The Day After Never - Nemesis (Post-Apocalyptic Dystopian Thriller - Book 9)

by Russell Blake

  “Folks can get up to strange things when kin’s involved.”

  “Point taken. But I don’t expect trouble. They got the message.”

  “It’s your call. I’d want two inches of steel between me and the world if I knew there were a couple of boys with guns thinking about how to get their brother out of lockup.”

  Lucas made his way along the street and scanned his surroundings, wary of being bushwhacked after Art’s ordeal. Seeing nothing, he considered returning home, but instead began walking to the city-limit gate to report back to the troops on Art’s condition and reassure them that he’d make a full recovery. He also wanted to initiate round-the-clock patrols of the camp to avoid another attack, whether from angry townspeople or more desperate relatives.

  A few pedestrians were ambling along the main boulevard, but none hailed Lucas with their customary friendly waves. The day’s events and the stress of having a large armed force of strangers a stone’s throw from the gates was taking its toll, and he wasn’t surprised that the mood had changed after the horrific attack on the girl. That was every parent’s worst nightmare, and Lucas hadn’t been joking about taking matters into his own hands if it had been Eve who’d been traumatized for life. It was no wonder that the army had worn out its welcome, and Lucas would sleep better once Art had been pronounced safe to travel and could lead the men east to their destiny.

  He would wait until Art had sufficiently recovered to share with him his decision to end his stay with the army and remain in Provo with his adopted family. Long nights discussing the future with Sierra had convinced him that his priority would have to be her and the kids, and that riding at the head of an armed force wasn’t his future. Maybe Art was right and he was a natural at it, but that didn’t mean he enjoyed it, and he was done being forced by circumstance into taking actions he didn’t want to. He’d almost lost his life too many times to count on the campaigns in Seattle and Salem, and prudence dictated that he hang up his spurs and settle into a more peaceful domestic life, leaving the saving of the world to those with more stomach for it.

  “They’ll be just fine without me,” he murmured as he approached the barricade. “Just fine.”

  Chapter 11

  Provo, Utah

  Armed sentries ringed the medical clinic where Art was being tended, their assault rifles prominently displayed in case anyone else decided to take a run at their supreme commander. The council had reluctantly granted permission for gunmen to be stationed outside the building, with the reality being that if they’d refused, there was little they would have been able to do to stop the troop deployment as a prudent security measure.

  Provo residents glared at the guards from a safe distance. They obviously resented that the sanctity of their enclave was being increasingly violated by the army, but nobody moved on the building, not even the most vociferously opposed to armed strangers in their sanctuary. A few clumps of the disgruntled murmured among themselves, but as the sun completed its arc across the sky, the streets were quiet, and interest in the wounded commander waned with the dying light.

  Inside the clinic, Elliot stood by Art’s bed and exchanged a dark look with Doc Leonard, the local physician, who was well into his seventies and appeared to have seen everything in his time. The doctor’s expression matched Elliot’s grim mood, and when they returned their attention to where Art lay on a gurney, neither spoke.

  Art winced and reached to touch the bandage that enveloped his upper chest, with a bulge where a pressure dressing was pressing on the freshly stitched wound. His complexion was blanched and slightly jaundiced, and when his eyes flitted open and scanned the room, they were unfocused. Eventually his gaze settled on Elliot, and he moaned as he struggled to sit up.

  “Probably not a great idea,” Doc Leonard said. “Rest easy.”

  “What…what did you give me?” Art managed, his voice a croak.

  “You lost a lot of blood,” Elliot said. “It’ll take a while for your system to replenish it. In the meantime, we removed the bullet and administered some morphine. That’s what you’re feeling.”

  “How…how bad is it?”

  Elliot looked to Doc Leonard, who nodded and collected his black leather physician’s bag. “I’ll leave the two of you to chat. Nothing more for me to do here.”

  When he’d left the room, Elliot edged closer to Art’s side. “You should be up and around in a few days.”

  “Then not so bad.”

  Elliot shook his head. “No. It could have been worse.” He paused and locked eyes with Art. “How long have you known?”

  Art sighed and closed his eyes. “Suspected. Not known. But your face says it all.”

  Elliot hesitated, and when he spoke, his voice was measured and calm. “Let’s try again. When did you start coughing up blood?”

  Art’s eyes snapped open. “How can you know that?”

  “I’m not just a researcher, Art. I’ve got thirty years of clinical practice under my belt.” He hesitated. “So how long?”

  Art’s face hardened. “Maybe…four or five months.”

  Elliot nodded. “That’s about right, based on what your lungs sound like. It’s hard to be exact on staging without an X-ray or a CT, but I can make an educated guess on how advanced you are.”

  “Something’s going to kill us all eventually.”

  “True enough.”

  An uncomfortable silence hung in the room. Eventually Art broke it. “How long do you think I have?”

  Elliot looked away. “Hard to say. But I wouldn’t be buying any green bananas.”

  Art grunted. “That’s what I figured.”

  “Anyone know?”

  Art shook his head. “No. My dying’s my business. Nobody else’s.” He paused. “Promise me you’ll keep it that way. It’s my secret to keep or tell.”

  Elliot was silent for a moment. “You need to let Lucas know, at the very least. And seems to me like you and Ruby might have some unfinished business.”

  “In time. Please. Promise me.”

  Elliot stroked his beard. “I’ve never been one to gossip, and I don’t plan to start now. I’ll keep it in confidence. But think about what I said.” He cleared his throat. “Not to put too fine a point on it, but time’s something you’re running short on.”

  “I know.”

  Elliot studied Art for a long moment. “The morphine should cut some of the discomfort when you breathe, but it’s not a miracle. I’d put my house in order if I were you.” He held up the stethoscope he’d been holding. “I didn’t like what I heard, and with what you’ve just been through, it’s unlikely to get better from here.”

  Art managed a harsh laugh. “Don’t sugarcoat it.”

  “I’ll look in on you in a few hours. Try to rest.”

  “Sure. Thanks.”

  Elliot slowly made his way to the clinic entrance, his brow creased in thought. The general had advanced lung cancer, and there was no way of knowing how far it had metastasized and what other organs were affected, but Elliot would have bet on stage four, with only a little time left. His lungs had sounded like the rasping gurgle of a failing pump, and Elliot was surprised he was still ambulatory. He didn’t know whether Art was naturally thin or whether that was an effect of the disease, but his cheeks had the sunken appearance of a cadaver, and even in an environment where most were rail-thin due to deprivation, he looked markedly ill.

  Elliot tried to imagine what it must be like to have survived the collapse of society, years of hardship and brushes with death, only to be brought down by a handful of rapidly dividing mutated cells, but he couldn’t bring himself to pursue the thought for more than a few moments. He would respect the general’s request for privacy, but would again encourage him to open up to at least those closest to him while he still could. Otherwise Lucas and Ruby would be caught flat-footed, and that seemed unnecessarily harsh even though he could appreciate Art’s desire to fight his battle alone.

  His frown deepened as he walked, grate
ful that he wasn’t faced with the same struggle Art was, but all the same, reminded of his own tenuous mortality. The years post-collapse had been a challenge to survive, first from the virus and then from the human vermin that had propagated like cockroaches. He and his people having made it this long had defied the odds, and that they’d finally found a permanent refuge with the good souls in Provo was nothing short of a miracle. Although he’d made peace with the idea that any day could be his last, still Art’s predicament had given him pause. It was one thing to consider a sudden death at the hands of chaos, but another entirely to face a lingering erosion of health with no possibility of survival.

  “Poor bastard,” he murmured, and again absently rubbed the soft scraggle of his white beard.

  That Art’s bad habits had caught up with him and would be his ultimate undoing after years of enduring in a world gone mad struck Elliot as the ultimate insult from an uncaring universe with an ugly sense of humor. All he could do was thank whatever powers that be that he’d been spared the same fate – at least, so far.

  “Poor, poor bastard,” he repeated again, and then pushed through the clinic doors, a knot of anxiety tight in his gut, his forehead creased with worry.

  Chapter 12

  Houston, Texas

  A column of armored vehicles roared to a stop in front of Crew headquarters, and scores of cartel gunmen spilled from the trucks while the Crew guards watched nervously from their fortified rooftop positions. The damage from the attack that had ended Snake’s tenure as the Crew’s leader was still glaring, with black blast marks marring the façade, and whole sections of the wall that ringed the roof missing. Piles of rubble lay strewn around the grounds, and the entire building had the appearance of war-zone ruins rather than a serviceable hub.

  Two of the ranking cartel bosses stepped from their personnel carrier and waited as Julio emerged from its depths. Together they walked toward the entrance, flanked by a dozen hardened cartel fighters armed with assault rifles and grenade launchers, their faces bronzed and angular. The Crew sentries shifted nervously by the double steel doors, careful to keep their machine guns pointed at the ground lest the cartel shooters misinterpret their intent.

  When Julio’s group arrived at the guard station, he nodded once to the Crew gunmen and pointed to their handheld radio. “Tell Wink that Julio is here for our meeting.”

  One of the men fumbled with the two-way and then spoke rapidly into the radio before waiting for a response. When it came, it was a terse sentence, and the man lowered the volume and addressed Julio.

  “Wink is sending someone. They’re waiting for you.”

  Julio’s eyes bored into the guard and then his gaze roamed over the collected Crew fighters before settling on his pair of lieutenants.

  “You’d think these dogs would have rolled out the red carpet for us. They called the meeting,” he said in Spanish. “If they keep me waiting more than two minutes, there will be hell to pay.”

  “They wouldn’t dare,” growled Sergio, the lieutenant on his right.

  “You never know. They’ve never been accused of being smart.”

  Moments later the doors creaked open, and a shirtless, heavily muscled man wearing the signature Crew leather vest, his skin green from tattoos, entered and sized the cartel boss up.

  “This way. Wink’s already in the main meeting room,” he said, his voice a rasp.

  “Bueno,” Julio replied, and issued orders in rapid-fire Spanish. Four of the gunmen broke off from the rest and moved to his side, and the Crew guard frowned.

  “Just you and your honchos,” he said.

  Julio’s smile was as friendly as a moray eel. “These are my bodyguards. They go where I go. Stop wasting my time and take me to your boss.”

  The muscleman swallowed hard and returned Julio’s glare, and then dropped his gaze with a shrug. “This way.”

  Julio and his entourage followed the Crew guard down a wide corridor pocked with fresh bullet holes from the recent coup, and stopped in front of a pair of double mahogany doors. The guard rapped on it, the sound loud as pistol shots in the hall, and Wink’s distinctive voice called out, “Come in.”

  The muscleman opened one of the doors, and Julio and his two lieutenants entered the conference room while the bodyguards remained outside with the Crew guard, who pulled the heavy slab shut and stood with arms folded, staring down the hall at nothing.

  Wink sat at an oversized conference table with three of his subordinates while Julio and his men approached. Wink indicated chairs on the far side of the table. “Have a seat. Thanks for coming.”

  Julio lowered himself into the nearest chair and said something in Spanish. His two capos remained standing behind him with impassive expressions. He raised an eyebrow and sat forward, eyes fixed on Wink. “You asked to meet. What’s on your mind?”

  Wink sat forward. “Some of your men are trying to cut in on our action. Demanding slices of the profit over and above the fifty percent we turn over to you. It’s causing problems. Our guys are already complaining about having to give up half of everything they take in, and when your street-level people are putting the bite on them for more…it’s just a matter of time until someone gets hurt. It’s already gotten to the point where we’ve had a few armed standoffs.”

  Julio didn’t say anything for several beats, and when he did, his tone was dangerously soft. “Let’s get something straight. My men have authority over everything in our territory. You’re here to watch the store and make sure things run smoothly, nothing more. If one of my men needs something, you don’t refuse them, and you don’t threaten them. You give them what they asked for, and say thank you. Understand?”

  Wink’s mouth hardened. “That wasn’t our deal.”

  Julio stared him down with dead eyes. “You work for us. You do as we say. That’s the deal.”

  “We agreed on fifty percent. You can’t change that now.”

  The right corner of Julio’s mouth tugged with a trace of a smile. “Can’t? I have an armored fighting force and enough firepower to flatten this place and everyone in it. We run all of southern Texas now, or as much of it as we care to, and the northern half of Mexico. You think you can dictate terms to us?”

  Wink’s face reddened. “The only reason you have Houston and the refinery that powers your tanks is because of our deal. We made this possible. We shook hands and made an agreement.”

  “Correct. And the reason you’re now the head of the Crew is because we backed you. So you got what you wanted.” Julio consulted briefly with Sergio in Spanish and continued. “We could have anyone we want run your group. We chose you. I’d suggest you remember that before delivering ultimatums. If some of our street enforcers want an additional cut, give it to them and be thankful you get to keep any of it.”

  “I can’t tell my men that. I got them to agree to work with you by committing to fifty percent.”

  Julio pushed back from the table with a sneer. “Your internal politics are of no interest to me. Do what you have to do in order to keep your people in line, or I’ll do it for you – and I assure you that you won’t like my way.” He eyed the three Crew bosses, whose expressions varied from shocked to frightened. “I’m not here to negotiate. We own Houston, and we own you. Get that through, and we’ll get along fine. You’re errand boys now. If you don’t like it, we’ll find replacements. And if any of your men dare to raise a hand against mine, we’ll wipe the floor with you. Now, is there anything else?”

  Wink’s mouth worked in silence as he struggled to frame a response. None of his men dared speak, and Wink’s loss for words seemed to amuse Julio. He waved a dismissive hand and cocked his head to his capos.

  “Let’s get out of here.” Julio glanced at Wink almost as an afterthought. “Don’t waste my time with idiotic meetings like this anymore. I’ve got other things to do.”

  The Crew brass watched the Mexicans depart in silence. Wink seemed to have shrunk into his chair, and avoided looking at his men, h
is face beet red and the muscles in his jaw clenching furiously.

  The cartel had supplied engineers from Veracruz, who’d been able to get the refinery working again, albeit in a primitive fashion, and it was now producing a crude grade of diesel that burned well enough to power trucks. With another month or two, they believed they could further tune the refinery so that it could produce gasoline, as well as a better quality of diesel that wouldn’t risk destroying the motors from impurities. But the initial work had been done before Snake had been overthrown, as part of a skunkworks project where he’d had technicians painstakingly repair and clean the machinery in preparation for the Illuminati’s engineers – who’d never shown up.

  Wink finally gathered his wits and stood. “We obviously can’t tackle them head-on, so we’ll have to figure out a way to hide our take so we keep more.”

  The man closest to Wink gave him a sidelong glance. “When they find out…”

  “They won’t. We’ll do what’s necessary to keep the men working. And…the penalty for discussing this with anyone will be death. That should stop any idle chatter.”

  “It’ll leak out in time. No way to stop it.”

  “We’ll tackle that when it happens. But you heard those Mexican pigs. They’re reneging on the deal, which means it’s just a matter of time until they double-cross us for good. We need to plan for that, because it’s going to happen.”

  “There’s no way we can beat them. They already have thousands of their men in Houston…”

  “Look. If it wasn’t obvious before, it should be now. They plan to get rid of us when we’re no longer useful. That leaves us two choices: prepare for it and be ready to beat them, or die. So we stockpile resources, organize an ambush, and take them down before they get a chance to. That’s the only way we survive. We can have our techs learn what the Mexicans are doing so we can keep the oil flowing, and that will be our ace in the hole. All we have to do is take out their Houston force and we’ll have the ability to launch an offensive with tanks, trucks…whatever we need. They won’t be able to fight us long distance.”