Tomorrow's Dawn (Book 4): Gathering Storms

by Wohlrab, Jeff

  Attached to the front of her other thigh was a knife, the same one she had been carrying for months now. Though she knew the pistol and carbine were far more destructive than her knife, she still felt naked without it. The Kydex sheath was strapped to her thigh using stretchy cords which appeared to be from some sort of SCUBA equipment. It was a little tight, but the cords kept the knife from moving around too much.

  Next to her, Dave still held onto his Remington 700 tactical bolt-action rifle chambered in .308. The round was quite a bit bigger than that fired by the regular military M4, which shot a 5.56 mm round. It was also much heavier, so it carried a lot more energy at impact. The variable magnification scope attached to the top made it easier to hit targets at longer ranges. Likewise, his Glock 20 was chambered in 10 mm, which had around twice the muzzle energy of the 9mm Analiz carried.

  Though he had once made fun of the Glock for being ugly, his CZ75 had started to fail to eject spent casings after firing. In most scenarios, that wouldn’t be a big deal; in combat, it could get you killed. Dave had left his CZ on the dresser in return for the Glock 20 he was carrying now at one of the homes he’d raided for supplies.

  Near the front of the vehicle, Jensen stood next to Jessica. He still carried his Ruger American attached to his right thigh, but he had changed out the barrel with a replacement in Highlands. While trying to dig himself out of the tub in Georgia, he had dinged the crown of the barrel on a rock, which threw off the accuracy. Since he was a fan of the pistol, he’d scrounged around until he found another one and simply scavenged the barrel off of the other Ruger.

  For this trip, he was wearing his vest. Though he wasn’t anticipating any action, it seemed stupid to have it and not wear it. Hanging from a strap attached to the right shoulder of his vest was another one of the old-style M4s with a collapsible stock. Colonel Simmons had the Accuracy International rifle which had once belonged to Aaron.

  That was fine with Jensen. The Accuracy International was an extremely cool weapon, but he liked the Armalite style better. It held more rounds and the ammunition was lighter. Jensen had started out with his Bushmaster and gone through several different rifles over the course of the year, but the Colt rifle he was carrying was extremely similar in form and function to the ones he had been using.

  Jessica no longer had her shotgun, but still carried a Rock Island 1911 pistol chambered in .45 ACP. Unlike the others, she carried hers in a holster on her belt. It’s how she had carried her pistol on the police force, and she didn’t feel like retraining her muscles to a new holster position. If she found a decent shoulder holster, that might change, though.

  She still wore her black duty pants and boots but had scavenged a T-shirt from a pile of clothing in the school. It was dark blue with the words ‘Filthy Animal’ and ‘Santa Monica’ printed on the front. She had no idea what it was from, but it was evidently established in 2017. It didn’t really matter; it was clean and comfortable. What more could you ask for?

  Her new M4 was resting against the side of the package truck. It wasn’t her favorite rifle in the world, but it utilized the same magazines as most of the rifles in use by Strenke’s group. She hoped she wouldn’t have to use it because cleaning those rifles was a serious pain in the ass.

  Like Jessica, Marcy had a 1911 pistol. Hers was a more expensive Kimber Custom also chambered in .45 ACP. As she had told Daniel before they started dating, size matters. She also had an M4 from Strenke’s armory. She had her eye on a SCAR rifle, but that one happened to belong to Colonel Strenke, so she settled for a run-of-the-mill M4. It worked just as well and used the same ammunition; it just didn’t look as cool.

  She had the 1911 in a thigh holster strapped to torn jeans. Marcy had hoped to replace them with a better pair, but it seemed the women in Franklin were either much shorter or heavier than she was, so the torn jeans stayed. At six feet one and slender, it was tough enough to find clothes that fit even in the best of times. She had managed to pick up a new pair of boots, though. They were men’s, but they fit her just fine. The M4 was slung over her shoulder with the barrel pointed toward the sky.

  The sling was a little bit scratchy on her bare shoulders. Due to the heat, she had picked up a tank top to wear. She resisted the urge to reach up and adjust it because she was self-conscious about her armpits, which hadn’t been shaved recently. Even in the apocalypse, she wanted to remove hair where she didn’t feel there should be hair. She strongly considered digging through the boxes in the package truck to find a T-shirt instead.

  Only Daniel was still carrying the same weapons from when he had left Evans, a 9mm Sig P226 and a SIG 556 rifle. It looked similar to the M4s, but had a different-looking fore-end and was significantly heavier due to the piston system. The good news was that it used the same magazines and ammunition as the M4 rifles.

  He was wearing black tactical pants and a green tank top, which made his wide shoulders look even wider. Daniel was impossible to miss, as one of the only black guys in the compound and one of the largest. At six foot four, he cut an imposing figure. The Pulaski axe strapped to his back made him look even more frightening.

  Brent looked completely out of place wearing a slightly too tight suit and having no visible weapons, which was the topic of conversation between him and Jensen.

  “I understand your concern, Jensen, but I’m not going to carry a gun anymore.” Brent smiled at the younger man and continued, “I’ve already confessed my sins and I don’t intend to add any.”

  “But you’ve seen how many fights we’ve been involved in already; it only makes sense to be armed for self-protection,” Jensen reasoned.

  Brent held up his hands. “When it’s my time to go, it’s my time to go. Having a gun or not having a gun isn’t going to make any difference. Anyway, I don’t need a gun to drive a UPS truck.”

  “About that,” Jessica broke in, “why the hell are we in the rear of the convoy in a UPS truck? Why isn’t it one of the armored trucks with a turret on top? It doesn’t make any sense.”

  Daniel called over. “Yup, seems pretty stupid. I don’t like it.” He walked over to his three friends at the front of the truck. “Stupid,” he repeated.

  The brown truck was the last in a long line of vehicles parked alongside the football field in front of Franklin High School. Several better candidates to bring up the rear of the convoy were parked at roughly even spacing up the line.

  “I feel as though they consider us expendable,” Daniel continued. “I don’t feel expendable. Not even a little bit. I don’t want to be expended for at least forty more years.”

  Jensen smiled. “So you plan to live to be one hundred and six years old?”

  “Ass, I’m not sixty-six years old, I’m only thirty-six. No, wait. Thirty-seven,” Daniel replied. “Pretty sure I’m thirty-seven.”

  “And you think you’re going to make it another forty years?” Jensen asked. “How many times have you been shot already?”

  “Just once, I think.” He looked at Jensen quizzically. “Right, just the one time? You got shot, I got shot, and Brent got shot. One each?”

  Analiz, who was listening in on the conversation called out, “I got shot, too.”

  “And Analiz got shot. That makes four. Four gunshot wounds.” Daniel looked around. “By a show of hands, has anyone else been shot?” Nobody else held up a hand. He looked back at Jensen. “Where are you going with this, anyway?”

  Jensen held up a hand. “My mistake. I just remembered the ventilator was from the flu.” He looked around as they heard engines start up toward the front of the convoy. “Let’s all try not to get shot today. Let’s get into position.”

  They had already determined that Jessica and Jensen would ride in front with Brent and watch the sides of the road from the stairs. The remaining four would stage in positions across the rear of the vehicle to allow about 120 degrees of fire. Those next to the walls would be responsible for the opposite side of the road, while those in the middle would watch primar
ily for followers.

  Jensen would have liked to leave earlier in the day. Even with the longer summer hours, it was still going to be too close to sunset for Jensen’s liking by the time they made it to Lake Junaluska. The military personnel were all ready to go hours ago, but the refugees were much slower. It’s not that ‘hurry up and wait’ was new to Jensen, but he would have felt more comfortable departing in the morning.

  He watched as Daniel, Marcy, Dave, and Analiz climbed into the back of the truck. They had already rearranged the boxes to provide firing support just in case they came under attack during the trip. Colonel Simmons had traveled the same route and not run into any trouble, but Jensen wasn’t taking any chances.

  Surprisingly enough, all of the vehicles ahead of them were able to start up and roll out, even the seemingly cobbled-together RV he and Colonel Strenke had been looking at earlier in the day. They were barely out of the downtown area when they turned left onto a divided highway and headed north. From the right side of the vehicle, Jensen saw the signs that declared the highway to be 23, 441, and 64. Not confusing at all.

  The convoy maxed out at about thirty-five miles per hour, probably to conserve fuel. They had plenty of time, but not plenty of fuel. Jensen kept a watchful eye on the overgrown plant life along the side of the road as they traveled, looking for any sign of a threat.

  Jensen couldn’t really see what was going on up ahead, but he could tell from the speeding and slowing of the vehicle that the convoy was acting like an accordion, particularly on the downhill segments of the road. It didn’t seem that hard to just follow the vehicle in front of you and match their speed, but someone up ahead was clearly having difficulty with the concept.

  After about forty-five uneventful minutes, they turned onto another four-lane highway called the Great Smoky Mountains Expressway. Almost immediately, they passed a town called Sylva. Jensen was glad they were on the highway and didn’t have to drive through the town. Urban environments were tough for force protection.

  Every once in a while, he’d sneak a look behind him at Jessica, who was sitting on the steps on the other side covering the left flank of the convoy. With her hair blowing in the wind and a rifle in her arms, she looked like a beautiful goddess of vengeance. Was there one? Jensen couldn’t remember. There were so many gods and goddesses in mythology.

  She, however, was very real, and eating some sort of a candy bar. He was pretty sure none of the mythological goddesses were eating chocolate bars in the old stories. Mostly they were making things grow, making people fall in love, or destroying them. He tried not to get too distracted as he watched for threats.

  A sign right after the second Sylva exit proclaimed Waynesville to be 21 miles away. From what he could remember, Lake Junaluska was just past Waynesville. He quickly calculated how long it would take at their current speed and came up with about forty more minutes, depending on how far past Waynesville they had to travel.

  He called up to Brent, raising his voice to be heard over the wind coming through the open doors. “Strenke wasn’t kidding, this really is going to take a couple of hours.”

  Brent smiled and called back, “Getting impatient?”

  “Not so much impatient as my ass is getting sore from sitting on these steps. I don’t think this thing even has a suspension on it,” Jensen responded.

  Brent laughed. “I hear you. This seat isn’t exactly anything to write home about either.”

  Jensen went silent again as they passed another abandoned car on the side of the road. Those always made him nervous. Cars could be packed with a lot of explosives. He noted the clearance between the fenders and the top of the tire. Like the others they’d passed, there was plenty of clearance, meaning it probably wasn’t stuffed with fertilizer unless someone had been smart enough to jam something between the body and the axle to make it look unloaded. If it was a VBIED, he’d probably never realize it before he died anyway.

  As with Sylva, they passed Waynesville without having to drive through the town, which made him breathe easier again. The signs called out various city roads as they passed, and one blue sign partially obscured by overgrown tree branches notified them of eating establishments. Jensen wasn’t a fan of fast food in general, but right now he would have killed for a bucket full of Chicken McNuggets and Big Macs.

  As they eased onto exit 102B, Jensen had a clear view of most of the convoy winding to the right down the exit. The spacing between vehicles wasn’t great. Clearly these people hadn’t run convoys before. After the exit, they passed under the highway they had been driving along and headed north again.

  A small sign with an arrow caught Jensen’s eye; they were heading to a place called Maggie Valley. As they traveled through town, Jensen got more and more tense. He wasn’t quite sure where they were or how much further they had to go, but the close confines of the buildings made him uneasy after the wide-open spaces of the highways they had been on.

  Jensen felt himself getting more and more keyed up the closer they got to their new sanctuary. It was sort of like nearing the end of a deployment when you’d seen just how unpredictable death could be and hoped it wouldn’t turn its eye to you before you got on the rotator to head home.

  He didn’t relax until they passed a blockade in the road consisting of two MRAPs near a sign for the World Methodist Council. Jensen gave the men a wave with his injured hand as he stood up stiffly in the slowly moving vehicle, dreading the return of circulation to his already aching posterior.

  It looked like they would still have a couple hours of daylight left to get settled. Now he was most interested in where they were going to settle. Some of the convoy vehicles pulled off near a building called The Terrace, while many of the military vehicles stopped at an auditorium along the lake.

  Jensen turned back to Brent. “You know where we’re going?”

  The older man shrugged. “Nope. I’m just going to follow them until they stop.”

  About a block after the auditorium, the remaining vehicles in the convoy turned left behind an enormous building perched on a small hill. Jensen couldn’t tell what it was, but it looked like some sort of hotel. They followed the road up around to the front of the building and turned right into a large parking lot.

  “I think we’ve arrived,” Jessica said.

  Jensen stretched and assessed the building. It really was huge and somewhat imposing. Six large columns supported a roof projecting over the front door. They had to be around twenty-five feet tall and a couple of feet in diameter.

  Behind the columns were a pair of balconies extending the length of what appeared to be the main building. Huge wings stretched to either side and atop the center was cupola. A slight movement from the cupola caught Jensen’s eye. He looked toward the top of the roof to see a short man waving at them from a sniper’s nest. Simmons had clearly already gotten started on defensive plans.

  Jensen looked around to see if anyone responded to the wave. He didn’t want to look like a douchebag returning a wave if the man was waving to someone else. Nobody in the group seemed to be aware of the man, so he looked up again and returned the wave with a raised arm.

  He heard Jessica say, “Do you see that?”

  It seemed strange, since he was returning the man’s wave, but when he lowered his eyes, he could see her pointing toward the large white columns at the front of the building. As he looked more closely, he could see symbols spray-painted in red and black across the lower half of each.

  “What in the world?” he asked.

  “Looks like upside-down crucifixes and pentagrams mostly,” she replied. “I noticed them coming in.”

  As he looked more closely, he realized she was right. Even the lower level of the wing closest to the parking lot was covered in graffiti comprised of anti-Christ messages and symbols. “What the hell kind of place is this?” He looked toward the lake as if it would provide some sort of clue as he spoke to Jessica. “I’m not so sure this is a good place to be.”

 
“Jensen!” a voice called out. “Over here.”

  From the lead vehicle of what remained from the convoy, Colonel Strenke waived him over. “Welcome to Lambuth Inn,” he said as Jensen and Jessica approached. “It was built in 1921 by the Methodist church to house returning missionaries.”

  Jensen indicated the graffiti. “That doesn’t look very Methodist, unless I missed some sort of change in the course of the church.”

  “It looks more like a Satanist convention,” Jessica added.

  Strenke shook his head. “People are assholes, if you didn’t know.” He swept his arm up. “This whole town was founded in 1913 as a religious retreat. As religion started to become less of a focus in most people’s lives, it sort of became a place known more for music festivals and such, but its roots are Christianity.” He smiled grimly. “Not everyone is a fan, of course.

  “It was probably the same people who pulled down the cross over there on the point,” he said as he pointed down the road toward the lake. “We haven’t found any human sacrifices, so I’d imagine it’s just asshole kids acting out because mommy didn’t let them play enough video games.”

  Jensen snorted. “My mommy didn’t let me play enough video games, but I don’t go around defacing historic buildings or destroying crosses.” He looked at the older man with curiosity. “How do you know so much about this place? Did you come here as a kid or something?”

  Strenke shook his head. “Nope, but there are a fuck ton of pamphlets inside. You can be an expert on this place in half an hour if you’re interested.”

  “Not especially,” he answered. “Where did the rest of the convoy go?”