Storm Tide Rising: Blackout Volume 2 (40 page)

Once his stomach settled, Eric opened his eyes and scanned the horizon around him. From this high up he could see over the tops of most of the younger trees around the pasture and clear to the water tower on the outskirts of Bennett a few miles away. When he looked in the direction of town, Eric froze and felt a cold chill run up his spine that had nothing to do with the sweat and the wind.

"Brant, you'd better get one of the horses ready," Eric called down.

"Why?"  Brant called back. "What's going on? What do you see?"

Eric watched as a thick black column of smoke, hidden by the early morning darkness and the tree line, climbed into the sky over the town.

"Bennett's burning," Eric whispered.

Ch.66

Small World

Mike turned the can opener carefully, holding the can as well as he could in his left hand. The strength was getting better in that hand, but it still shook when he tried to do more than grip something. Early in the morning it hurt, and at the moment it was all he could do to grip the can and keep it from slipping out of his grasp and spilling their breakfast all over the gray tile floor. A small propane camp stove was on low and the pot was just starting to get warm.

There was a little bit of salt cured bacon dried and cut up in cubes on a wooden cutting board. Mike dropped the bacon and a half a chopped onion into the pot and they started to sizzle. The fat in the bacon rendered out, and the smells from the pot became mouthwatering quickly. Mike sprinkled in a pinch of ground black pepper and then stirred the mixture with a long handled wooden spoon.

"Smells good," Arthur whispered, stepping out of one of the administrative offices down the hall. He was dressed in a white t-shirt and dark blue work pants with black boots. "Bacon?"

Mike nodded. "The ladies cured some with a good salt rub before it went bad. I figured this was a special occasion."

The onions were starting to turn translucent, so Mike stirred in the Beenie Weenies, keeping the makeshift stew moving in the pan so it wouldn't burn or stick. Once it was bubbling evenly, he turned the heat down to the lowest it would go, covered the pot, and set the spoon aside.

"So, what did my arm tell you?"  Mike asked once the food was cooking.

"I understand Alyssa cleaned and stitched the wound herself," Arthur said. "She did a fair job, but it was a nasty cut. Clean, but deep, and it got infected before it got closed, but you know that. I think it will heal well enough, but you might have a little slight nerve damage from the infection. It might tingle a little from time to time, but that's about it. Once you work the strength back into it, you should be able to use it."

Mike breathed a sigh of relief and flexed the fingers of his left hand slowly. "I was worried about that," he said softly. "Being right handed, I don't think I ever knew how much I used my left hand until it was useless. I was starting to get worried it would stay that way."

"It's not going to be a pleasant road," Arthur said, "and it's going to take a lot of long hours of hard work strengthening those muscles and tendons again. Have you been through physical therapy before?"

Mike nodded. "My left knee and right shoulder. I was an accident prone kid, to tell you the truth. I was on a first name basis with our family orthopedist by the time I was a freshman in high school."

"You know then," Arthur said, nodding. "I've had a knee replaced and rotator cuff surgery twice. The leg hurt more, but the shoulders took longer to heal and rebuild the strength."

Mike took the lid off the impromptu stew and stirred the concoction to make sure it cooked evenly. It smelled delicious, though he was sure part of that was simply his empty stomach encouraging his brain to look forward to the meal. It was amazing how hunger could make things taste so much better than they deserved.

The silence between them was just beginning to grow uncomfortable when Arthur broke it. "Alyssa and Maria said you all came from the McDowell refugee camp. It's amazing you got this far."

Mike frowned. "What do you mean?"

"They didn't tell you?"  Arthur asked, and Mike shook his head. "Well, I suppose not with you just getting back on your feet. More important things to worry about and talk about, I guess. Things got bad when the camp was attacked. Cheryl and I were on the way down there looking for our daughter when it happened."

Arthur shrugged his shoulders uncomfortably, a far off look in his eyes as he spoke, as if he were seeing shadows of things that were no longer there.

"The FSS had the roads leading south blocked off," the older man continued. "They told us we could go west, east, or north, but not south. The situation was too 'uncertain' they told us. As if anything
is
certain these days. But their guns were bigger than ours, and so we started moving west through the outskirts of the city. We had just crossed South Boulevard and set up camp one evening when we saw flashes to the southwest and heard the echoes of explosions. It terrified us both, and a lot of people around where we'd set up our tent just went crazy."

Arthur shook his head and pulled a canteen out of a pouch on his belt. He took a long drink before continuing. "People didn't know what it was, so their imagination went straight to the worst possibility. They thought we were under attack again, so people just started shooting anything that moved. Cheryl and I took cover under the South Blvd overpass on I-485. About an hour after the commotion started, an FSS patrol came through trying to restore order, but they were doing more shooting than anyone else.

"They stopped under the overpass, but on the other side of the median," Arthur said, his voice little more than a whisper. "I knew they'd see us, but we couldn't move or they might shoot. One of the guys in the back of the pickup truck was looking our way like he was trying to decide if he was looking at trash, or people when a bullet took him through the throat. I'll never forget the expression on his face as he slowly toppled out of the bed of the pickup onto the pavement, gasping and bleeding. A mob hit the patrol, and they tried to run. The people chased the truck down road, shooting at it and screaming. We just sat up there waiting for them to come back for us, but they never did."

Arthur fell silent for a moment, his face drawn in a deep frown as he looked at the floor between his feet. Mike didn't know what he could possibly say to offer any comfort, so he just kept silent. After a time, Arthur gave himself a shake and rubbed one hand across his eyes as if he were trying to wipe away the memories.

"Anyway, the next day we started running into the refugees from the camp," Arthur said, his voice stronger. "They were all scared, dirty, and hungry. They never stopped long enough to really explain what happened; they just talked in short terrified bursts about the McDowell camp, the guards leaving, and then a mob attack. From what I could piece together, the FSS pulled off some of the guards just before the attack started. The ones that were left fought hard, but the attackers got to and breached the gate. And that's when things went badly for them. There were hundreds of attackers, but more than ten thousand desperate and terrified refugees. They ripped the attackers apart eventually, though, and the survivors broke out of the camp. For some people, I guess it's tough to stop that kind of thing once they get a taste for it. They just started looting, killing, burning and destroying everything in their path."

"Is that when you turned north?"  Mike asked, stirring the stew again.

Arthur shook his head. "Had to get to our daughter," he replied. "So we kept pushing west, and when we got to a good point, we just went off the roads and through the woods, heading south. It took us a couple of days to get to the house she's sharing with her fiancé, but they were gone already."

When Arthur said his daughter shared a house with her fiancé, Mike froze. The tiny hairs on the back of his neck stood on end, but he shook it off as mere coincidence. There had to be thousands of young women living with their fiancés in Charlotte.

"At first Cheryl broke down completely," Arthur continued, oblivious to Mike's apprehension. "She thought they were both dead or worse, though I'm not sure what could possibly be worse. But the neighbor came over and told us that he'd given Eric his car so he could get out of town. The only place we can think they might have gone is Eric's parents' place up in the north part of the state."

This time, Mike felt the hairs along his neck and arms standing on end as a chill ran down his spine, and he looked at Arthur, but the man seemed to be telling the honest truth. "This neighbor," Mike said hesitantly, "was he a tiny old man that looks a little like a turtle without a shell, and seemed tough enough to bite a ten penny nail in half?"

Arthur frowned and turned toward Mike, surprised. "You've met Mr. Sheickles?" 

Ch.67

Last Request

The sun was just barely above the eastern horizon, deep ruby red light washing over the low mountains and shallow valleys. Marcus walked to the right of the prisoner and Commander Price walked to his left, all three in silence. The wind was blowing out of the north, cold and steady, with the dry sharp twinge of snow heavy on the air. The late summer heat had evaporated quickly, and with October less than a week away, it seemed that winter was coming early this year. A low shelf of steely gray clouds was gathered on the far northern horizon, but it would be a few days at least before the weather front moved through.

The three marched across a low ridge line on the other side of the helicopter landing pad from the facility. When they reached the end of the ridge the prisoner took his place standing at the edge of a pre-dug grave. He looked down into the pit once, swallowed hard, and turned his back on it. The man had refused a blindfold.

Once the prisoner was situated, Marcus walked with Commander Price to where a line of half a dozen men stood in full uniform, rifles in their hands. Commander Price stopped at the end of the firing squad, Marcus on his left. The Commander pulled a leather portfolio from his left arm and opened it. There wasn't a sound on the high plateau other than the steady north wind when Commander Price began reading.

"Jason Alexander Soudeikin, you stand accused of high treason," Commander Price read formally, "conspiracy to commit murder, mass murder, terrorism, and rebellion against the government and Constitution of the United States of America. Quite frankly, you've committed crimes so terrible we don't have a name for them, don't have a law for them. And you have confessed to this much and more. Do you have anything you would like to confess before these witnesses and God above?"

The prisoner threw his head back and laughed a raucous cackle. When he finally lowered his face, tears were streaming down his cheeks. "You have to be kidding, right? Confess? What could I have possibly done that you don't already know about? And what could I possibly have to say to your God?"  The prisoner turned his head and spat. "God never had a use for me, never reached out to me. I'll be damned if I'm going to reach out to Him."

Another bout of laughter shook the prisoner so hard he couldn't speak for a moment. When he regained his breath, he looked up at the men facing him, his eyes wild with rage and conviction.

"Run," the man grated through clenched teeth. "Get out while you can. If you stay here, you will end up dead, every one of you. They'll surround this place, and then they'll sweep through here like a prairie fire and consume everything in their path. You have no idea what you're fighting against. Go hide now, while you can, before they come and destroy you all."

Commander Price cleared his throat, and the prisoner's teeth clicked as he closed his mouth and straightened. He regained his composure, and faced Commander Price and the rest of the firing squad with contempt twisting his face and nothing more.

"The judgment against you is death for treason against the United States government, the Constitution, and the People," Commander Price said formally. "Do you have any last words or last requests?"

The prisoner spat to the side again. "Get on with it," he grated.

Marcus stepped forward before the Commander could speak and he turned to look Cmdr. Price directly in the eyes. "I'll give the orders, sir. You had me do the rest of the dirty work for you, might as well do this too."

He turned to the firing squad and snapped to attention. "Detail, present arms!  Ready!  Take Aim!"  Marcus turned and locked eyes with the prisoner one last time, the sun bright at the man's back and the north wind ruffling his hair.

"Fire!"

Ch.68

For Your Own Safety

The suit was one that he had worn only twice before, and it still smelled faintly of cedar and leather from the coat trunk. The fabric was a black Italian wool and silk blend that had a slight sheen under direct light. It was the same suit he'd worn the day he was sworn in as the Deputy Secretary for DHS, and it was the suit he'd worn the day he'd taken the oath of office for the Presidency before his assembled staff. That ceremony hadn't been formal, of course, but it had been moving all the same and had served to lend a certain credibility and legitimacy that might otherwise have been lacking.

Today, he had put it on again, and now he stood regarding his reflection in the large mirrors of his dressing room. The lights overhead were soft white LEDs that gave true white light without being harsh or blistering hot. The tie he'd chosen to wear with his stark white Oxford button down was a red so deep it was almost burgundy. A pair of well-shined black dress shoes, simple and unadorned, along with a small flag pin on his lapel completed the image of the consummate politician.  

As he looked into his own eyes in the mirror, he said the speech over and over in his head, visualizing each syllable and each gesture that would go along with it. He'd been mentally rehearsing since sunrise three and a half hours earlier, preparing to step into the Senate Chamber and address his assembled government for the first time on a matter of formal state business.