Push Back: A Post Apocalyptic Thriller (The Disruption Series Book 2) (15 page)

His head snapped up at the growl of an engine, and he edged further behind the tree trunk. The boy heard it too and turned, then moved toward the logging road.

“Jeremy! Come in the house, now,” the woman called from the porch.

Excited, the boy ignored her. “Maybe it’s Uncle Tony! We haven’t—”

The woman cursed and flew down the steps toward the boy. “Jeremy! Get inside—”

A Humvee burst into the clearing, a black-clad figure manning the machine gun on top, and a loudspeaker blaring.

“GET ON YOUR KNEES NOW, AND PLACE YOUR HANDS ON YOUR HEAD. COMPLY IMMEDIATELY OR WE WILL SHOOT!”

Anderson ducked completely behind the tree trunk. Special Reaction Force! He didn’t think much of his former colleagues in the regular FEMA police, but these SRF thugs were in a class by themselves. But how did the assholes find him? Guilt washed over him at the thought of having drawn the bastards down on these people. He shook it off. If he could escape, they’d be all right; he’d had no interaction with them. That should be obvious to even these SRF morons. He glanced uphill, searching for a large tree he could fall back behind.

But despite himself, he couldn’t ignore the drama playing out below him. “Is there anyone in the house?” he heard and peeked around the tree trunk.

There were three troopers, all in the black uniforms of the SRF and in tactical vests but wearing boonie hats instead of helmets—obviously they weren’t anticipating much resistance, he thought. They were all out of the vehicle now and holding the boy and the woman at gunpoint. The pair were on their knees in the dirt about ten feet apart, both with their hands on their heads.

“N-no. There’s just us,” the woman said.

“If you’re lying, you’re dying,” the SRF trooper said.

“It’s the truth. I swear,” she said.

“Carr, check it out,” the spokesman said, and one of the men trotted to the house, his gun up and ready as he mounted the back porch and burst through the back door.

He emerged. “Clear, Sarge,” he called. “It’s all one big room and a bathroom. And I found the radio.”

The sergeant waved his man back then turned to the woman. “You’re both under arrest for unlawful possession of a radio transmitting device, spreading false information prejudicial to public order, treason, and sedition.”

“But I didn’t mean any harm. J-just take the radio if you want—”

“No need. It’ll be destroyed when we burn down the house.” The sergeant smiled. “After we take anything of use, of course. A traitor’s property is subject to forfeiture.”

All the men were laughing now.

Anderson looked back at the Humvee. There had been rumors of an operation to take out the HAMs when he was at Mount Weather, but this didn’t look anything like he’d have expected. They would certainly hit targets simultaneously, but where were the transport vans? Unless they didn’t intend to transport anyone.

“Can I have her second, Sarge?” the man called Carr asked. “Dwyer got seconds yesterday.”

The third trooper bristled. “Screw you, Carr—”

“Flip a frigging coin,” the sergeant said, stepping over to grab the woman by her wrist and pull her to her feet. She tried to twist away and, when unable to, spit in his face. He twisted her arm behind her back savagely. She screamed.

The boy was on his feet in a single motion, surprising them all with his speed. He buried his shoulder in the sergeant’s gut, driving the bigger man to the ground. He was clawing his way on top of the surprised mercenary when Dwyer clubbed him down with a vicious rifle butt stroke to the side of the head.

“Jeremy!” the woman screamed, starting toward the fallen boy, but Carr slapped her to the ground just as the sergeant regained his feet.

The sergeant leveled his gun at the fallen boy’s head. “YOU FRIGGING LITTLE RETARD. I’LL SHOW—”

“STOP! D-don’t hurt him. I-I’ll do whatever you want. Just please don’t hurt him,” the woman said.

The sergeant leered at the woman, renewed lust replacing anger. A slow smile spread across his face. “Well, that’s more like it. Let’s me and you head on into the cabin and get to know each other a little better.”

He looked down at the boy lying still with blood flowing from a two-inch gash in the side of his head. “Carr,” he said, “you and Dwyer zip-tie the retard.”

As Anderson watched, the sergeant stepped over the boy and dragged the woman to her feet by her ponytail, then shoved her toward the cabin.

Not your fault, Anderson
, he told himself.
It was the radio, nothing to do with you. This is happening a hundred times a day out here, and there’s nothing you can do about it. NOTHING! Not your problem. Just slip away while the assholes are preoccupied. You’re outnumbered and outgunned, and getting yourself killed or captured won’t help anyone. Walk away, Anderson. Walk. Away
.

He eased back up the slope, then moved to his left slowly to a large maple tree. When he was totally out of sight of the clearing, he moved more quickly, reaching the logging road in less than three minutes. He started toward Lexington Turnpike and walked twenty feet before he stopped.

He looked back north at the road disappearing through the woods toward the cabin. He shook his head and turned back south. He walked ten feet this time before he stopped again.

“You’re a damn fool, Anderson,” he said to himself. He unholstered his Glock and turned back toward the house.

Chapter Eight

The Cabin

9 miles east of Buena Vista, Virginia

Day 29, 12:45 p.m.

Anderson stayed off the road and crept to the edge of the woods. Sun washed over the little clearing and the house, but the Humvee was parked just beyond the tree line, still in the shadows. The boy lay facedown in the sun, his wrists and ankles zip-tied, but there was no sign of his captors. Anderson panicked, then calmed when he heard voices on the far side of the vehicle. Of course. They were staying out of the sun.

He eased his makeshift pack to the ground and stooped. He looked under the vehicle and spotted both pairs of feet. The men were leaning back against the other side of the Humvee, facing the house. He belly-crawled to the vehicle, keeping their feet in sight.

Anderson lay on the ground and considered his options. He could shoot them both in the ankles then finish them when they hit the ground. But what then? The other bastard would hear the shots and hold the woman hostage—or just kill her. He had to take them silently, and he was no commando.

“It ain’t right, even if you won the toss,” a voice said. “You got seconds last time, and you bastards take so long I won’t have any time at all. We got two more places to hit before we head back, and when Sarge finishes, he’s gonna be in a lather to finish these two off and head out.”

Laughter. “Tough shit, Carr. Luck of the draw, dude. Besides, take it up with Sarge. He’s the one who strings it out, especially when we get a hot one. I guarantee he’s in there making her put on a little show. He’s into that.”

“Whatever. I’m hungry. What did you do with that chili we got from the last place?” Carr asked.

“It’s in the back, but Sarge will be pissed if you get into that stuff before he’s had his pick,” Dwyer said.

“Well, screw him. Anyway, he’s kind of busy right now and he won’t know unless you open your big mouth, now will he? Want some?”

“No. I gotta piss,” Dwyer said.

“Well, move off a ways, you lazy turd!” Carr said. “You’re always doin’ that; then everybody gets your piss on their boots and it starts stinkin’.”

“Maybe I’ll go piss on the retard,” Dwyer said.

“You’re a sick bastard. You know that?”

Laughter. “Ain’t we all?” Dwyer said.

Panic shot through Anderson as the boots moved out of view, and indecision cost him his shot. He scrambled to his feet and crouched behind the vehicle. He stuffed the Glock in his waistband for quick access and pulled a large knife from his pocket and unfolded it as he stayed low and moved to the back of the vehicle.

Anderson peeked around the back of the Humvee to see Dwyer with his back to him, walking toward the boy. He crept further around to find Carr standing in the open rear door of the vehicle, oblivious as he rummaged in a cardboard box, looking at cans. Anderson covered the distance to Carr in three steps. The man sensed his presence and turned, no doubt expecting to see Dwyer. His surprised cry never reached his lips as the blade penetrated his throat to the hilt, ravaging his vocal cords then severing his carotid artery as Anderson sawed sideways with the sharp edge of the blade as he withdrew it. Bright red arterial spray soaked the front of Anderson’s shirt as he held Carr upright until he was sure the fight was out of him, then lowered him to the ground. The seconds seemed like hours.

He spun to find Dwyer oblivious, standing over the boy perhaps fifty feet away, intent on unzipping. Anderson drew his Glock and closed the distance, adrenaline erasing all pain from his battered knee. He was within ten feet before Dwyer realized he was there, and five by the time the man turned, right hand holding his penis. Anderson had the Glock pointed between the man’s eyes, his hand steady as a rock.

“Put both hands on the top of your head, turn toward the house, then get on your knees,” Anderson said.

“You’re screwed, friend,” Dwyer said.

“Do it!”

“Can I put my dick back—”

“NO! Do it!” Anderson said.

Dwyer grinned. “So what if I don’t? You shoot me and you’ll have company.”

“And you’ll be dead and the odds are even. I can handle that as a worst-case scenario.”

“But you don’t have a hostage.”

Anderson laughed. “Who cares about them. I’m after your gear. Soon as I got you out of the way, I’ll give your buddy a chance to give up. If he doesn’t, I’ll just shred the house with the Ma Deuce on your Hummer and haul ass. Collateral damage, dude. I’m sure you’re familiar with the concept. Cooperate and I’ll leave you alive for your buddies to find. Or I can waste you. Your call.”

Dwyer looked at Anderson’s blood-soaked FEMA uniform and his smile faded.

“Now! Turn. Around,” Anderson repeated. “I’m not gonna tell you again.”

Dwyer complied, dropping to his knees as he did so.

“Zip ties?” Anderson asked.

“The left side pocket of my vest.” Anderson bent down behind Dwyer and fished out several with his left hand as he pressed the Glock to the back of the man’s head with his right.

He straightened and considered the situation. Dwyer was a head taller than him and powerfully built. If he put down the Glock to zip-tie him, the man might jump him. Anderson quietly backed up two steps then sprang forward, planting his right foot in the middle of Dwyer’s back and driving him face-first into the stony dirt, all his weight behind the blow. Air rushed from Dwyer’s lungs with an audible
WHUMP
as his chest hit the ground. Anderson stuffed the Glock in his waistband and jerked the stunned man’s hands behind his back. He had Dwyer bound wrist and ankle before the man could manage even a strangled gasp. He gagged him with his own boonie hat, using the drawstring to secure it behind his neck, then took Dwyer’s sidearm and shoved it in his pants pocket before relieving him of the two spare M4 magazines in the tactical vest. The M4 itself was leaning up against the Hummer with Carr’s, and on the way back to collect one of them, Anderson knelt and checked the boy.

He was still unconscious and covered in blood, though the bleeding had stopped. He seemed to be breathing all right, and Anderson felt his neck and found his pulse strong. Possible concussion, but no time to deal with it now. He glanced at his watch and started across the clearing, scarcely crediting it had been only seven minutes since he left his hiding place up the steep slope.

He circled wide to approach the house from a windowless end wall, then stayed pressed up against the house as he moved around to the back wall and climbed up over the porch railing, hoping against hope none of the porch boards creaked. Pain shot through his swollen left knee as he knelt on the rough boards, spiking with each contact as he crawled awkwardly along the porch with his side pressed to the wall of the house, trying to keep the M4 from rattling over the boards. He was almost under the window when he froze.

“You can do better than that! Dance, you bitch! Make me want you! Or do you want me to bring the retard in and let him watch?” The words were followed by a muffled sob some distance away from the speaker.

The man was close to the open window. Very close, maybe just on the other side of the screen. Anderson carefully laid the M4 on the porch and eased out the Glock. He’d determine the man’s position, then shoot him through the screen. Chances were the asshole wasn’t looking out the window. He eased forward.

SQUEEEEAK!

Anderson froze at the sound of cursing on the other side of the screen.

“Dwyer, you friggin’ pervert, get the hell out of here. I’ll call you when it’s your turn.”

Anderson kept stock-still for a long moment, then began to ease back.

SQUEEEEAK!

“All right, that does it! I’m comin’ out there to kick your ass!” There was the sound of squeaking bedsprings and heavy footsteps.

Well, how about that?
Anderson thought as he braced himself against the cabin wall and leveled his Glock at the back door. The man charged onto the porch naked and turned toward the open window, stopping short at the sight of Anderson. His face registered surprise, then understanding, seconds before two nine-millimeter hollow points penetrated the center of his chest.

Anderson deflated like a balloon as the adrenaline ebbed. His hands were shaking and his left knee hurt so badly he wanted to cut the thing off. He leaned against the cabin wall and struggled to get his shakes under control, then attempted to stand up; it took three tries. No time for this. He had to come up with plan B. He scooped up the M4. He’d help the woman and kid as much as possible and get the hell out of here.

“IT’S ALL RIGHT! YOU’RE SAFE NOW,” he called as he opened the screen door and moved into the house.