary even. Short with words, gruff in manner, the old veteran had never failed to impress Erik when he and Erik's father got together to talk over a barbecue.
Erik had heard stories of how the Colonel had served with the army in Vietnam. One year, after a particularly festive Fourth of July, the old man had appeared in his full dress uniform, complete with ceremonial sword. From that point on, Erik refused to call him anything other than 'the Colonel'.
Erik slowed his pace, to quiet his approach up the tree line that separated his neighborhood from the forest. He hadn't come across anyone in the woods having long since left Ted and the others behind. Though he was beyond anxious to see his home, he wasn't about to go strolling out of cover and walk blindly into a trap.
Man, Ted's gonna be so pissed…
Erik forced thoughts of his friend aside. He couldn't risk losing himself mentally now. He knew as soon as he emerged from the trees, he would spot the shimmering waters of Lake Ticonderoga. His neighbor's house would be just on the other side of the tree line.
Erik crept silently forward, the tips of his fingers tingling with excitement. Their long, nightmare of a journey was almost over. He allowed himself to indulge in a few moments of nostalgia as he caught his breath leaning against a big oak, remembering the first day back in Sarasota when he and Ted had shared a beer at the pool—the night the lights went out. The first thing that popped into his head had been 'what do we do now?' It wasn't long before things around them began to spiral out of control and Erik hit on the idea of coming home.
Now, almost six months later, they had made it.
Almost, he told himself. There was one more obstacle to overcome. The strangers—convicts—whoever the hell they were. He frowned. Now was not the time to get sentimental or nostalgic.
He had to find out what the situation was at his parents' house and the surrounding area. He had to find out if there were any more convicts around. Maggie said it had been a large group that passed through town a month ago, yet no one could give them a straight number. Was it twenty or two-hundred?
Erik crouched at the edge of the tree line and peered around the side of wide maple. Green grass, speckled with the remains of crusty snow stretched before him for about 30 yards. The yard beyond extended all the way up to the Colonel's large garden and looked freshly tilled. The Colonel had apparently decided to expand the garden.
Erik paused and listened, hearing nothing. Just the usual chatter of birds and squirrels in the trees above him. His eyes continued to be drawn toward the shimmering lake on the other side of the Colonel's house. In the hazy distance, a small sailboat—not much more than a white spot in the distance—plied the waters of the old lake.
Erik brought his attention back to the Colonel's yard. Something still seemed off. He could understand the desire to tear up all that grass and plant crops for the winter—but it all looked fresh. He couldn't imagine what would grow in winter except maybe onions or some sort of crop used as fertilizer in the spring.
No, that wasn’t it—there had to be something else. His eyes roamed the trees that surrounded the Colonel's yard, a mixture of birches, maples, and oaks. The riot of colors still on the trees competed with that of the leaves that sprinkled the yard. Erik's eyes lingered on the house. The Colonel’s place was a small, one-story ranch, not uncommon along the lake in the small older communities that hugged the shore.
On the other side of the lake it was a different story—McMansions dotted the far shore. Erik spotted the glint of sunlight off windows on two- and three-story houses that lorded over the water.
Erik brought his eyes back to the house again. One of the windows had been boarded up with a piece of plywood, hastily cut to cover the opening. The closer he looked at the Colonel’s house, the more he realized something was amiss. Fresh scorch marks, black as coal, wrapped around the walls near the roof.
The house had been on fire at some point in the recent past.
Erik tensed, preparing for trouble. He saw neither footprints in what snow remained, nor debris or any other signs of struggle. Whatever had happened, someone had cared enough to patch up the place. Through the trees that separated the Colonel's property from his parents', he spotted a lazy tendril of smoke wafting through the branches.
His chest tightened. The smoke had to be coming from his home. Someone was home!
No smoke rose from the blackened chimney of the Colonel's house. Erik took another glance at the property. The only window facing his direction was the one boarded up. Unless someone watched from the trees surrounding the house, he would have a blind approach and could sneak up unobserved. He unstrapped the pistol in its holster and slid it free. After pulling the slide back to check for a round in the chamber, he gripped it tight. Keeping his finger out of the trigger guard, he emerged from the forest.
Chapter 69
The Final Jihad
HAKIM LAUGHED AS HE ran, ducking behind buildings and trying to stay in the shadows. The cell phone transmitter clutched in his sweaty hand continued to show full signal strength. His bomb had been placed. The actors were taking their stage. Malcolm—and as a bonus, a great army of Americans—were closing in from the north. From the south, the Russians approached.
He honestly had no idea how large the blast radius would be—in his sleepless delirium, he imagined the shock-wave large enough to topple every building as far away as Jacksonville. Though subconsciously, he realized his meager explosive would probably only cloud the air over Hale’s Corners with radioactive material. If it worked.
In the end, he figured it didn't really matter. Hakim knew his death was upon him.
Bombs exploded, shaking the earth all around him. The incessant crackle of gunfire and heavy artillery screamed at him from all sides. Jets streaked overhead, enveloped sometimes in blossoms of fire and smoke. Debris rained from the sky. The world was consumed by chaos.
He ducked behind the corner of a ruined house, laughing to himself. This is what it must feel like for the suicide bombers, he thought darkly. Knowing that at any second, just after a brief flash, he would be surrounded by his 72 virgins in the presence of Allah and His Prophets.
He looked down at his hand as he passed a pile of rubble that once had been a home. His fingers lovingly traced the edges of the cracked cell phone. All he had to do was push 'send' and when the signal reached the bomb, the massive explosion would obliterate everything within sight. Hale’s Corners would cease to exist and anyone within sight of the blast would be contaminated with radiation. It would be his final, beautiful sacrifice.
He had to force himself not to push the button too soon. To make the Russians and Americans suffer the absolute maximum number of casualties, he must give the opposing infidels just a little more time. They were getting close…so close, so intent on killing each other that they were rapidly drawing together at the epicenter of the planned detonation.
Bullets from a helicopter peppered the street next to him, the large caliber rounds blasting chunks of pavement ten to fifteen feet into the air. Fragments cascaded against the side of the partially destroyed house behind which he cowered. Surely they couldn't see him—they were merely shooting at each other.
It would make no sense for me to die out here before I can trigger the device. I need to find shelter for the next few moments. It's just not quite ready yet.
Hakim looked to his left and saw a darkened but largely undamaged house still standing. That had to be a good omen. He quickly made up his mind. He would hide out there until sunset, allowing the Americans and Russians to draw as close as possible before he detonated his nuclear device. He jubilantly raced to the front door, laughter on his lips.
Hakim stumbled over a large smoldering chunk of wood but ran on in a low crouch, hoping to stay low enough to avoid detect
ion by the screaming jets and buzzing helicopters that roared overhead. Hopefully they were too busy to notice a lone figure scrambling for cover through the dying embers of the neighborhood down below. Miraculously he reached the front door and tried the knob.
Locked.
Panic gripped his chest. This makes no sense—no one's left alive here.
A tremendous explosion—just on the other side of the street—slammed him into the door with a shock-wave of tortured air.
He dropped the phone and fell to his knees. As he coughed in the smoke and dust, scrambling to grab the all-important detonation device. The battle was getting closer.
I am out of time. He clambered to his feet, reared back, and kicked the front door open. Just another few seconds and I'll be out of this mess and able to relax—
He froze, his eyes widening as he stepped into the darkness and saw a half dozen Americans, rifles trained in his direction. He saw the telltale red lasers wink on—he could almost feel the little dots of light crawl over his skin.
He closed his eyes. Arms spread wide, he offered a silent final prayer beseeching Allah to deliver him from the infidels. He raised his thumb above the transmit button and his brain sent a final signal: push.
Hakim's world exploded into fire, blood, and pain, then all encompassing blackness.
Chapter 70
The Truth
ERIK RACED ACROSS THE yard, avoiding any remaining patches of crunchy snow and freshly tilled earth. The last thing he wanted to do was leave footprints. He reached the side of the house and crouched at the corner, facing away from the lake and waited a few seconds, listening for movement. Satisfied no one was nearby, Erik took a quick peek around the corner at the front of the house.
What he saw froze his heart. He stood stepped around the corner, forgetting everything Ted taught him about concealment.
As he stared through the trees that separated the houses, he was shocked to see only the far wall of his parents’ house remained standing. The rest of the old structure had been destroyed. The smoke he saw snaking its way through the upper branches of the pines—what he assumed to be coming from his parents' chimney—came instead from the smoldering ruins of his childhood home. Nothing remained of his house but chunks of brick and broken boards, charred studs and rubble sticking up out of the debris
It looked like a bomb had gone off.
Erik's mouth hung open as he stood there, taking in the scene and watching the smoke rise up beyond the trees. Everything he considered safe in this world, his parents, his memories…home…all of it was gone.
This entire trip was a mistake. We never should have left.
Erik could not contain the tears or the grief any longer. He dropped to his knees at the corner of the Colonel's house, his pistol forgotten on the ground next to him. Desperation crushed his spirit as he stared down at his dirt-covered hands.
I'm too late. They're gone. It was all a waste of time. He looked up at the gray sky. Oh God, maybe if we hadn't left, Susan and Mark might still be alive…
Memories flashed before his eyes, swirling around and around, threatening to drag him down into an abyss of despair. Memories of his parents when he was growing up, laughing and happy at his antics and mischievous ways. Their carefree faces, naturally more concerned for his safety as he grew older and prepared to enter into the wider world of grade school, high school, and then college.
He remembered the pained expression on his mother's face when he announced he'd be leaving home to pursue his Master's degree and follow his true love.
Brin.
Erik wiped the tears from his face with grimy hands. Brin—I left her behind… For this?
He struggled to his feet and suddenly felt like an old man. Erik stood there, shoulders slumped with quivering breaths and stared at the smoking remains of his childhood home one more time. He had to find out what happened and whether his parents were…
He looked down at the pistol on the ground and felt foolish. There was no need for it here. This place was deserted. He stooped to pick it up and shoved it in the holster.
Erik turned the corner and walked back around the Colonel's house. A sudden thought struck him: Did the convicts that sacked Ticonderoga do this?
His fists tightened to the point of pain. If they hurt mom and dad, there will be blood.
Erik strode purposefully back around the side of the Colonel's house and approached the lake. He turned the corner, ignoring Ted's voice to be careful, to be cautious—to remember his training.
But he wasn’t thinking straight—he didn’t really care. He was only thinking of his parents and how he would avenge their loss if the worst of his fears had happened. He certainly didn't expect to see the point of a sword just inches away from his throat, gleaming in the overcast midday light.
He instinctively leaned back, his hands up. His eyes immediately darted along the gleaming blade to the Colonel. The old man looked twice as old as he did the last time Erik had seen him. His face was contorted and twisted in anger.
"Thought you could snoop around, did you? Thought you could come back take what's left, huh? Well not on my watch you piece of filth."
"Colonel?" Erik stammered as he backpedaled, trying to keep the tip of the sword from slicing through the base of his neck as the old man took a wobbly step forward. Erik stood head and shoulders over the aging soldier but the old man moved with a purpose and didn't seem to care.
"How do you know me?" he snapped, eyes narrowing. He didn't take any further steps, but he didn't lower the sword either.
Erik blinked. "It's me? Erik!"
The Colonel's eyebrows came together as he regarded Erik carefully. "Erik?" he asked, like a man peering through fog.
"Yes—it's me, Erik—Erik Larsson. Your neighbor? Have you seen my parents? You know, Ed and Vi? What happened to my house? Where are they?"
The sword finally lowered in a flash of light and hung by the Colonel's side. The air went out of him and his shoulders slumped, but he stared at Erik. "Too late."
Erik slowly lowered his own hands. "I see that. What happened? Are they alive? Please tell me they’re alive—"
The old man snorted. "If you call this living."
Erik stared at him. "Colonel, are you okay? What's going on?"
The Colonel glanced around as if looking for hidden enemies. He turned to the lake and cursed. “Come on, let’s get inside. The daily run across the lake is almost back. Maybe they didn’t see you.”
“Daily run? What?” Erik asked, spying a sailboat in the direction the old man pointed.
“Inside. Now.”
Once Erik shut the back door to the Colonel's house he had to pause and let his eyes adjust to the gloom. The Colonel's kitchen was a disaster area. Erik saw empty MRE packages, opened cans of food—Erik saw dog and cat food cans on the counter, too—and trash everywhere. It was in the corners, on the tables and counters, under chairs. Erik questioned how long it’d been since the man had last left his house.
"Pardon the smell," the Colonel said with a grunt. "I get used to it, but every now and then it hits me how bad it stinks in here.
Erik refused to rub his watering eyes. "It's not that bad."
The old man grunted again and waved Erik over to the table. He cleared off a nearby chair by shoving empty cans and wrappers to the floor with the flat of his blade. "Haven't had company in…well, in a while."
"Can you tell me what happened?" Erik asked. He was almost afraid to ask, but he had to know. "Are my parents alive?"
The old man lowered his head.
Erik felt the room squeeze his heart. He staggered back and sat in the chair, his legs splaying out through the garbage at his feet. His vision blurred and his heart thundered in his ears. He shook his head. "No, no, no…"
"I'm sorry, son. Your old man put up one helluva fight. I helped out as best I could, but those bastards kept me too busy trying to keep this place from burning down around me." The Colonel placed his sword across the table a
nd sighed.
"How?" Erik croaked, his throat tighter than ever.
The Colonel stared out the grimy window toward the lake. Erik followed his gaze and spotted the blurry image of the same sailboat cutting across the waters from earlier. It was much closer now. He saw ant-like people moving about on the deck.
"Who are they?" Erik whispered, pointing at the sailboat.
"Spike's crew." The Colonel spat. "Same one’s holed up out at the fort. Bastards swept through here and took everything. Killed your folks and burned their place down."
Erik stared at his hands. All of it was for nothing. The trip, the suffering, the danger…all of it had been for nothing. They'd have been better off staying in Florida and rebuilding the Freehold. He leaned back and stared at the ceiling. His mind went completely blank. He was done. Used up. Fnished.
"Happened about a week ago," muttered the old man as if Erik had asked. "Surprised the place is still smoldering. They came through in a snow storm and just attacked. Eddie took out two with his shotgun before they got him. I saw Spike. Big bald bastard.” The Colonel shook his head.
“He killed Eddie with his bare hands. One of his henchmen killed Vi. I saw her go down, then I had to fight off an attack on my house. Took out three more myself before they set fire to my place and left me to die."
The old man laughed. "They thought I did, too! Lazy, stupid bastards never even came back to make sure."
Erik sighed again, one hand over his face as he tried desperately to not break down and sob in front of the old soldier. He wanted to scream, he wanted to cry. He wanted to kill. He opened his eyes and stared at the Colonel. He rubbed his neck, but his voice still came out like something fresh from the grave. "Tell me."
The old man nodded. "Spike and his crew came through town about a month and a half ago, sometime around the first snow. Don't know where they came from, but they must've broken out of a prison somewhere. I spotted jumpsuits on more than a few of them—some still had handcuffs." He stared off in the distance. "When they showed up, Spike pretended to be the local undersheriff." He snorted in derision.
Dux Bellorum (Future History of America Book 3) Page 42
