by J. P. Castle
Contents
Copyright Disclaimer
Dedication
Prologue
A Glimpse of Life in 2085
CHAPTER ONE The Beginning of the End
CHAPTER TWO The First Murder
CHAPTER THREE Choppers Over Dillon
CHAPTER FOUR Packrats
CHAPTER FIVE The Return
CHAPTER SIX Hidden Files
CHAPTER SEVEN Roadblock
CHAPTER EIGHT Reflection
CHAPTER NINE Cheyenne, Wyoming
CHAPTER TEN Calamity
CHAPTER ELEVEN Cleanup
CHAPTER TWELVE Chicago, Illinois
CHAPTER THIRTEEN The Doghouse
CHAPTER FOURTEEN The Second Wave
CHAPTER FIFTEEN Four-Star General Atticus Scott
CHAPTER SIXTEEN Mama's Boy
CHAPTER SEVENTEEN Bad News
CHAPTER EIGHTEEN Road Warriors
CHAPTER NINETEEN Air Assault
CHAPTER TWENTY The Dinner
CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE Grave Diggers
CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO Kisses 'n Lies
CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE The Breakup
CHAPTER TWENTY-FOUR Last Minutes
Final Battle Positions
CHAPTER TWENTY-FIVE Out of Time
CHAPTER TWENTY-SIX The Wounded
Character Descriptions
Upcoming
Author
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Photo Credits
Copyright © 2020 by J. P. Castle
All rights reserved.
No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system,
or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic, mechanical,
photocopying, recording, or otherwise, without written permission by J. P.
Castle, except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical articles
and reviews. Information regarding permission may be emailed to
[email protected]
Castle, J.P.
18 From Breckenridge / by J.P. Castle - 1st ed.
p. cm.
Cover design and creation by J. P. Castle
Book layout by J. P. Castle
Summary: By 2085, mankind has laid waste to planet Earth, society is on the
brink of collapse. Privileged junior Bastian Ballentine and the rest of the
Breckenridge 18 struggle to escape certain death after their town is besieged.
Fierce romantic entanglements, hardship, and loss complicate their lives
further in a world decimated by overpopulation and climate change.
This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, businesses, places, events,
locales, and incidents are either the products of the author’s imagination
or used in a fictitious manner. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or
dead, or actual events is purely coincidental.
Published by Royal Haven Press, an imprint of J. P. Castle Books.
ISBN-13: 978-1-952621-00-0
www.JPCastleBooks.com
Printed in the U.S.A.
Dedication
To my eighth grade English and Typing teacher,
Mrs. Beverly Heidorn, thank you for inspiring me to write.
Prologue
IF YOU WANT to be with Rani, I’m sure you two can work things out. I never tried to interfere. I never asked for any of this. Let’s—”
Before Troian could finish her sentence, Bastian stopped what he was doing and clutched the back of her hair in his hand, the same way he had in the park. Troian assumed he held her to kiss her again, but he didn’t. His nose sifted through her hair, parting the silky strands. He smelled her, breathed her. Even through the dense smoke, he recognized her unique aroma. The same scent he recalled from the other fleeting moments they’d been this close together. I may never hold you, touch you, or taste your lips again, either one of you, he thought.
He pulled away.
“That’s just it though, Troian, I don’t think I wanna be with Rani. Give me time to sort it all out in my head,” he said with an odd, almost frightening expression on his face. Eyes ready to dance with the devil.
Right now, he had to put the pain of love out of his mind. Right now, he prepared himself to kill, kill the enemy that destroyed his life, his first love, and his family. Girard’s trapped us with no way out this time. He won’t have me without a fight, and I’ll never let him take me alive.
His mind wrestled, trying to calculate General Given’s moves, which proved difficult in the middle of the firestorm with a fever heating up his brain.
“We’re out of time. I hear a chopper,” he said, slamming a clip into the gun. “They’re here. This is it.”
He swallowed.
A Glimpse of Life in 2085 . . .
IN THE END, no zombie apocalypse, alien invasion, or nuclear war compromised mankind . . . at least not yet. Human greed crossed the finish line first. Arrogance and sheer ignorance tied for second and third. These three competitors drained the lifeblood of the planet, with no speedy fix left to tidy up the dirty deeds of generations past.
Green organizations, scientists, and other scholars coordinated mass protests for years, decades even. Their fervent pleas to implement change ignored. Government assemblies, as well as other skeptics, banded together to brand these “types”—fanatics.
By 2079, the military enforced a mandate to move large swaths of community inland. Anyone within nineteen miles of the shoreline had to vacate the premises, while the sea finished swallowing up vast amounts of property. Twenty-seven thousand square miles of land and roadway lay wasted underwater—lost forever—due to the melted poles.
Mass migration, no longer a hypothetical theory foretold by scientists—materialized . . . over thirty million residents to be exact. Some of the displaced families resettled with the Relocation Plan of 2081; however, program funds dried up by 2083. The concentration of humans and waste increased.
Crooked corporations continued to treat oceans as their private landfills. Several times per year, currents hauled in plastic tides. Titanic amounts of debris washed ashore; multiple aquatic breaches followed. The constant bombardment of toxic material poisoned marine life, which in turn, poisoned humans.
Big Ben refused drastic measures necessary to preserve resources, stop climate change, or control population growth. Those changes would’ve decreased bottom-line profits. Fossil fuels lined an array of pockets for centuries. No way those in charge would give up their overabundant lifestyles to ensure a sustainable future for generations to come.
All legislative efforts failed to improve the human condition. The planet continued to heat up with the plethora of people. In 2082, the seven most powerful nations in the world created an elite branch of global government, the Population Control Group.
The PCG, known exclusively to those in the highest positions of authority, decided the fate of humanity. Seven individuals considered various statistical reports and ideas received from the smartest scholars in each of their respective countries.
No easy solution presented before them. During the final stint of many secluded discussions, they all voted unanimously to implement—Operation Red Fang.
Let the bodies fall where they may.
CHAPTER ONE
The Beginning of the End
Friday, August 6th, 2085
ARMY MAJOR GENERAL Girard Given stepped off the private jet and made his way across the wet tarmac. Summoned to the White House on short notice, must be bad. I haven’t broken any major protocols, lately anyway. Only twice in my en
tire career have I faced the President of the United States—alone. Neither time included casual conversation over beer and pizza.
Secret Service escorted the General to the White House and into the Oval office. President Barnes slid a teal blue classified folder off to the side of his desk, removed his reading glasses, then motioned security to leave. He’d eagerly awaited the General’s arrival all morning.
General Given admired the magnificence of the well-manicured room. From the ivory-colored architecture on the ceiling to the pristine, olive drapes, nothing was out of place. Not one speck of dust lay on the polished cherry desk. The President’s dog, a Cocker Spaniel named Ozzie, lay quietly in a cozy bed beside the desk.
“Major General Given, hope your flight wasn’t too bumpy. I’m told a little weather is heading our way.”
“Hello, Mr. President. The flight was smooth, sir. No issues, not even through the electrical storm. Thank you for asking.”
“That’s good to hear. Have a seat.” The President sighed. A hint of stress echoed in his deep raspy voice. He pulled an aged bottle of whiskey from the bottom drawer of his desk.
General Given maintained a neutral expression as the President carried two whiskey tumblers from a nearby shelf. Never seen him drink before. This is a first.
“This bottle is about as old as I am. I was saving it for a special occasion. I don’t think I’ll be having one of those anytime soon,” he said, moving to sit down on the floral-patterned sofa opposite of General Given. He poured each a healthy third of a glass and continued.
“Large scale economies, as ours is, produce more products. Keeps exports flying out. Money rolling in. Creates lots of jobs, yes indeed, lots of jobs. More people equal more consumption, then more production to meet the need . . . it’s a more, more, more cycle, ever-growing. Never stops growing.
“I’ve done my absolute best to balance it all through two terms”—he paused to shake his head—"but we’ve outgrown ourselves. Five-hundred thousand are born daily worldwide. Can you believe that number? Five-hundred thousand. Only two-hundred thousand dies. . . tipping those scales a little more toward the point of no return each day. Since 1900, the U.S. population has doubled every sixty-four years.”
General Given listened. He sipped his whiskey, never breaking eye contact. Yes, the numbers are staggering, mind-blowing, but where’s he going with this? What’s this got to do with me?
“Right now, 650 million U.S. citizens compete daily for a dwindling cache of supplies. Many face survival challenges, the poorest feed their families seafood. A last-ditch effort to avoid starvation. We both know the price they’ll pay for eating from the ocean.”
General Given shifted in his seat and cleared his throat. “Yes, sir, we do.”
“We’ve packed them in like sewer rats above ground, below ground, can’t fit any more. Not since the ocean crept in on us. Two years ago, I outlawed individual graves. Mandated all cities to use mass burial sites or cremation. I’m sure you remember the stir that caused. I tried to free up more agricultural land for food production.
“Problem is . . . generations of pesticide residue entrenched deep within the soil won’t allow the crops to grow. The fields that do still produce are heavy laden with cancer-causing chemicals. The budget can no longer treat the government-aided medical patients in every community, much less feed them.
“Society refuses to listen. All they care about is he said she said. The rest abuse government programs and continue breeding out of control. Electric cars did curb smog and emissions somewhat, but it’s too late for further environmental enhancements. The forests can’t even regrow fast enough to replace the continual housing losses. It’s one disaster after another. It’s not just us either. Other countries are in the same boat, even worse off than we are in some aspects.”
President Barnes poured himself another drink. General Given declined a refill and slow nursed the smooth gut rot.
Is he waiting for me to say something? “Mr. President, with all due respect, I’m not sure where you’re going with this, sir.”
“The Agricultural Dept. informed me two weeks ago, that we are currently tapping our reserve grain stores daily to keep the nation afloat. There’s an eight-month supply left before non-discriminating starvation ravages every state in the Nation.
“Imports have all but stopped thanks to virally contaminated food chains, and we’re no longer able to produce enough here to support ourselves. We’re all going to starve to death. It won’t be a matter of who can afford food and who can’t. There just won’t be any.
“Besides overpopulation, harsh droughts out west now for decades, fires, and heavy flooding have ruined us . . . all from climate change . . . and there won’t be any significant harvest this year. Bird flu, Swine flu, and Mad Cow disease have crippled the meat markets. Hell, a man can’t even get a glass of water without twenty or thirty trace chemicals in it. We’ve reached the end of the trail.
“I and a handful of others are tight lipping this frightful information. Its release would merely nourish uncontrollable mayhem. Only the highest-ranking people in the Nation know the Intel I’m about to share with you. Congress will receive the news as it unfolds, same as the general public. We absolutely can’t risk those bickering fools screwing up the plan. What I’m saying is . . . it’s time to cull the herd.”
Haven’t heard that phrase since I left my family’s ranch thirty years ago to join up, thought General Given.
“We’ve selected you, General, to head the operation for a variety of reasons. You will report to your superiors and directly to me.”
He can’t be serious about the picture I’m painting in my brain right now. “Cull the herd, sir? How many, sir? How many are we talking about?” said General Given.
The President rose from the sofa and stared out the window behind his desk. The stout liquor eased the visuals floating through his head. He envisioned the panic, dead bodies, and being called a murderer—the soon to be stain on his legacy if word got out. His mind drifted. The lush greens in the courtyard are so beautiful this time of year. He marveled at a robin feeding the young tucked safely inside her nest. Funny, I don’t believe any other species consume or breed more than humans, he thought.
“How’s little, Frankie? He’s two now, isn’t he?” said the President.
“Yes, sir, he’s healthy and active. Keeps my wife busy, which is what she needs after the loss of our oldest son two years ago. Frankie’s been a true blessing for us both, especially at our age. Forty-eight’s pushing it to start over,” said General Given.
“Frankie will never replace Finn, but I’m happy you’ve had an opportunity to raise another son. Your family, my family, everything we love depends on the outcome of this operation. I can’t stress that enough.”
The President turned away from the window and directed his attention back to his desk. He picked up the classified folder he’d sat down earlier and handed it to General Given.
“The number’s 400 million, General.”
“Four”—General Given nearly choked on his drink, certain he’d misunderstood what the President just implied—“hundred million, sir?” He shifted position on the sofa again, and unconsciously slid his hand through the side of his silver-streaked hair.
“Every precaution must be taken to ensure this mission remains top-secret. I don’t need to elaborate on what would happen to our families, and us, if a credible leak were encountered. Of course, we both know the usual conspiracy theorists will be spouting off online to anyone that will listen. That’s fine, so long as there is zero proof to back their claims. The fate of the Nation presently lies with you.
“As a younger man, I imagined from time to time some version of this day might eventually come. I never imagined I’d be the one giving the order, not once. When I got into politics early on, all I ever wanted to do was make a difference. Make the world a better place.
“I never thought to make the world a better place, we’d have to kill o
ver half of the global population. The planet needs time to heal. Everything you need is in that file. Operation Red Fang is to begin in two weeks under your command without delay. It’s time to hit the global reset button.”
TWO WEEKS LATER
Friday, August 17th, 2085
“I SHOULD’VE DOUBLE-checked the lab before we left. Caleb hardly ever remembers his assignments. How could he possibly remember an extra food container? No one wants to be stuck out in the wilderness for three days without plenty of grub. Come on, Bastian, you can ride back to town with me and keep me company,” said Mr. Seng, Summit High School’s favorite Chemistry teacher. He hummed some ancient tune unfamiliar to Bastian.
“Great,” Bastian muttered under his breath. He scouted around for Caleb, who’d conveniently vanished on arrival. “Sure, Mr. Seng, no problem. Let’s go,” he said in a respectful tone.
Bastian Ballentine—Summit High Schools motocross and sports hero—generally kept a different type of company. His jock buddies for starters. Fellow teammates always surrounded him unless his latest girlfriend, Rani Davenport, demanded attention. But right now, he sat trapped in the school van alone with Mr. Seng.
Each year the Science Club, including freshman through senior members, headed off to Dillon Reservoir, fifteen minutes outside of Breckenridge, Colorado. Members camped over the weekend, bonded, and set goals for the year ahead.
Caleb, you’re so lucky we’re tight friends dude because I’d really, genuinely love to choke you right about now. I could be sitting by that warm fire, snuggled up next to Rani . . . listening to her complain about—whatever. What am I gonna talk to Mr. Seng about for this forty-minute round trip? And why did he pick me to go when you’re the one that forgot the stupid container.
Mr. Seng continued to hum, making sure he didn’t drive one mile per hour over the posted speed limit signs.
“Bastian, someday when you buy a vehicle, whatever you do . . . do not buy a V8 equivalent. I can practically watch the gauge drain the electric while we drive. At least it’s a short drive. We’ll be back in no time. Why I bet Rani’s fixin’ us all some burgers right now,” he said.
