Apocalypse Drift

Apocalypse Drift

by

Joe Nobody

Copyright © 201
3-2014

Kemah Bay Marketing L
LC.

All rights reserved.

Edited by:

E. T.
Ivester

Contributors:

D. Hall

D. Allen

www.holdingyourground.com

Other Books by Joe Nobody:

- Holding Your Ground: Preparing for Defense if it All Falls Apart

- The TEOTWAWKI Tuxedo: Formal Survival Attire

- Without Rule of Law: Advanced Skill to Help You Survive

- The Home Schooled Shootist – Training to fight with a carbine

- Holding Their Own: A Story of Survival

- Holding Their Own II: The Independents

- Holding Their Own III: Pedestals of Ash

This is a work of fiction. Characters and events are products of the author’s imagination, and no relationship to any living person is implied. The locations, facilities, and geographical references are based upon factual research, but set in a fictional environment.

From the Author

While this is a work of fiction, references to monetary policy,
US federal budgets, the money supply, and general economics are accurate to the best of my knowledge. As I started researching this work, my intent was merely to provide a believable backdrop for a post-Apocalyptic novel, as well as a plausible resolution. As I delved deeper into the subject matter of federal revenue sources, budgeting, the Federal Reserve System and tax collections, I was forced to take the subject matter seriously.

Henry Ford is credited with saying, “
It is well that the people of the nation do not understand our banking and monetary system, for if they did, I believe there would be a revolution before tomorrow morning." After my research, I think he was spot on.

After months of extensive investigation, I have yet to find a single explanation why the solutions postulated in this book wouldn’t benefit our country today. The math is real. The numbers are real. Of course, you, the reader will be the final judge regarding the efficacy of the suggested resolution.

Joe Nobody

Virginia Countryside

November
2016

The vast majority of leaves had fallen early this year, covering the forest floor with uneven ripples of burnt orange and soiled brown. Bare limbs and branches exposed the Virginia sky, now a bleached, cobalt gray, peppered with low rolling clouds – formations that a vivid imagination might paint as the ribs of some giant, heavenly beast. The steely sky and hibernating forest outside closely mimicked the uninviting atmosphere inside the van. Colorless, cold and practically devoid of sound, two men sat in silence, keeping vigil.

The minivan was about as dirt plain and common as it could be. Other than the darker-than-usual tint on the side panels of glass, there was nothing significant or noteworthy about the vehicle. It was like millions of such cars
driven every day by families all across America. Even the color had been carefully selected – paint that appeared gold, or perhaps brown, maybe even tan in different light. The nondescript transport would be difficult for any witness to describe, let alone pinpoint an identifying characteristic.

Of Asian descent, the
sentinels were in their mid-twenties and in excellent physical condition. Both wore custom-tailored suit jackets, complete with hand-sewn pleats to accommodate the holstered pistols beneath. Each man wore tight calfskin gloves that hadn’t been removed since leaving their hotel room that morning. This was a precaution born purely of habit, since neither man’s fingerprints were stored in any database, foreign or domestic. Both wanted to keep it that way, and besides, the gloves provided minimal warmth against the colder than normal November dusk.

The tone of a cell phone disturbed the calm. The prepaid, featureless unit had been purchased at a drugstore less than three hours ago with cash. The driver glanced at the device and pressed the green button, immediately moving the speaker to his ear.

“Five minutes,” a male voice said in Mandarin.

The driver hit the red button, ending the call and then nodded at his passenger.

Precisely four minutes later, the van started. Making sure the headlights were switched off, the driver pulled the shift lever and slowly rolled down the abandoned, gravel lane where they were lurking.

A short distance in front of them laid the crest of a rise. Four hundred meters further and down a gradual slope, a blacktop county road wound its way through the remote countryside. The driver stopped the van just as the pavement came into view.

Right on time, the roadway below was illuminated by the glow of headlights, soon followed by a passing white Honda sedan. A few seconds later, the van pulled onto the asphalt, allowing for a suitable expanse of time and distance. 

Hugging the shadows, the van tailed the white car. The operators knew exactly where the vehicle was going, who was driving, and why it was heading to the remote farmhouse. In fact, they knew practically everything about the young lady who steered the compact car through the rural countryside. Their purpose tonight was to add one remaining piece of critical information to her extensive dossier.

Susan Wilkes zipped around the curves a little faster than normal. The traffic from Fairfax had been atrocious, and she detested arriving at the farm after the sun set. Lee would join her later, having the longer journey from Alexandria.

The thought of Lee’s inevitable grumbling about traffic gridlock actually put a smile on her lips. When she reached the country house, she would heat water and set out the makings for tea. A steaming cup of ginseng brew would serve to mellow both of them after the hectic workweek and stressful commute to
escape the city. The twenty-something computer specialist could barely believe her luck. She felt a sense of optimism that Lee might be Mr. Right. Until recently, Susie’s dates had been with Mr. Right Now.

Maneuvering through the next curve, she recalled the first time Lee invited her to this retreat. Even though they had been dating for several weeks, she was cautious in accepting his offer. She couldn’t help but hope that ultimately Lee and she would share a more permanent commitment. Was it too early for the two of them to spend a romantic weekend alone?

Initially, she’d considered it odd that such a metropolitan guy needed to “get away from it all and enjoy the fresh air of the countryside.” It seemed unusual that such an experienced, well-traveled representative of a major Chinese trade organization would choose a rural property for a we
ekend sanctuary. His confessed love of horses was the clincher, the shy admission being both boyish and romantic. Growing up, Susie had always been fascinated by all things equestrian. Now she’d found someone who rekindled those childhood dreams. The wistful expression on her face betrayed her realization, “
A guy like that doesn’t come along every day
.”

Susie hoped that a relationship based on their shared interests would overcome Lee’s traditional expectations of her. 

She understood Lee’s perspective was based on the incongruence between her progressive spirit and her physical appearance. “You’re a paradox,” he once told her. “You look and move like the most beautiful Chinese girl I’ve ever seen, yet you act, think and speak like an American.”

“I’m an American,” she had responded in her best country accent.
“One hundred percent born and bred. If you’re looking for one of those subservient Asian girls, you’re barking up the wrong tree, cowboy.”

Susie’s mother escaped China as a teenage girl in 1989. Her grandparents were political dissidents, and the Catholic Church
had smuggled the family out of the country. A short time later, The United States granted asylum to the refugees.

Susie’s father was an American who met and fell in love with her mother in a college freshman English course. The two waited until after graduation to exchange vows, their first child debuting about a year later. With almond-shaped, mocha eyes and silky dark tresses, there was no doubt of Susan Li Wilkes’ ancestry. Her mother’s contribution to the gene pool dominated the girl’s physical features, her slight build, and creamy skin indicative of generations of striking oriental women. Her father wasn’t completely left out of her DNA sequence - Sue’s strong-willed streak of independence being attributed to his influence.

Growing up in the suburbs of the nation’s capital, Susie populated her slight expanse of urban sprawl with three rescued pups, a tabby cat, and two hamsters. Remembering an elementary school field trip to a working farm, she could still picture the beautiful horses that were the highlight of the outing. Then there had been Maryon, a college roommate whose family owned a stable. Sue smiled broadly, thinking about that summer spent riding and caring for the steeds. It had been hard, sweaty work, but she had loved every minute of it.

A stop sign made her focus on the here and now. After passing through the intersection, she wondered why she had ignored the interest since. “Life,” she said to herself, “Life came rolling along and didn’t leave time. Graduation…career…no time left to think about horses.” 

A short distance from the farm, Susie's mind drifted to an oft-visited subject – the possibility of a long-term future with Lee. Strikingly handsome, business savvy, and generous to a fault, he liked to surprise her with little gifts for no apparent reason. Never before had she met a man with whom she had so much in common. Susie had been waiting for a table at her favorite restaurant when Lee struck up a conversation with her. Turned out he was a fan of nouvelle cuisine, too. Sue was learning ink-and-wash landscape painting – a collection of the same artistic genre graced the walls of Lee’s apartment. 

“I never thought I would find someone who shared so many of my interests,” she whispered to herself. “Maybe this is a sign that we are destined to be together.” Before she could finish the thought, the brown and green mailbox announcing the farm’s driveway came into the distant glow of the headlights.

Susie flipped on her turn signal despite the isolation, slowly negotiating the driveway.

Nestled in the foothills of the easternmost Appalachian Mountains, the farm was 40 acres of light forest and rolling meadow. The white clapboard home sported a
broad, front porch, complete with a set of green metal chairs. Three huge oaks sprawled across the front yard, a few of the massive branches easy candidates for a rope swing. To the rear of the home sat a large barn, accented with a traditional metal roof and fire engine red paint. Whitewashed picket fences faded off into the dusk beyond the range of the Honda’s headlights. A single florescent bulb, mounted high on a telephone pole, created a broad circle of light, shining down on the pebbly drive and parking area.

Susie parked in her usual spot and dug in her purse for the keys. She hit the button to open the trunk and retrieved the small overnight bag that held all her needs for the weekend. One of the horses whinnied from the barn, no doubt hearing the activity by the house.

For a moment, Sue was tempted to go to the barn first. It was probably Baygirl who had sounded off – the chestnut mare being her favorite.
No
, she thought,
I’ll give her an apple later. Right now, I want to change out of these clothes and heat the tea water before Lee gets here.

Susie retrieved her bag and slung it alongside her purse. As she strolled toward the back door, the slight noise of a shoe scuffing on gravel startled her. She started to turn toward the sound when the world went black.

“Lee” had actually been at the farmhouse all that day. His name wasn’t Lee; he didn’t work for any import business, and he wasn’t from Washington. He
was
Chinese. Lee opened the back door, glad the waiting was finally over, this long mission near its end.

The two men from the van carried Susie into the kitchen via armpits and ankles, the slight girl’s weight hardly perceptible to either man. They headed to the master bedroom and ungraciously
flopped the young woman onto the double bed. A sheet of plastic had been spread across the otherwise bare mattress; four strands of nylon cord were used to secure her limbs to the corners.

“She will wake in approximately ten minutes,” informed the passenger from the van. “Her head will clear. You should administer the first injection before she is conscious for the best effect.”

The driver nodded to the bedside table where a black bag rested, its sinister contents appearing out of place in contrast to the crisp, white lace doily. “Use no more than 4mg of the serum every six hours or her heart will stop. The needles are an extra fine gauge so the puncture will be difficult to detect. Remember to use the salve on each jab immediately afterwards. She is healthy, so evidence of the injections should resolve quickly.”

Lee nodded his understanding, and without further conversation, the men left the house. Lee watched as the first man drove off in Susie’s Honda. He was immediately followed
by his associate, driving the van. They pulled out of the driveway without even a backward glance.

Returning to the master, Lee picked up a syringe and drew
3mg of a brownish liquid into the tube. He lifted Susie’s skirt to mid-thigh and injected the entire dose into the muscle of her leg. He placed the needle back on the table and then moved a chair to the bedside, waiting on the results of his handiwork.