The Inroad Chronicles (Book 1): Legion Seed

by Erickson, Brian

  Jackson breathed heavily into the receiver. “Kathleen! Have you seen the news?”

  “Yes! Oh my god. What are we going to do? Everywhere there’s p…”

  Jackson cut her off before she could get going. “Baby, listen to me. We have to take care of ourselves. When this thing hits and everything happens, even before that, things will get ugly, turning into everybody for themselves. You hear me? Every man for himself.”

  Kathleen’s face contorted because she had never heard him speak so emphatically, his words felt like they could punch a hole in the wall.

  “We have to board up the house, get provisions, prepare everything, and we need guns.” After saying, ‘guns,’ Jackson paused and pulled the phone away from his ear and grimaced but was met only with silence.

  Kathleen’s protest, which certainly would have sputtered forth vehemently at any other time, in any other situation, began as thoughts normally do. It went through the quick process of creation, evaluation, and processing and nearly got shipped off to the mouth. However, something cut it down just before delivery, something rational. An opinion Kathleen did not know lived inside her thought: that’s actually not a bad idea. Instead of saying, “What are you crazy? That’s the stupidest thing I’ve ever heard! What’s wrong with you? Do you even know how to use a gun?” Her response abruptly changed to a simple, “okay.”

  Jackson’s face remained frozen as he slowly brought the phone back to his ear, and he wondered for one fleeting second if he had actually just heard that uttered from his wife. He decided not to look a gift horse in the mouth and moved on brainstorming about what they would need to survive the disaster.

  Together they modified their list of necessary items over the coming days, especially after learning that the immediate effects, like strong wind and earthquakes, would stay mostly localized in the eastern hemisphere. Although, nobody pretended nothing would happen, so Jackson stocked up on survival gear while Kathleen handled groceries.

  The next day Jackson walked out of a sports store with a cart full of supplies and squinted when the sunlight enveloped him. By the time he got to the car he could feel a few drops of sweat rolling down his skin under his shirt, and, after loading the trunk, he felt lightheaded and remembered how long it had been since breakfast. He knew of a diner that had stayed open, so he blasted the air conditioner and made his way over.

  He entered and took a booth by the wall and noticed a couple people were talking despite sitting at different tables. The waitress came by and took his order, and when she left the conversation grabbed his attention. Most of it was taking place between two guys who appeared to be around fifty years of age. Both had brown hair salted with gray, but one was short and stocky and a bit overweight, and the other was tall and thin with only a hint of a gut sticking out. The short man struck Jackson as the type who liked to dominate conversations; while the tall one seemed like a good listener who developed lots of opinions.

  The short man was on a roll. “It’s all the so-called experts’ fault. They keep trying to calm us down to prevent a panic from developin’. People arn’t stupid ya’ know. It doesn’t take a genius to figure that when that thing hits and makes a huge earthquake in Asia, it’ll trigger other earthquakes around the world.”

  The tall man looked at him sideways. “You really believe they’re just blatantly lying to us?”

  “Oh, I don’t believe; I know. See, I’m a Trucker. We get the real scoop from all over. Now the news hasn’t reported this, but word is people out there around Memphis are fleeing east to places like this, because they believe the mountains are safer. The public opinion out there is that Memphis will almost certainly perish, because it’s right on that New Madrid fault line.”

  The tall man’s mouth dropped open. “Really?”

  “Well sure! Don't ya know about the New Madrid fault line?”

  “Yes, I know that. I just didn't know people were evacuating.”

  “Fleeing. Evacuating makes it sound like they're informed, and it's organized. It's not. They're takin’ it into their own hands.”

  Jackson noticed several other patrons turned their heads. He could also tell that this was not lost on the short man, and he did not seem to mind the extra attention.

  The short man pressed on a little louder. “I got the word from the coasts too, east and west. People there’re afraid that tsunamis are gonna wipe out the coasts of the whole of the Americas. Right here in East Tennessee next to these good ‘ole mountains is believed to be one of the safe places to see how this turns out. People’re sayin’, ‘well if there’s gonna be a big earthquake along the Mississippi river, and a tsunami’s gonna hit the coast; then I wanna be in the mountains.’ Makes sense to me.”

  The tall man’s brow furrowed. “So, you’re sayin’ a lot more people will be comin’ into town? I’ve seen some new faces already.”

  The short man wedged a toothpick in the corner of his mouth. “It’s guaranteed, ‘scuse me, been nice talkin’ to ya’, but I gotta go. I'm buggin’ out.” He stuck some money under his plate and slid out of his seat.

  “Thanks for the info, take care.” The tall man smiled.

  The short man leaned into the door and nodded. “My pleasure.”

  After eating Jackson raced home and shared the new developments with Kathleen, and, suddenly, they felt turned upside down again.

  The mountains dividing them from the coast seemed to whisper little promises of steadfastness and timeless resolve to weather any storm, so they trusted their instincts. Meanwhile, the news reported that America was safe. When new faces, cars, and recreational vehicles started crowding parking lots and jamming up traffic, they felt both safer and less secure at the same time, but they had no plans to move.

  The next day as Jackson walked out of the hardware store, he looked at several of the parked cars and could not remember a time when he ever saw so many license plates from different states at one time. All the toilet paper and milk had disappeared off the supermarket shelves in a matter of hours. He almost chuckled to himself. Why toilet paper and milk? Does having your bathroom needs and source of calcium taken care of somehow ease the pain of natural disasters?

  Living in Scupper, Tennessee, seventy miles west of the Great Smoky Mountains National Park, Jackson and Kathleen usually only locked their doors at night and when nobody was home. They lived in the sort of neighborhood where people still waved in passing, and many knew each other’s names.

  Not known around town as a gun owner, Jackson had no time to worry about impressions as he pulled into the parking lot of the Nickel and Dime Collector’s Boutique. It was curiously named since the inside contained nothing except firearms, ammo, hunting accessories, and about two remote control toy cars, which seemed tacked on after the fact to keep the store from appearing too linear. Jackson stepped out of his car and looked at the store’s façade and forced a sharp exhale. Here we go. I didn’t think I’d ever be here out of necessity. The parking lot was packed with cars, as was the grocery store’s lot across the street, and Jackson rolled his eyes. I should’ve done this sooner.

  He pulled the store’s glass door open and a draft of body odor immediately smacked him in the face, followed by a muggy climate only achieved by swamps and crowded rooms. His slightly athletic frame, accented with a modicum of post-thirty-year-old body fat and average height, did not command a lot of attention, nor did his plain, brown hair, pale skin, brown eyes, T-shirt, or denim pants. Despite this, he noticed that the line leading from the counter tightened up and several people stole sideways glances in his direction and at others. Several faces had a tightness only conveyed through the eyes, so he kept his eyes down.

  Nobody said it, but Jackson sensed that people, like himself, contemplated if they might have to defend themselves, possibly even kill, to survive. A desperate person would steal from me and my family. Would they kill over some food or a little shelter? How desperate will it get? Jackson shuffled to the end of the line rubbing the back of his
head with one hand as he stole a few glances. Another customer, a taller man with broad shoulders, stepped toward the line at the same time and Jackson started to rush to beat him to the spot. Then he stopped himself and waved the man in first. What’s wrong with me? Is this how it starts? Beat someone to the back of the line today, pull a gun on ‘em tomorrow for getting’ too close to the house? Maybe if I’m wonderin’ that, I’m above it. I wouldn’t do that, would I? Yet, here I am.

  Standing in line with a bemused expression, his eyes fell on the gun racks without fully coming into focus. As the line gradually shrank Jackson noticed that most of the people seemed to know exactly what they wanted. The average exchange with the clerk consisted of a rapid list of cartridges, along with the occasional purchase of a hunting rifle or handgun. Is everybody here a gun expert? As he stepped up, he noticed the clerk staring at his hands, which he rested on the counter as he scanned the merchandise beyond.

  The clerk raised one half of his mouth and forced an exhale. “Which guns would you like?” He tapped his fingers on the counter and met Jackson’s eyes with a direct, somnolent gaze that seemed to immediately unravel any falsehoods he might project into the room to mask his greenness in such an environment.

  Which guns? Kinda’ rude! Then he took in the clerk’s countenance and empathized with him, noting the slight sheen of oil and sweat on his skin, a merit from unremitting toil, a salesman’s wet dream and worst reverie all at once. Jackson scanned askew at the racks, and scratched his forehead. Oh, I’m really out of my element—reliability and power. His eyes caught sight of an AK-47 framed on the wall over the rack. Everybody knew it was the gun that beat America out of some of Southeast Asia’s most unforgiving terrains and had since become the most widely used and recognizable assault rifle in the world. He recollected stories of burying them in mud or submerging them underwater, and having them still fire every time.

  He quickly resolved that he better make a move or risk ending up empty handed. Better get two, he thought. Kathleen will need one too. An image of his pregnant wife firing an assault rifle at some thief in the night popped into his head, and he forced the thought away. Will anything fit in a few days? “Ahhh, two AK-47’s?”

  “Sorry, that’s not for sale. It’s a collector’s item. Automatic firearms are illegal in Tennessee.”

  “Oh, well in that case I’ll…” Jackson puffed out his cheeks as his eyes whipped across the rack.

  The salesman pointed to the right with his eyes. “Perhaps you can find something in the back.”

  Jackson took in the back of the store in a glance and saw only racks of camouflage apparel and footwear. A T-shirt with a man adorned in hunting, fishing, and various sports attire burned itself in his mind, and he caught a quick blurb from a T-shirt reading, ‘Ain’t nothin’ I can’t kill, ‘cept my wife.’ Jackson looked back shaking his head.

  “Oh ah…no, I think I’m in the right place.”

  “I couldn’t sell a gun in good conscience without knowing you had the full range of options to choose from, satisfaction guaranteed. There’s more merchandise through the door there in the back.”

  Jackson glanced again and frowned. “Kinda looks like a storeroom or somethin’. You want my business or not?”

  “Converted it to an extension of the floor. Give her a look. We care about yer business.”

  Jackson had his hands flat on the counter top and balled them up before pushing himself away and turning toward the back, spitting out silent words that were better not heard and exhaling audibly. He reached the back door and realized something odd: no one had exited the room the entire time he had been there. What an asshole! I’m leavin’! He started to turn and walk away, but a scraping sound caught his attention at the last moment. He stopped and looked closer at the door, and jumped back. “Shit!” An eyeball stared at him through a small hole in the door. He fell silent as the eye appraised him and disappeared. A slat of plywood slid back into place over the hole, and a lock clicked on the other side of the door. A short man with a bushy, red beard, and a face mottled with orange freckles quickly glanced over Jackson’s shoulder and pulled him inside. Before he could protest Jackson had stepped into a poorly lit hallway that seemed to lead outside. “What the…”

  The man squared up in front of him and looked him in the eyes. “State yer business.”

  “My business?”

  “What’re you lookin’ fer?”

  “Well, the man out front told me to take a look back here when I asked about an AK-47.”

  “Right this way.” The freckled man silently led him toward a door in the middle of the hallway, just feet from the emergency exit.

  As the man opened the door Jackson squinted as a wash of fluorescent light pierced his eyes. His vision adjusted as he entered, and he saw a much smaller room than the former with many, not so subtle, differences. It dawned on him after a couple seconds that his mouth hung wide open as he cast his gaze upon footlockers, crates, and blankets spread on the floor all displaying recent and antique, illegal firearms, primarily assault rifles. Once again the AK-47’s lying on blankets caught his eye. He did not recognize anything else except an M-16 and some other guns that looked similar to ones he had seen in movies and video games. One looked a lot like an M-16, and he had heard of the M4 Carbine and thought that must be it. His eyes drifted up and he noticed several people staring at him, so he lowered his head and moved toward his quarry. The freckled man had taken up post by the door, and that was when Jackson noticed he had a pistol holstered on his right hip. The man caught him leering and beat him back with fierce blue eyes. Jackson swung his head around and sucked in quick details about the other man sitting in the corner on a stool; one foot rested lackadaisically on the lowest support between the stool’s legs, yet his fierce eyes belied his posture. Jackson felt them boring into his back as he quickly turned and studied the guns. He pursed his lips together and cupped his chin with his thumb and forefinger and forced himself to stop looking at everyone in the room. I have no idea how to tell if these guns even work or not. I should’ve known to just go to Alabama in the first place. I think they’re so relaxed, they even allow rocket launchers. He pushed out a long breath through his nose and scratched his head. He glanced over at the man sitting in the corner studying the room and figured that customer service probably was not on offer in this type of market. He walked around the room scanning all the guns up and down, eyes in a total wash. His eyes did stop on some other unique accessories like a box full of gas masks. When his brain finally settled down from the shock, he began an inventory of what to buy. Out of the corner of one eye he noticed a little light over the door flicker several times, and the freckled man walked out. Seconds later another lamb shuffled in, drawing in the room for the first time with wide, unseeing eyes. Jackson turned away from him to let him discover the wares for himself, glad not to be the new guy anymore.

  A short while later it had turned out the man in the corner did possess powers of speech and helped Jackson make some wiser purchases than he would have on his own. All told he chose two AK-47’s, two Glock pistols from the 17C series, which the man promised he could trust probably more than any other handgun in the world, two sets of body armor, two adult gas masks and a very small one, and two machetes. He could not quite explain what came over him. He just felt he needed to buy all the protection his family could handle. He chuckled to himself when he saw why everyone stood in line on the main floor and bought only ammunition. The man in the corner jotted down numbers for his choices, and sent him packing with a carbon copy.

  “Take this to the main counter.” The man extended the paper with a hard glare that pushed Jackson away.

  Jackson took the emergency exit and walked back in the front of the shop with his numbers and stood at the back of the line. The same quick exchange he had already witnessed occurred when he arrived back at the counter with calibers of bullets rattling off the clerk’s tongue. Jackson just nodded his head, and then the man handed him a c
ard with a magnetic strip and a curious message scribbled on paper, ‘Go around back.’ Jackson looked up from the card, swallowed, and nodded.

  “Cash or credit?” The store clerk asked.

  Will credit even exist in a few days? Probably not, he thought. “Credit,” replied Jackson.

  Chapter Three

  Ron’s shadow loomed over the cubicles when he stepped into the office doorway. He stopped and scanned the room. Empty, well it’s early yet. He set his bag down beside his desk and draped his blazer over the seat back and retrieved a hand towel from his bag. He dabbed sweat off his face and neck and turned on the TV. It flashed to life, and a male news anchor’s voice filled the room.

  “We are now at two days and counting until the asteroid makes contact. It’s hard to describe the level of tension in the reports we’re getting from around the world. Nobody has ever seen any...”

  Ron exhaled through pursed lips and mashed the remote, cutting the sound. Not now!

  Sometime later he lifted his eyes from a document and noticed that sunlight no longer flooded the office’s entrance. He looked around, scratched his head, and casually let a document fall to the floor. “Hello?” When no one answered he walked around noting that cubicle upon cubicle in row after row sat empty. He looked back at the clock on the wall which read 9:30, and shook his head. What’s the point? Why did I even bother showin’ up? He plopped back down in his chair and began flicking paper clips then swiped them onto the floor with a grunt.

  In reality he knew exactly why he had come into the office that day. Everybody else is rushing to prep, but I already have.

  Unbeknownst to many, Ron had two jobs: one paid him a salary, and the other depleted it. Working as a Claims Investigator had jaded him to the point that his second job practically manifested itself, and hunting in his spare time had taken care of the rest. Between the two Ron knew everything about people and animals he wanted to know. That they’re dark sometimes. The world is ugly. A couple years into the job Ron had had begun to lose faith in humanity. It can happen to a person who investigates people who murder family members or burn down houses for insurance money. We’ll tear ourselves apart one day. That’s why I’ve prepared, and now the reckoning is coming. I’ve poured myself into both jobs, succeeded in both, and now look which one is paying off in the long run.