Tomorrow's Dawn (Book 2): Fractured Paradise

by Wohlrab, Jeff

  Brent nodded toward the graves lined up along the wood line. “Jack had one. He couldn’t do a lot of active stuff because of his asthma, but he made a lot of friends playing his.” He looked sad as he recounted, “I spent more hours trying to get things downloaded onto that thing and clearing space for new games than I could ever imagine.” He looked back at Daniel. “But the fact remains. It wouldn’t do you any good.”

  It was Daniel’s turn to look sad. “Well, I guess I’m going to have to focus on the little things then, like clean water, power, and a place to live. Thanks for nothing.” They both smiled at that, knowing that ‘the little things’ Daniel mentioned would probably take years to secure. “So we’ve got a doctor, a chemist, a construction guru, and a botanist. What other skills is your group hiding?”

  Brent looked confused. “A chemist?”

  Daniel nodded, “Jensen has a chemistry degree.”

  Brent looked impressed for a moment, “I never would have guessed. How about you?”

  Daniel laughed, “Oh sure, I have master’s degrees in Information Security Management and Intelligence and Security Studies. Real handy in the event of the apocalypse.”

  Brent looked serious. “If this is the apocalypse, I’m sorely disappointed. I would have expected to be taken by the Rapture if that was the case.” Then he looked at Daniel’s suddenly worried face and laughed. “Just fucking with ya, kid.” Daniel wasn’t sure if it was appropriate to laugh or not, but after seeing the bemused expression on Brent’s face, he chuckled. Brent continued, “I don’t get too spun up on other peoples’ religions. I’m an Irish Catholic living in Baptist territory, so I figure, to each their own.

  “Marcy is a brewmaster, which you already know.”

  Daniel nodded and exclaimed, “She’s the most important one of us.”

  That prompted another laugh from Brent. “At the moment, I think that honor may go to Jensen. As for the others, I’m genuinely not sure. I think they’re mostly in retail. That’s the majority of the small businesses in Dahlonega.” Brent looked intently at Daniel. “I know we’re new here and you don’t have reason to trust us, but do you think y’all would be willing to teach us guns and shooting?”

  Daniel almost gleamed. “I thought you’d never ask!” He leaned forward excitedly, causing his chair to groan a bit and said, “Food and firearms are our top priority right now.”

  Daniel felt a cool wind push against his back, causing him to look toward the west. The sky was growing dark. Darker than it would from only the whitish smoke of the ever-present fires. He looked back at Brent, who told him, “You might be right, you might be wrong, but we’re ‘bout to get rained on … hard. I think shelter might need to be up a little higher on that there list of yours.”

  The winds started to pick up even more, gaining the attention of other survivors. It was only moments before Daniel saw the edge of one of the tents pull up from the ground where it hadn’t been attached as securely as it needed to be. He dashed inside to grab a handful of aluminum y-stakes and headed across the clearing at a trot.

  The weight of the man’s possessions held it in place long enough for Daniel to grab it with one large hand has he slammed a stake through the nylon attachment point at the corner. He pushed the metal into the ground with one hand as though he were pushing a toothpick into warm butter. He pushed another stake into a second corner loop in only moments.

  The big man could see by the shape of the tent, one of the light plastic poles had snapped already. He turned to the man. “You might want to get into the cabin or one of the cars until this blows over. Your tent isn’t going anywhere.” The man looked at him oddly, but then nodded at him and said thanks. He reached into the tent to pull out a small revolver before he headed to the cabin.

  Daniel could see Jensen and Dave putting tarps over the open turrets of the Humvees as he went tent to tent, driving additional stakes into the ground using only his weight and tremendous grip strength. At almost 260 pounds, it was nearly as good as a hammer. Better, because he couldn’t accidentally strike his thumb with a hammer if he wasn’t using one.

  A far-off rumble of thunder carried to his ear. Daniel hadn’t seen rain since before he left Fort Gordon to join Jensen, and the prospect of a good rain excited him. Truth be told, he’d always loved the sound of a heavy rain on a metal roof. Typically, not with a dozen other people around him in a cabin, but he could live with that. He’d rather have them around than not.

  The smell of ozone suddenly filled his nostrils and made him look up. He could see sheets of rain travelling toward him at high speed as he dashed toward the cabin and shelter. It was a short run, but the exertion of hurrying between tents to stake them down followed by his dash for safety had him breathing hard.

  He stood to his full six feet and four inches as he closed the door. He lightly flexed his muscles and arched his neck just as the leading edge of the thunderstorm crashed down on the metal roof with thunderous applause. He felt good. He felt alive. There was something about the overwhelming power of nature that spoke to him. There was no second-guessing, like the decision to target someone. There was no wrestling with moral conundrums. It just was.

  He was still relishing the energy in the air when something crashed into his chest and a loud crack filled the air. He noticed a bright flash inside the dim cabin. It certainly wasn’t lightning. It was too orange to be the white-hot glow of lightning. He faintly heard a voice shouting at him, “You killed Jed!” Then he slumped to the ground listening to more crashing gunfire competing with the drum of rain on the metal roof.

  The first gunshot had come from a small revolver in the hands of the man from the tent with the broken pole. Jensen returned fire, shooting tent man three times at point blank range and dropping him in place as the revolver tumbled out of his victim’s hand. It was the man he’d seen cradling the body of another man down in the clearing. The name of the deceased was clearly Jed. Jensen took four long strides forward and shot the man in the head before turning toward Daniel near the front door. The final shot was quicker than checking for a pulse and he had other matters to attend to at that moment.

  As Jensen moved toward his friend, who was moving slightly as he tried to struggle into a seated position, he kept his pistol drawn and eyes moving across the rest of the shocked residents to determine if there were any other threats. Most were too stunned to move, others crawled backward from the scene of the killing or placed their hands over their ears from the high decibel shots in the small room. Jensen saw Brent watching in horror, with his hands raised slightly to show he wasn’t a danger.

  Jensen knelt by Daniel, horrified that the worst had happened. He’d almost seen it coming, noticing as the now dead man had reached a hand into his pocket as Daniel came into the cabin. He’d been too slow drawing his own pistol, and the man had managed to get off one shot before his own bullets crashed into the aggressor, ending the threat. He’d watched from the corner of his eye as his big friend opened his eyes only to be met with the flash and a bullet from the short-barreled pistol before he slumped to the ground.

  He laid his pistol on the ground next to Daniel’s body as his friend gasped for breath. Jensen searched for blood, trying to locate the wound he knew was there. He had trained many times for situations like this. He’d completed the Army’s Combat Lifesaver Course more than once, and had put those skills to use on the battlefield.

  Jensen saw a dark hole in Daniel’s shirt, right in the center of the right side of his chest. He looked for frothy bubbles, anticipating a punctured lung from the bullet. He was confused for a moment when he didn’t see any blood at all. He placed his left hand on Daniel’s shoulder and his right on the hole, telling the big man to relax while he tended to him. His fingers found the hole in his friend’s chest, only it wasn’t in his chest. It was a small tear in the fabric of his soft vest, the one that had been taken from a fake police officer on Fort Benning.

  Jensen’s hand pulled the flattened slug from the ve
st, where it had been stopped before pushing through the inner fabric layer and held it up in front of Daniel’s wide eyes. “You’re fine bud, you’re fine. Your vest stopped the bullet. You’re okay.” He watched as understanding filled Daniel’s eyes before adding, “Now stop being so melodramatic, you big pussy.”

  Chapter 6

  The heavy rain had passed hours ago, but it still rained off and on sporadically as the 17 remaining members of the party talked while squeezed into the confines of the cabin. What had seemed very spacious when they first arrived seemed extraordinarily cramped with so many people inside scattered among the stacks of supplies.

  Dylan, the young man who frequently set off into the woods with Abby, was describing what he knew about Montana, the man whose corpse had been removed and left in the rain behind the cabin. “Jed was his husband, and he blamed you—” his eyes sought Daniel’s, “—for getting him killed. I didn’t know he was going to do anything, but he definitely blamed you for his death. He thought kicking us out was what allowed us to be ambushed and lose so many people.”

  “He didn’t tell you he was planning to try to kill Daniel?” The question came from Brent, the leader of the second group. He felt responsible for putting their saviors at risk because he hadn’t identified the threat from his own people. The young man, barely more than a teenager, replied, “He told me he was going to get him back, but he didn’t say anything about killing him. Mostly he just went on about how he’d be alone forever now.”

  None of them could appreciate the depression Montana might have been experiencing. He’d just lost his husband, and being a gay man in Georgia before the apocalypse frequently had its difficulties. It was a small percentage of the population that was available for dating. Studies in 2024 had put the LGBT population at less than 5% of the overall population. For any age, race, gender, or orientation, finding a suitable mate was often difficult. For a member of that 5%, it could feel overwhelming.

  That didn’t stop Jensen from leaving his corpse to chill outside on the ground, unprotected from the rain. Despite any depression or hopelessness Montana had felt, he had tried to kill one of their own. Only Madison, the athletic redhead from the trailer, had questioned the decision to leave Montana’s body to the elements. “He wasn’t being rational, but it doesn’t seem right to just leave his body out there.” She glared at Jensen, who had dragged the bloodied body outside, “It’s not like we don’t all understand at least some of what he was going through. If you were in the same room with the folks that gave your families those vaccinations, wouldn’t you want to do the same?”

  Jensen just shook his head. “If you don’t like it, feel free to grab his body and hit the road. I won’t stop you.” She stormed out of the cabin, and he watched as she started to gather the things from her tent and throw them into the back seat of one of the cars. He turned to the remaining 16 members of the group. “Anyone that wants to stay is welcome to stay. If you want to go, now is the time. “

  After looking uncertainly at each other, the heavyset blonde woman, a brown-haired man Jensen hadn’t met, and three of the other women headed out the door as well, one of them leading Ethan by the hand.

  Sheila started after them, but Brent raised his hand to stop her. “Don’t. They don’t want to be here.” He indicated the brown-haired man and dark-haired woman through the front window. “Charlie and Donna have them convinced that Jensen really did murder Katie’s brother. They wanted to have a trial to determine your guilt or innocence,” he said, looking at Jensen.

  The target of his gaze looked confused. “What good would a trial do? There were no witnesses except Katie, and she’s out there,” Jensen said, indicating the line of graves.

  Brent shrugged. “That’s the problem. There are no witnesses, so people are going to believe what they want to believe. You taking out all of those jackasses in the pickups only reinforced what they already thought; you’re a killer.”

  Jensen turned to look at the small group as they gathered their belongings in the light rain. “They’re right, I am a killer,” he said, turning to the remaining people, “but I’m not a murderer.”

  The older man, with a lifetime of construction experience and reading people replied, “But they think you are, or at least they’ve convinced themselves they think you are.” He indicated another woman with dirty-blonde hair, which had probably once been in a very stylish cut. “Krystin was a paralegal. She told them Katie probably only recanted because she was under duress and didn’t want to put the rest of us at risk while you were in a tank,” he said, looking at Daniel. “People believe what they want to believe in the absence of facts, and often even in the face of facts.”

  Brent held out his hands. “I believe you, Marcy believes you, so do Emmy, Abby, and Dylan.”

  Jensen looked around the room as they nodded. The former Army man had to admit, he was glad Krystin was gone. She rubbed him entirely the wrong way. She was small and shivery, like a Chihuahua, and was very demanding. He assumed she’d probably been very popular growing up because she was tiny and attractive, but he’d dealt with girls like her before and wanted nothing to do with her.

  He guessed she might still be popular, because Charlie had watched her reaction before standing up to leave. Jensen figured he was probably going where she went, whether Charlie thought Jensen had murdered a little boy or not.

  He sighed and went to the table, which still had several guns on it. Jensen picked up Jerry’s AK47, a bolt-action rifle chambered in the same caliber, Montana’s revolver, and a couple of the remaining pistols and placed them to the side, then grabbed a single box of .38 special, a couple-hundred rounds of 9mm, and all of the 7.62x39 ammunition they had.

  He looked at the group. “They’re going to need more weapons that what they’ve got.” Jensen had seen what they brought along; dusty old guns that probably hadn’t been used in ages. One of them was clearly a break-action single shot shotgun. They would need more firepower than what they had based on his experiences out there, what he now considered ‘outside the wire.’

  “Are you all okay with giving them these weapons?” Contrary to his expectations, they all looked pleased that he was planning to give away some of their weaponry. Only Jessica looked doubtful. The group from Dahlonega were still their friends, regardless of their decision to leave. Jensen nodded, “Okay, then they’ll get them. See? I’m not an asshole.”

  From the other side of the room, a voice chimed in, “Yes you are!”

  Jensen gave Daniel a dirty look. “Sometimes I’m an asshole, but not always.” He looked at Daniel for confirmation and was met with the man’s large hand wiggling back and forth in a so-so motion. “Will you help me bring this stuff to them?”

  The cars were already rolling as they carried the guns and ammunition outside. The first car, which had the nervous Chihuahua inside, sped off at the sight of the heavily armed contingent coming out of the cabin. Jensen wanted to put a few new bullet holes into the car just on general principle, but caught himself. She really got under his skin for some reason.

  It was Madison who stopped and got out. She accepted the weapons silently and put them into the passenger seat of her Mitsubishi. The ammunition was placed securely on the floor. She started to leave, but turned back to face Jensen. “Human life is valuable, and how we treat the dead is a reflection of how we feel about the living.” Without waiting for a response, she dropped into the vehicle and drove off down the muddy hill.

  Jensen didn’t feel ashamed. He’d long since delineated a strong line between innocent victims and unlawful aggressors. Victims were treated with all the care in the world, as the 21 graves already on the hill showed. Aggressors were treated much less gently. He’d left hundreds of bodies on battlefields overseas—and now in the United States—for the wildlife and the elements to destroy. His men and women, who regularly toed the line of aggressor, were exempt from that judgement. He took care of them.

  As he turned back, he saw a troubled look o
n Daniel’s face, one he couldn’t quite place. As their eyes met, he raised an eyebrow in question. It was a universal gesture among people who had experienced trauma; he was asking, “Are you okay?” Daniel simply nodded. Whatever it was, he’d talk about it when the time was right, if it ever would be. “Let’s get back inside. We don’t need anyone getting pneumonia.” As Jensen started back toward the door, he took a deep breath. The ever-present smell of smoke was absent for the first time in weeks.

  Back inside the cabin, Jensen looked at the remaining survivors. There were still five members of the original eight that had left Appling together, along with five more that had escaped Dahlonega. By his estimate, 22 of the original folks from those two groups were dead and another seven had just left down the mountainside. He carefully assessed the new arrivals. “I should have asked this before I gave away all those guns; what do you have?”

  He noted that only Brent and Marcy had weapons visible, both carrying black pistols in belt holsters. Emmy pulled a pistol out of her pocket. Abby simply held up a lockback knife.

  Dylan said, “I’ve got a shotgun back in my tent. I didn’t think to grab it before I came in here.”

  Jensen started with Emmy, “Are you comfortable using that?”

  Emmy, which was short for Emilia, nodded and replied, “I’ve had this for years. I kept it behind the counter at the flower shop in case of trouble.”

  Jensen didn’t recognize the weapon, which looked very odd. It had a black slide and controls, but the frame and barrel were a bright purple color. “What caliber is it?”

  Emmy dropped the magazine and racked the slide, facing the ejection port upward as she did so. She neatly caught the ejected shell and locked the slide back. “This is a Bersa Thunder .380. I think it’s about 15 or 20 years old now.”

  The military man nodded. “Any good with it?”

  Emmy blinked. “Pretty good. I’ve got at least a thousand rounds through it.”

  The ex-cav officer was impressed. Most of his soldiers hadn’t put in that kind of work with their pistols. “Nice!” Do you have any experience with a rifle?”