SEVEN DAYS

by James Ryke

  “Sure,” said Cagle, “but just so we are clear: when you say eliminate the threat, do you want me to shoot at them?”

  “Until they’re dead.”

  “Like shoot them in the chest or something?” Cagle whispered.

  “Twice to the chest, once to the head. All right, everyone else, on me.” Rick gestured towards the rear door. He led the group quickly away from the church and in the direction of the tree line. Within moments, they were concealed by thick foliage. Rick took his time walking through the trees, occasionally grabbing a map and list of names from his pocket, studying it for a few moments, and then continuing on. The darkness made for slow moving but, thankfully, the moon was out in full force. They broke the tree line and headed for the city—no one appeared to notice their approach. Despite the cold air, the city was ripe with a wretched smell. It was an odd combination of mold and feces that overwhelmed the senses and forced a person to notice nothing else.

  They entered the city and walked nearly half a block before they spotted another person. It was a young man about twenty years old. He was squatting over a curb and defecating into the gutter. He was not the first to use the sidewalk as a toilet seat, as evidenced by the foot-high mounds of feces lining the roads. As the man finished, he skipped any attempt to wipe himself and pulled up his pants, grimacing sourly as he walked away. More people appeared, their faces bundled up with thick blankets and filthy looking coats. Most individuals seemed to wander aimlessly, as if they had no clear destination in mind and that they were only moving around to fight off the morning cold. Some people smelled worse than others but each person smelled wretched in their own right.

  It was still too dark to make out any facial features, but it was abundantly clear that people feared Rick and the men surrounding him. Everyone gave them a wide berth as they walked, sometimes even completely crossing the street to avoid them. Rick kept looking forward, as if he simply did not have the ability to see or notice the dirty people around him.

  They walked two more blocks before Rick led them into an apartment complex. Inside the building, the moonlight was completely blocked out, making it nearly impossible to see. Rick pulled out a red-colored flashlight and continued forward. They climbed three floors before Rick raised his hand in a fist and stopped the group. He pulled out a sheet of paper from his pocket, studied it for a second, and slipped it back inside. Once again, they continued on, their boots echoing throughout the empty stairwell. Rick led them on until they reached apartment 316. At a hand gesture from Rick, the group crouched down.

  “Contact/cover,” Rick whispered to the people behind him.

  It took a while for the message to get conveyed to everyone in turn, and even then, Old Pete stood up and asked in a loud voice, “Contact a clover? What sort of Yankee talk is that?”

  The others pulled the older man back to the ground, repeating the command in hushed voices until Old Pete nodded with understanding. The group got into position: Rick crouched to the left side of the door, Hector was on the right; McCurdy and Anthony waited behind the entry team, while Old Pete guarded the flank.

  Rick knocked on the door. Nothing happened. He knocked again, this time somewhat louder. Something inside the room thudded and a body hit the floor—a string of swear words followed.

  The door finally cracked open. “Who is it?”

  Rick shined his light in the man’s eyes, effectively blinding him momentarily. “We’re here to rescue you.”

  The man’s surprised expression turned to delight, “I didn’t think you were real. Come in. Come in.”

  Using the beam from Rick’s limited light, the men rushed inside and shut the door. The entry was chaotic and clumsy. Two members of the team accidentally hit the tip of their gun on the door frame, creating a jam of bodies at the entryway. The individuals in the flank continued pushing their way into the apartment, knocking Hector to the floor. He fell face-first into his gun frame, which cut him across the face, and a flashlight from one of his pockets rolled across the carpet.

  Rick looked at the occupant of the apartment carefully, “What’s your name?”

  “Benjamin Brooksby,” answered the man.

  “What’s your birthday?”

  “June 14, 1975.”

  “What’s the last four of your social security number?”

  “2742…but I don’t know what that has to do with anything.”

  “I gotta make sure it’s you,” Rick answered. “Team—secure the apartment.”

  More lights flashed on as Alpha went into action. They went room by room, clearing each one in turn. After each room was checked, the point man announced that it was clear. Their approach was disjointed and disorderly, and more than once, two of the team members collided into each other as one person was entering a room that another person had just finished clearing.

  “I’m alone,” said Benjamin, “I don’t think that clearing the apartment is necessary.”

  “Precautions are always necessary,” Rick answered. “Now, more than ever, mistakes can’t be made. Plus, they need the practice. My name is Rick. I was the one that wrote the message to you.”

  “Why me? I live alone. Are you from the Government?”

  “Did you pack?”

  “Yeah,” Benjamin replied as he pulled out a wheeled suitcase from the corner of the room, “The list of supplies you included seemed so short that I added a few additional things.”

  “You’ll have a chance to come back for clothes. All you need right now is all of your medical supplies.”

  “Medical supplies? But I thought you guys were here to rescue me?”

  “We are, but if we’re going to survive any length of time, we’ll need everything you’ve got.”

  “Ok,” Benjamin said absentmindedly, as he slowly unzipped his bag.

  Rick grabbed the suitcase and yanked the zipper down to reveal a suitcase full of clothes, toiletries, and cooking magazines. He dumped the contents of the bag onto the living room floor. “You can take the toiletries, but everything else stays. Now load your bag up with all of the medicine that you have—we don’t have much time.”

  ***

  The team continued to collect the individuals on Rick’s mysterious handwritten list. After picking up two or three, they would escort them back to a specific spot in the trees where another member of the Congregation was waiting to guide them the rest of the way back to the church. The people they collected always lived alone, were single, and were skilled in their occupation. Some were welders, others electricians, and still others were doctors or nurses. They seemed evenly divided between men and women and mixed between all ethnicities. And none of them, without exception, had packed the things that Rick had instructed them to.

  The city became more alive as the sun inched up the horizon. A few people rolled out of their sleeping spots and into the streets; most of them simply sat on the ground as if they were waiting for something to happen. They waited and waited. And then they waited some more, as if help would arrive at any moment. A few people were crying and whimpering, their voices sounding pitifully sharp and broken. Children no longer played in the streets: instead, their basket and soccer balls were scattered amongst the trash that now cluttered the sidewalks like a rummage sale.

  Many of the buildings had been burned. Despite the blackened debris cluttering the floors and the instability of the burnt structures, people had taken residency in every structure that still stood. A few children had gathered some charcoal and were now using it to draw on the ground, but this too seemed to have lost its appeal amongst the majority of the children, who now mimicked their parents as they sat and waited.

  The local markets Jacob reported had disappeared, leaving behind them nothing more than empty carts and rows of discarded items. The townsfolk spoke little to each other, especially as Rick and his group passed. Conversations that did take place were in whispers or hisses. Flyers were hung on almost every building and telephone pole
throughout the city. The handwriting was usually different, but the message was almost always the same: REPORT SUSPICIOUS ACTIVITY TO THE RED SLEEVES. The flyers contained various descriptions of individuals that were so broad and vague they seemed to have been able to apply to just about anyone. At the bottom of the flyers, there was always a list of known terrorists that had been ousted. Rick did not know any of the names, but a few of the members of Alpha did. Most were prominent government officials and city workers. Occasionally, they came across a flyer that was more hopeful and positive in scope. One read in large bubbly handwriting:

  The Federal Government Will Be Here Any Day. Sign up to receive your list of supplies. You will be provided with everything needed: Hot showers; warm food; gallons of water for daily consumption; medical supplies; blankets; portable shelters; insulin; and baby formula. Remember, you must have registered with city hall in order to receive any of these things.

  Rick studied a four-year-old girl as she tried to coax an imaginary drop from a water bottle that had long since been emptied. After several attempts, she lowered the bottle, her eyes red from crying, and went to her mother to beg for water. The mother frowned as she spoke softly to the child, her tone betraying her own frustration. “The water station has not yet opened today. Remember, our last name ends with ‘R,’ so we have to wait till noon.” The child did not seem to understand what the mother was saying and asked again and again for water. Each time, the mother’s frown deepened, and her gaze grew more distant.

  As team Alpha progressed through the city, they passed an entire street that had been burned to the ground—the only thing remaining were portions of the more persistent stone and brick walls. Outside one of the more functional buildings, a lady was screaming at a twelve-year-old child, “I don’t know when! I don’t know when! I know as much as you do right now!” The child broke down in tears. Moments later, the woman did the same, pulling the child in close as her screams turned into wrenching sobs.

  Occasionally, a small patrol group would walk through the streets, their presence greeted by mostly a feeling of ambivalence. Rick took extra precautions when a group of Red Sleeves approached by either engaging in conversation with some of the citizens or by pretending to be busy on another errand. He knew he could handle himself, but he quickly began to lose confidence in the group of people that he led—they were a tactical nightmare. If we end up in a firefight with one of these patrols, Rick thought, I’m just as likely to be shot by friendly fire as I am by the enemy.

  They had just recovered their twelfth person from the city and were heading back to the tree line when one of the Red Sleeve patrols approached. There were five of them, and they were directly in Rick’s way. An older man, his face spotted with mole-like skin growths, appeared to be in charge. “What are you boys doing here?”

  Rick turned to the man, his face expressionless, “Patrolling.”

  “This is our street.”

  Rick shook his head. “This may be your street, but this is our sector. We’re a roving flex unit: we go where we’re needed.”

  “But the terrorist bombing took place next to city hall. They’ve pulled all available men back to prevent another attack. You shouldn’t be here.”

  Rick’s eyes narrowed. “We’ve got orders to patrol here. So move out of the way.”

  The old man was taken aback by Rick’s tone and intensity, “Sorry, I didn’t know we had flex…units. No one told me. My apologies. Move out of the way boys.”

  Rick did not wait for the others to move before he barreled through, pushing the older man to the side. It was then that the older man got a closer look at the red band on Rick’s arm.

  “Wait,” said the old man, “Are those the new armbands? They don’t even have your Officer number on them. Where did you get those?”

  Rick stopped and turned his head to respond. “They’re fake—but that’s not your concern.”

  “What do you mean fake?” the old man replied, his hands slowly drifting to the rifle that was hanging from his shoulder.

  Rick stepped closer to the older man, his hands raised in a non-threatening manner. “I can’t tell you—not in public at least. Let’s step into a building.”

  “Before I do anything, I want you to answer me a question,” the old man replied. “What’s the code of the day?”

  Rick glanced to his left and right before he leaned in closer to the man. As the older man turned his ear towards the large man, Rick, in turn, twisted the man’s neck. The body fell to the ground, convulsing with its last few moments of life. Rick drew his silenced .22 pistol from his left side holster and opened fire. He shot one of the Red Sleeves in the head, another in the throat. The silenced gun was so quiet that it sounded more like an airsoft pistol than a firearm. The other two Red Sleeves went for their guns, but before they could fire, Anthony and Old Pete tackled one of them while McCurdy and Hector tackled the other. The men struggled briefly, but they were quickly subdued.

  The citizens on the street looked on in horror, one lady even screamed. Rick waved them off with his gun. Most of them retreated further down the street, but a few simply took cover within the closest buildings. He then walked over to one of the men held captive, put the tip of the silencer against his head, and slowly began to pull the trigger.

  “Rick, what are you doing?” Anthony said.

  “I’m finishing him.”

  “But he’s a—”

  He was interrupted by the distinct sound of the silenced .22 pistol. Instantly, a small circular hole appeared in the man’s head—blood began to drip down moments later. The sound of the gun was so innocuous, so benign, that Old Pete still held the man down, as if at any moment he would start fighting again.

  Anthony looked into the man’s eyes. The light was gone. He turned towards Rick, “What game are you playing at? You just killed the man in cold blood. We had him contained.”

  “And how long do you think you could keep him contained—an hour, a day? What are you going to do with him?”

  “Let him go.”

  “Go where?” Rick spat, “Back to the Mayor so he can give him a better description of us and how we’re armed?”

  “I won’t tell anyone,” the surviving Red Sleeve said. “You guys are the rebels, aren’t you? I’m sympathetic to your cause. I don’t even like the Mayor—he punched me in the face.”

  “Let him go,” Anthony said. “Let him go. The kid can’t do any harm to us. So what if they know we’re the rebels, so what if they know how we’re armed.”

  Rick approached Anthony, who tried but failed to lock eyes with the intimidating man.

  “Please, Rick. I know you are trying to do the right thing, but so am I. This kid can’t do us any harm. He doesn’t know anything.”

  “He now knows my name,” Rick replied.

  “So what?” Anthony answered.

  Rick sheathed his .22 pistol. “This is on your head. If this comes back to hurt us, the blood will be on your hands. Take their guns and whatever ammo they’re carrying.”

  The others complied, removing everything that the Red Sleeves had of use.

  “All right,” Rick growled. “Let him go.”

  McCurdy and Hector obeyed. Once freed, the man looked at Anthony for the briefest of seconds, “Thank you. Thank you.” Then he took off running towards the city center.

  “Come on,” Rick growled. “Let’s keep moving.”

  They traveled more cautiously this time, somewhat shaken up by their violent encounter, but, eventually, they made it to the tree line, where a nervous Tyler Davis was waiting for them.

  “Isaac needs to talk to you.”

  Rick looked up slightly. “It’ll have to wait.”

  “This is important,” said Tyler. “Isaac said it’s an emergency.”

  Rick frowned and narrowed his eyes. “What is?”

  “Jacob is gone. Nobody knows where he is.”

  Rick looked up and swore. “Does Isa
ac have any idea where he could have gone?”

  “The only thing we know for sure,” Tyler said in a rushed voice, “is that we could not find him in the chapel. We’ve also looked in the woods, but there’s no sign of him. Several people remember seeing him during breakfast, but after that, he seems to have vanished.”

  Rick paused for a moment. Where did that kid go—back to bury the bodies at the old folk’s home? No, his hands are still too injured to work a shovel. Maybe he’s just somewhere in the chapel—no, I’m sure Isaac would have turned that place upside down before he would ask me to interrupt what I’m doing. That means he’s in the city. He must be trying to help out.

  Rick sighed. “You men get back to the chapel. I want that place locked down. No one goes in, and no one comes out, and keep it quiet in there.”

  “What are you planning on doin’, Boss Man?” Hector asked.

  “I’ve got to get my nephew,” Rick replied. “I’m sure that he’s in the city—probably looking for us. Hardly anyone knew we were going out this morning, not even Isaac. Jacob probably thought that we were scouting for information and set off on his own.”

  “Why would he do that?”

  Rick shook his head. “I don’t have a teenage son—I don’t have a damn idea—but the city is not safe. I don’t like the fact that they’re pulling most of the Red Sleeves closer to the city center. The Mayor is up to something. I’ve got to get down there and find him.”

  “We’ll go with you,” asserted Anthony.

  “No,” Rick answered. “This is a personal matter.”

  “Did you see any of the city Patrols with only one person?”

  Rick shook his head.

  “I don’t think they travel in a group of one,” Anthony continued. “You’ll be picked out from the crowd in moments, and when you are, you won’t be offering your nephew any help. You’ll be the one needing help.”

  Rick nodded slowly.

  McCurdy cleared his throat. “Anthony isn’t playing the maggot. The more of us down there, the more eyes we have, the quicker we can find the boyo. If it’s as dangerous as you think it is, then it’s only a matter of time before he’s in real trouble. I’m coming with you.”