Dux Bellorum (Future History of America Book 3) (66 page)

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 and 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.

"I've known the undersheriff—Tom Dixon—longer than you've been alive. He's the son of old Sam Dixon.
 
Sam was an old friend of mine from the army.
 
When Spike showed up at the front door wearin' Tommy’s uniform…I knew it meant nothing good."
 
He sighed, rubbing his temples.
 

"I was too damn old to do anything about it. His men took your parents at the same time. We didn't have a chance to send a warning. All the houses nearby got hit
 
about the same time.”
 
The old man shook his head.
 

"Spike thinks he's some kind of king or something."

This shit has gone medieval.
 
He clenched his jaw.
 
By God, two can play at that game.

Erik sniffed and wiped his face.
 
He raised his eyes and stared at the Colonel.
 
"How many men does this 'Spike' have?"
 

"Son, you won't find anything good thinking those thoughts."
 
He shook his head and looked out the window again.
 
"It ain't no good.
 
The people from town tried a while back.
 
I saw 'em and tried to reason with them, but they wouldn't listen.
 
Told ‘em they were outnumbered and out-gunned.
 
They didn’t care." He sighed.
 

"I heard a lot of gunfire and when I went out to check what happened, they were gone.
 
Just a few bodies on the ground—everyone else was gone."

"Where?" Erik wheezed.

The old man shrugged.
 
"Probably back to the fort, way I figure it.
 
He takes all his prisoners there.
 
Got himself a little town set up outside the gates.
 
It's crazy.
 
They call it Shanty Town."
 
He looked down at his hands.
 

"If I had just a company of my old boys from the war…by God we'd give 'em hell."
 
He met Erik's eyes.
 
"That sumbitch damn sure needs to be taught a lesson," he raised liver-spotted hand.
 
"But don't get any ideas.
 
You'd need—"

"How about a Force Recon marine?"
 
Erik watched the Colonel's mouth open in surprise.
 
"Weapons?
 
Ammunition?"

The old man nodded.
 
"That's surely a start.
 
How many you got?"

"How many does Spike have?"

The old man smiled.
 
"Smart boy.
 
Never give up your cards.
 
You don't know that I'm not working for Spike…heh, heh.
 
Is that it?"

Erik held the older man's gaze.
 
"I
do
know you’re not with him.
 
You'd never work for him, sir.
 
You took an oath—I've heard you tell my father I don't know how many times—to preserve and defend the Constitution and you take that oath seriously."

A slow smile spread across the old man's wrinkled face.
 
"You're right about me, Erik.
 
I'm just too damn old to do anything about it."

"Do you know how many men he has?"

"Yes.
 
My last count was 29.
 
But he picks up new recruits wherever he raids.
 
There's always someone out there willing to throw away their humanity for some food and a piece of ass."

Erik crossed his arms.
 
"See?
 
You're already helping."

The Colonel shook his head.
 
"Ain't no use, son.
 
There's too many—and they hold the fort.
 
That would be a tough nut to crack in the best of times.
 
There's a reason it's still here after hundreds of years."

Erik frowned.
 
"So what options do I have?
 
Run away?"

"If you want to live."
 
The old man looked around.
 
"If you call this living."

Erik shook his head.
 
"I can't do that.
 
My friends and I—we've been running away for a thousand miles.
 
We've seen more death and destruction than I ever want to think about.
 
I'm tired of running.
 
This is my home."

"I'm not going to convince you this is a bad idea, am I?" asked the Colonel.

"No, sir."
 
Erik paused.
 
"My parents…"

"They wouldn't want you to throw your life away on revenge."

Erik shook his head.
 
"No they wouldn't.
 
But I don't plan on dying here, either."

"No one ever does."
 
The old man regarded Erik for a long moment.
 
Finally he put both hands on the table and stood up.
 
"Well, if you're set on doing something foolish, the least I can do is give you what help I can."
 

He shuffled through the trash on the floor and rummaged through a pile next to the fridge.
 
Muttering to himself, he produced three long pieces of paper rolled up into tubes and brought them back to the table.
 
He dumped the papers out and stood back smiling.

"What's this?" Erik asked, unrolling the first tube.
 
"Maps?"

"Yeah.
 
I've had these for years.
 
Always planned on getting them framed and putting them in my office."
 
He waved the idea away.
 
"Doesn't matter.
 
I've done some tactical reconnaissance in the past month.”
 
He crossed his arms.
 

“I wanted to know what I was up against.
 
But when I found out just how strong Spike was, I gave up on the idea but couldn't bear to get rid of these.
 
I showed them to the folks from town, but they weren’t impressed."

“Well I am.”
 
Erik looked at the first map, showing elevations for the area immediately around the fort.
 
"This is some pretty detailed information."

The Colonel grunted.
 
"Troop movements, locations, sentry positions.
 
You got it all."

Erik stood.
 
"I need to show these to my friends."

"Take 'em.
 
They aren't doing me any good sitting around here."
 
He stared out the window.
 
"Just wish there was a way I could be of more help."

Erik smiled, an idea forming.
 
"Leave that to me."

Chapter 71

Slaughter

S
TROGOLEV
WIPED
THE
DUST
from his goggles and grinned like a schoolboy up to no good. His plan had worked perfectly. Malcolm's people had been caught off guard and completely annihilated—at least the lead elements. He had unfortunately underestimated the size of Malcolm's forces and only managed to ambush the first two-thirds that crossed the border.
 

What was left of Malcolm's people, a few thousand of them, were now trapped. The American army would be on them by nightfall.
 
One loose end neatly tied off.

Strogolev decided to prepare his forces for the second phase of his strategy. He wasn't planning on waiting for the Americans to engage him; he was going to take the fight to them as soon as possible.
 

He'd already issued the orders for his men to regroup along a new line just north of Hale’s Corners. His advance scouts controlled the interstate across the border. He'd moved his BM-27 Uragans into position to cover the advance and his drones provided a constant bird's-eye view of the battlefield.

And what a battlefield! The town of Hale’s Corners had been erased from the map. When Malcolm's people strolled through, expecting a warm welcome and truckloads of supplies, they found nothing but death and destruction. His
 
pre-positioned
spetsnaz
had surged forward and nearly captured Malcolm himself. It was only through happenstance and pure luck the rebel leader managed to slip away.