Cyber Apocalypse (Book 3): As Our World Burns

by Hunt, Jack

“You know we can go. Mom,” Shaun said. “We’re not afraid.”

  She smiled as she placed a hand on his shoulder. “I know you’re not but I need you boys here. We need to keep an eye on this place, look after the families.”

  Danny opened the window and set the solar charger on the ledge so it could charge. Hopefully by the evening they could try it out. “We can take care of ourselves,” Scott added, poking his head into the study. “It’s not all on you, Jodi.”

  “I appreciate that, but do you know how to fire a gun?”

  “Nope.”

  She snorted. “Well then maybe one of my boys can show you.”

  She didn’t want to come across as condescending or as if they knew better. Hell, for a long time she wouldn’t go near a rifle even though she’d learned to fire one from her father. It was Steven’s background in the military that had changed her views. He’d say that it was only as dangerous as the person using it. Once she got her license and put in lots of hours at a range in Colorado, she soon became accustomed to it.

  Danny took Scott outside while Jodi prepared some food.

  Scott’s wife, Nancy walked over and offered to help.

  “You want to turn this place into a safe zone, don’t you?” she asked as Jodi took out some meat to prepare a stew. Meat was one thing they weren’t short on. Pillsbury Lake had no shortage of wild game with Tule elk in the area. They were on the north shore of the lake just at the bottom of Hull Mountain. If it came down to it, they wouldn’t hesitate to head up there and take down a couple.

  Jodi took a butcher’s knife and began hacking through some of the meat on a chopping board. “There’s strength in numbers. I can’t keep an eye on every inch of this property. Gus is right, more will come, and well, maybe if we can find some good people, we can hold out longer.”

  “But how will you know whether they’re good or bad?”

  “How does a company hire the right folk?”

  “A vetting system.”

  “Exactly.”

  “And what criteria would it involve?”

  She pursed her lips and stopped chopping. “Haven’t got to that yet.”

  Nancy laughed.

  The fact was Jodi hadn’t given it enough consideration. Some might have said it would be stupid to invite strangers to her property, especially since they had a good stock of canned goods and meat and they would need to share. Except being a lone wolf only got a person so far. If push came to shove and they were attacked by more than four or five people — skilled individuals — she wanted to be ready.

  “You think these other safe zones are the same? Small communities?”

  “A few are towns. Either way they’re taking a risk inviting people in but what other options do we have? At the rate we’re going, we might have to operate in shifts around the clock. So far no one who’s entered the resort to steal has escaped but we don’t know who’s out there observing us, planning an attack. I want to be ready.”

  “Right, but… well… that means trusting people.”

  “Why do you think I tried so hard to keep some of the families here after the bombing? At least with many of them I knew them from years gone by.”

  “Trust is hard to come by,” Nancy said.

  “That it is,” Jodi replied before yelling out the door to her son. “Ethan, we need more potatoes. Can you run and get some?”

  He nodded and took off.

  That evening the families sat around the table discussing the future of the resort. While she owned the property, it was all of their lives at stake. She wanted input from them, their ideas, not just her own.

  Gus came up with a plan of leading those who responded to their radio broadcast not to the resort but to a campground on the north side of the lake. There would be no mention of where the safe zone was, only that they were looking for individuals who wanted to join a group of survivors. “Less is more,” Gus had said. The less they know, the better. Anyone looking to gain from them would immediately ask what supplies they had over the radio. He figured they would be less inclined to attract troublemakers if they told them upfront they had nothing but were willing to combine their efforts and future resources.

  Jodi gave it a shot.

  Later that evening, she sat down and fired up the ham radio, extended the antenna, and located a frequency in her area.

  “CQ, CQ, calling CQ. This is HYGQ754. That’s Hotel Yankee Golf Quebec seven five four.” No response came back. She turned a dial to change the frequency. Again she said the same thing. This time she got a reply.

  “HYGQ754, I’ve got you loud and clear. This is NBDS482. November Bravo Delta Sierra 482. My name is Thomas.”

  4

  Potters Valley, California

  It was called the pit.

  Long before the bombing of America, rumors of a brutal underground dogfighting event had circled through Mendocino County. A fight to the death involving high-stakes gambling and deep-pocket spectators hungry to see which breed of dog would win. Getting anyone to talk about where it was held was next to impossible as it would have meant a risk of jail time. That’s why he was able to run it for so long. It was savage, cruel, and an uncaring business but it had been Jethro Nash’s bread and butter, his first dip into the underbelly of the criminal life.

  To him, it was a means of survival.

  A way to make a name for himself.

  His cousin had given him the idea after inviting him to observe a backyard brawl. That was the beginning.

  He could still recall it.

  It was raw and sickening, but with few prospects of getting hired as anything more than a factory worker earning minimum wage, he soon delved into the dark side of life.

  At age twenty-two, he’d organized his first event, holding fights on the first of every month at his parents’ farm. With a mother who was wheelchair-bound and a father that had run off with some skank from the valley, there wasn’t anyone to stop him.

  Sure, police were a looming threat but he’d managed to keep them off his trail by using fake locations and anonymous phone tips that just sent them on a wild goose chase. Police would show up at some bogus location and no one would be there. By then his event was over. The only real threat came from disgruntled folks who lost money. The possibility of them squealing was always at the forefront of his mind. Fortunately, no one said anything out of fear of being incriminated themselves.

  Jethro stood inside his parents’ twenty-five-foot high red barn and let his mind drift back. Ah, he relished those days, it was a time when he thought a few thousand in his pocket at the end of the night was a success.

  He couldn’t have been more wrong.

  With more dogs dying in the pit, and it getting harder to steal pets from homes, he knew he’d eventually have to get out of the game, and he did, sliding into the lucrative world of cooking meth.

  He’d always thought dogfighting was good money.

  It was chump change in comparison.

  It didn’t even come close to the thousands he began raking in on a daily basis cooking glass, crystal, shard, you name it — there were a lot of terms going around but to him, it had only one name: money.

  Even though his early ventures into making money were despised by most, he couldn’t help look back fondly at those early days.

  Still, it wasn’t all smooth sailing.

  The day he cooked up the first batch, he nearly burned the house down. A few tweaks to the recipe, some new equipment and he was back in business. The next batch didn’t explode but it was shit, low class, bottom of the barrel. A dark brown in color that screamed amateur. Certainly not worthy of the crystal glass he was now selling but that was the beauty of the meth industry, users weren’t exactly picky. All they cared about was the high, and he gave it to them.

  That first batch sold out within two days and then he moved on to the next.

  He started low, pricing himself below market value.

  It was fast to make, and for a time no one else was involve
d in the cook to ensure no one squealed, plus, he was able to get most of the ingredients from the local store which meant more profits for him.

  Of course he never tried the crap.

  Who in their right mind would snort, swallow, huff, inject or smoke a recipe that included liquid drain cleaner, paint thinner, and lithium from batteries? And that was just a sliver of the muck that went into producing meth. Watching tweakers destroy their bodies just to escape reality for eight to twenty-four hours was insane. Humanity truly was crazy, but if he didn’t cook and sell it, someone else would so he was more than happy to profit from their stupidity.

  At first, clients were local tweakers, folks who worked paycheck to paycheck.

  Though soon he worked his way up to the big buyers as his skills in cooking improved. As each batch got clearer and better, the demand became greater.

  He thrived on the feedback.

  This is like gold.

  So smooth.

  I’ve never had a better high.

  He felt proud of his accomplishments. In a matter of five years, he’d all but taken over the distribution of meth in Mendocino County, at least that’s what he thought until he received a visit from an outlaw motorcycle gang, the Brothers of Mayhem.

  It seemed word had got around that he was driving business away from them and just like anyone pushed into a corner they reacted and came looking for their cut.

  He remembered that day like it was yesterday.

  The spike of fear.

  In no uncertain terms they told him he could either work for them or swallow a bullet.

  Now, Jethro didn’t consider himself a stupid man so he accepted their offer on one condition — he got a cut of everything they distributed outside of the county. He knew he was pushing his luck and there was a chance they would kill him but he figured he’d already demonstrated his value and it made better business sense to keep him alive.

  A moment of debate.

  A few angry gestures tossed his way and then they agreed.

  Of course, it was a shit cut but it was better than nothing.

  He got to live, continue business and the upside was he received the protection of a gang notorious for violence. That worked in his favor. Once word got out that he had their backing, no one tried to challenge him. They didn’t want the heat.

  Hell, no one wanted to face the leader of the gang, Rudy Somers, aka Maniac.

  Jethro glanced at his watch.

  He was preparing to head out when he received the bad news.

  His brow furrowed. “He’s what?”

  “Dead,” Earl said after entering the barn out of breath and sweating.

  Earl was one of several cooks he’d hired and trusted with his recipe. A close friend, an even better partner. Jethro had told him if he ever tried to go against him or compete with him, he wouldn’t think twice about killing him. “And the stash?” Jethro asked.

  That was all he cared about.

  “Gone.”

  Jethro balled his hands into fists.

  “Everything?”

  He nodded.

  “Fuck!” He felt a ball in his stomach, stress-related ulcers. “Get over to the east side and check on—”

  Earl cut him off. “Already went there. They’re gone, Jethro. Burned to the ground. Nothing left.”

  As if someone had slapped him in the face, Jethro snapped and grabbed Earl by the throat and threw him to the ground. “Then how the fuck did you survive?”

  Earl was meant to have been at the northern meth lab in charge of a cook with two others. He tried to speak but Jethro was squeezing his neck too tight. He released it for a second. “I stepped out, went into the forest to relieve myself. I heard gunfire but by the time I returned there was nothing but smoke. I tried, Jethro, I really did try to save the product but it was an inferno. I couldn’t get close enough.”

  He stared into his eyes, trying to determine if he was telling the truth.

  “Did you see them? Huh? Did you see who did this?”

  He nodded. “Four guys and a girl. Joe was one of them.”

  “Joe? Liam’s friend?”

  He nodded.

  Jethro released his grip, kicked a bucket across the barn, and cursed.

  “Are all the labs gone?”

  Earl sat up, rubbing his red throat. “Yeah.”

  “Shit.” All that product. It wasn’t just the loss of earnings; it was the ingredients and time involved. Replenishing it now after the events that had happened would be near impossible. The situation was spiraling out of control and fast. He looked down at his watch. They weren’t expecting Rudy for two more days. It would take less than twenty-four hours to produce a batch. There was no way in hell he could produce the volume of product they expected at that time but they might be able to produce a small batch. Anything was better than nothing.

  “Are you sure? Did you check the south?”

  “No.”

  “Let’s go,” he said, hurrying toward the door with six of his pals, guys he’d known since he was in his twenties, trustworthy and loyal. If at least one of the labs was still intact they might be able to cook up a few batches. They all got onto ATVs and dirt bikes and peeled out, hurrying through the hilly countryside toward the south. It didn’t take long before he saw smoke rising above the trees. Jethro clenched his jaw and increased the speed of the dirt bike as he darted in and out of the trees and burst out into the clearing where the fourth RV was at. He almost lost control as he swerved and took in the sight of the blaze. Nearby were the bodies of those he’d trained and trusted. They were his closest partners, his oldest friends. An overwhelming rage welled inside him.

  Even though Earl had said the other labs were destroyed he had to see it for himself. Over the next few hours he went from one lab to the next, his anger escalating with each visit.

  Jethro berated himself.

  He should have killed Tate and Joe at the same time as Travis. He regretted getting involved with them in the first place.

  As hot orange flames reflected in his eyes, he knew Rudy wouldn’t understand. They had little patience for those who didn’t deliver. He’d already pushed his luck and missed one deadline because of the event, he couldn’t risk another.

  The thought of fleeing the county crossed his mind but where would he go? The nation was in a dire state and he’d spent years of his life developing connections, building a name for himself, and creating this enterprise. He couldn’t go backward. Not now. Not ever.

  He turned toward Earl and those that stood with him.

  “Do you want us to find Joe?” Earl asked.

  He clenched his jaw, watching money go down the drain. “Not yet. Find me more product. If he wants to burn down my operations, let’s give him the opportunity to try again. This time we’ll be waiting for him.”

  “But…”

  “But what?” He gritted his teeth and then bellowed for them to leave. “Go. What are you waiting for?” The men hurried away. Dirt bikes and ATVs growled to life and buzzed as they zipped into the forest, leaving him alone with his anxious thoughts.

  After successfully burning down Jethro’s enterprise, Liam thought he’d feel better. He didn’t. Stepping inside Harry’s surplus store, he surveyed the mess. Weeks later, it looked far worse than it had on the day they found him dead. Colorful graffiti lined the walls, someone had defecated in a corner and the place smelled like urine. Harry would have rolled over in his grave to see the place like this.

  Elisha had wanted him to return to the house but he couldn’t, not yet, not until he had taken care of Jethro.

  He stood there, alone, a shell of his former self.

  Like hearing a voice from the past, his mind flashed back to when he was a kid, the first time he entered Forest City Surplus and saw Harry.

  Back then he looked like a giant, a huge mountain of a man who was serious one minute and would burst into laughter the next.

  Snapshots came back.

  A warm summer’s day.<
br />
  Chewing on a burger as his grandfather shot the breeze with the old-timer.

  He recalled Travis sitting out back, stocking a shelf, minding his own business.

  “Wanna give me a hand?” Travis had said, turning toward him.

  He’d shrugged. “Sure.”

  It was as simple as that. Two kids, similar in age, yet heading down different paths.

  He could have never imagined it would end here.

  Not like this.

  A cold wind blew through the doorway, snapping him out of the past.

  Liam sniffed and wiped his face with the back of his sleeve before descending into the bunker below the store. He gazed at the location where Harry’s body was found. Dried blood marked the spot. He could have washed it away but he didn’t. He wouldn’t. Not until it was over.

  Burning the labs was just the tip of the iceberg, he planned to make Jethro suffer.

  Liam squinted and crouched, seeing something he hadn’t noticed before. Sticking out beneath loose newspapers was a faded black wallet. He scooped it up and looked inside. There was no money, just a few debit and credit cards, and a crinkled photo.

  The snapshot was of Harry and Arlene, when they were younger, standing outside the store. Sandwiched between them, Harry’s hand resting on his head, Arlene’s on his shoulder was Travis. He couldn’t have been more than nine years of age. How was it possible that innocence like that could be stolen?

  He couldn’t get their deaths out of his mind. The sight of Travis hanging from the rafters, or the bullet in the back of Harry. None of it seemed to make sense anymore. He’d lost his parents, his best friend, everyone he’d ever cared about. All that remained was sorrow and a handful of memories.

  Alone, he dropped to his knees, tears pooled in his eyes.

  He’d always considered himself a strong person, but one person could only handle so much. “Liam?” Elisha called out from above before climbing down the steel ladder. Before she made it in, he wiped his eyes and got up, trying not to show weakness.

  “I thought you went back?” he said.

  “And leave you alone?”