SEVEN DAYS

by James Ryke

  Rick could not stand to watch his nephew any longer. Instead, he waited for the armored vehicle to find its way into the Costco. Once it did, he gravely nodded to the driver, who stepped out and joined Rick at the back doors. The armored vehicle was much bigger than he had anticipated. From Chass’ description, Rick had envisioned one of the security vehicles that went from bank to bank collecting money, but this monstrosity looked more like an armor-plated motor home. If he had to guess, he would have said that it once was a mobile FBI command center. The driver opened the back doors, revealing an eclectic mix of weaponry.

  Rick cleared his throat. “We need to inventory the weapons and ammo.” Several people standing nearby replied with “yes, sir” and set to work. Rick tried to help with the work but quickly discovered he was doing more harm than good. He could not concentrate for any length of time before Jacob’s blood-drained face appeared in his mind. He tried to work harder to get his nephew out of his head, but to no avail. He finally decidedly stepped back and let his soldiers finish the job.

  It took several hours to count, catalog, and perform a weapons check on every rifle. When he was finished, Kyle Trabu sauntered over to Rick, where he nervously fidgeted with a piece of paper.

  “Report,” Rick ordered.

  “Yes…sir. It looks like a total of three hundred and forty-four long arms. There’s a good mix of M14’s, M4 carbines, FN SCARS, and Colt M16’s—twelve of the colts have M203 grenade launchers. There are several dozen M24 Remington sniper rifles with military optics; Mossberg M500 shotguns; and H&K MP5’s. There are about twenty other types of guns but nothing in appreciable quantities—including two Thompson submachine guns. There are lots of pistols, mostly 9mm and .45—at least enough for half the Congregation to have a sidearm. We even have 12 Claymore mines, four cases of M67 fragmentation grenades, and nine AN/M14 thermite grenades. I think the biggest surprise, however, are the two belt-fed M249 SAW machineguns.”

  Rick nodded. Despite there being more than he expected, he did not feel encouraged by the new acquisition of weapons. He felt worn and ragged, like a well-used combat boot. He nodded again, absentmindedly, and ordered everyone within earshot to lock the guns away in the armory.

  He was hungry and needed sleep, but instead of heading to the cafeteria or the dormitories, he found himself walking towards the roof of the Costco. Once there, he put his arms on the banister and stared out over the landscape, his eyes squinting at the furthest point of the city. He was not sure how long he stayed there but, eventually, he became aware of someone’s presence behind him.

  He glanced back to see Isaac.

  “What happened?” the Pastor asked, his voice soft but firm.

  Rick turned away. “The operation went bad. He saved us. I told him to fall back to our rendezvous point, but instead, he engaged the enemy—it was only him and Archibald. We would’ve been trapped in a building, surrounded by hundreds, if not thousands of Red Sleeves, had he not stalled them long enough for our retreat.” Rick went into specific details about the entire event, starting at the beginning and ending with Jacob being shot. “I put him in the spot that I thought was the least dangerous, but things quickly flew out of control.”

  Isaac stood next to Rick. “The doctors are saying it could go either way. They’re going to operate on him to get the bullet fragments out of his chest—the stress or shock alone might kill him. The other shots punched right through him in one piece, so they don’t pose any risk.” Isaac rubbed his face. “I don’t blame you for what happened—I know what happened is just the consequence of what we decided, but I have to ask you one thing: Why did you let him go with you? There are a dozen other people that could have taken his spot.”

  Rick tightened his fists. “There are a dozen people that could have taken his spot, but none of them could have replaced him. The boy is smart and quick-thinking—hell, he stopped an entire army in its tracks. If he wasn’t there, all of us would have died—and we would’ve had nothing to show for it. We collected over three hundred weapons, most of them AR15 variants and plenty of ammo for each. We can now hold our own. If the rest of the Congregation was like him, we’d actually stand a chance. Why didn’t you stop him from going?”

  Isaac looked down. “I guess that’s the price for doing the right thing: You risk losing what you value the most.” There was a long pause in the conversation before Isaac wiped his eyes and spoke again. “I know that this is what we should be doing, but right now, I can’t help but question it. I think this is what you’ve been trying to convey to me for so long—this is the loss that you were protecting all of us from.”

  “Trust me, Isaac, I put your son where I thought he was the safest, and he would have escaped just fine had he obeyed my orders.”

  Isaac patted his brother on the back. “I know you. I know you wouldn’t have put him in danger, but of everything I have faced, the possibility of losing…. Well, like you said, he’s a fighter, and he still has a chance. Thank you for returning him.”

  Rick’s eyes became moist, but no tear escaped. The two brothers stared long and hard over the edge of the roof in silence. Finally, Rick spoke. “I saw several more faces here I did not recognize. Where did they come from?”

  Isaac nodded. “Around thirty more people joined us—most of them were from one single group that was scavenging the area for supplies when we found them. They used to be a group of four hundred, and they’ve got their own story to tell. I made sure that they knew the danger we face before I invited them to stay. They know what’s coming this direction, but they’re survivors—all of them—and they prefer the chance of death here to the certainty of death out there. At this point, we need all the help we can get.”

  “Either way you slice it, we won’t survive this: If the Executor comes, he’ll slaughter us. If he doesn’t, we’ll starve. Even if we’re able to push the Executor into a retreat, we still don’t have enough food for the number of people that we have.”

  “Have hope, Rick,” Isaac said in a low but firm voice. “What happened to Chass?”

  Rick let out a long sigh. “As I said, he slaughtered everyone he ran into—no remorse, no hesitation. He was…absolutely… brutal. We were pinned down, but he cut the Black Hounds down as if they were blades of grass. And then he took out an entire floor of those bastards by himself. Even after he was shot a couple of times, nothing seemed to slow him down.”

  Isaac frowned. “The doctors are stitching him up, but he said he’ll kill them if they try to give him any medication. He said he wouldn’t be ‘limited’ again.”

  “He’s not human anymore,” Rick said. “He doesn’t feel anything. As Jacob was bleeding out in the SUV, he barely noticed. Nothing holds any value to him. And it’s only a matter of time before he snaps and starts killing people in the Congregation—whether he knows them or not—and short of a bullet to the head, I don’t know what can stop him. We’ve got to get him back on his medication.”

  “He’s got to stay off of it,” Isaac said in a raspy voice. “The doctors say that the medication isolates him even more from reality. He might not have the strength to kill, but I think it weakens the connection he has with people.”

  “I think we only have two options,” Rick answered. “We either medicate him until he can’t do anything or…”

  “Or what?”

  “Or…,” Rick continued, “you know what I’m saying.”

  “Or what?”

  “Or, we execute him. He’s not right in the head and people

  might die because of it.”

  Isaac did not immediately react. He folded his arms and looked down at the ground. “I’ve thought about that—I really have—but we can’t do that, especially since he hasn’t even injured anyone in the Congregation. We don’t have cause to end his life. He saved you. And, Rick, he’s still our brother.”

  “You did not see him, covered in blood. If he does start killing people, I doubt we’ll be able to stop him until
half the Congregation is dead. He was unreal. He slaughtered everything in his way—leaving nothing behind but a wake of severed bodies, chopped heads, and ripped throats. I’ve seen the aftermath of some pretty fierce firefights, but I haven’t seen anything like that before. He moved like…I don’t know…something that’s not natural.”

  “I guess we all have our talents,” Isaac said with a slight smile.

  Rick let out a low laugh. “That’s the most jacked up joke I’ve ever heard you say.”

  Isaac laughed too, a short sound that lacked any real feeling. After the laughter died, Isaac put his hand on his brother’s shoulder. “I can’t help but think that our fate is wrapped up with him. I realize Chass is a potential danger, but we can’t execute him. We can’t have his blood on our hands.”

  Rick sighed. “You don’t know how dangerous he is—even if he is your brother.”

  “I know, but for now, I think it’s best if we let him be. You look tired and hungry; let’s go get some food—your favorite person is serving it.”

  Rick turned to follow his brother, but he stopped mid-step as he spotted something on the opposite side of the roof. It was the size of a small car and looked like a large wooden spoon. “What the hell is that?”

  “Oh, that,” Isaac said. “Yeah, you need to meet the guy responsible for that.”

  “Who?”

  “Archimedes—or that is, at least, what Jane has been calling him.”

  THIRTY-FOUR

  Day 79

  Archimedes was a short, skinny man, whose head was brimming with white, wiry hair that twisted in every direction—like a well-used bristle pad. He was soft-spoken, sometimes so much so that people could not understand the words that trickled from this mouth, but when he had an idea, his voice was much louder and persistent. These two character traits often went head-to-head with each other, resulting in sudden outbursts of words that were either spoken too loudly, annoying everyone in earshot, or so softly that no one paid attention. The man wore a dirty tablecloth he had fashioned into a poncho that smelled faintly of kerosene.

  Rick’s first impression of the old man was not good: Archimedes cowered behind Kate as if he were a child who had just been caught with his hand in the cookie jar. When Kate stepped aside and gestured to Archimedes, the man, in turn, looked at Rick with a grin that was a little too wide to be considered sane.

  “This is the man they call Archimedes,” Kate said with a gesture of her hand.

  The white-haired man stuck out his hand, but then pulled it back before Rick could react. He then nervously stepped closer and tried again, this time keeping his hand out for a second longer. The skin on his arm stretched with the effort, making his already reedy limb look even thinner.

  Rick did not react. Instead, he folded his arms across his chest. “I haven’t seen you before. Where did you come from?” The words were formed like a question, but it almost sounded like an accusation.

  Kate stepped in between the two men, easing the tension. “He was part of the Late Comers that you and Isaac rescued. Initially, he did not talk for weeks, at least not to anyone else. Jane was the first one to really get to know him, and for several weeks, he would only talk to her.”

  “I don’t remember him.”

  “Well,” Kate said, “he has a talent of blending into the background.”

  “And what is your profession?” Rick asked.

  Archimedes mumbled something, but it was too soft to be understood.

  “He owned a hobby shop in town,” Kate said, “and ease up on him a little.”

  Rick sighed and, grudgingly, unfolded his arms. “Isaac says that you have something to show me—”

  “Yes,” Archimedes said in a sudden burst of excitement, “now let’s see if this is something that you will like.”

  The enthused man led the way to the Costco roof followed by a protective Kate and a reluctant Rick. The large man had felt re-energized by a good night’s rest and a hot breakfast, and he could not help but feel that this was a waste of his energy. He growled impatiently as a list of things he needed to do flashed through his head.

  Archimedes stopped their little procession at a wooden structure. “Now, let’s see if this is something you will like.”

  Rick immediately knew what he was looking at. “It’s a catapult.”

  “Yes,” Archimedes said, “but, unlike any that you have ever seen.”

  “This is the first one I’ve actually seen,” Rick corrected, a hint of annoyance in his voice, “and for good reason too. These haven’t been used in warfare for who the hell knows how long. What is this? What am I looking at?” Rick turned to Kate, “Don’t tell me that you wasted a bunch of your time building this thing.”

  Kate put her hands up in defense. “Hey, you were the one that told me to listen to Jane. This is something that she worked with Archimedes on personally.”

  Archimedes said something but it was too soft to hear.

  “What?” Rick barked.

  “It was already built,” Kate said. “We just moved it up here, but he and Jane want to build more of them—as many as we need.”

  Rick sighed, his patience was starting to wear even thinner. “We aren’t defending a castle against medieval knights.”

  “No, you’re not,” said Jane, “and that’s why the catapult is in the center of the building and not on the edge of it.”

  Rick turned around, a forced smile fixed to his face. “You’re always sneaking up on me like that.”

  “Sorry.”

  “Listen, Jane, we have enough guns for everyone—we don’t need something like this...sorry.” The half-attempted apology seemed to be like an afterthought, and Kate was pretty sure that the only reason Rick mumbled it was because his niece was now here.

  Jane shook her head. “We’ve been making those murder and sniper holes, like you asked, and reinforcing the walls. But every time someone fires, no matter how protected they are, they expose themselves. Guns shoot by line of sight, and we can only shoot the enemy if they have a clear shot of us too. What the catapults do is shoot their projectiles in an arc, which will enable us to keep the enemy’s defensive line much further back. We can load and shoot a dozen or so Molotov cocktails in each shot.”

  Rick rubbed the back of his head. “What’s the rate of fire on these things? We’ll be lucky if we can get one shot off a minute—that won’t keep anything back. Holy hell, we’ll be lucky if these things can throw something past the Costco wall.”

  Jane approached the Catapult and patted it with her hand. “We’ve been getting about two to three hundred yards out of this thing, which is much greater distance than the murder holes allow us to shoot. The sniper roosts give you a greater range of fire, but, like I said, if we can fire at them, they can shoot at us. And don’t worry about the rate of fire—Archimedes engineered this to be automatic. Look, you see those bike gears at the base? Well, we can hook up an electric engine that can reload this sucker in seconds. With a few tweaks, I bet we can get about one launch every fifteen seconds. If we have someone spotting and calling out enemy positions, we should be able to rain fire down on them.”

  Rick nodded, but still did not seem convinced.

  Kate stepped forward and put a hand on Rick’s shoulder. “If we had maybe just a few more of these, we could have perpetual fire. Since we can arc the projectiles, we can hit them without putting any of us in danger.”

  “How long would one of these take to build?” Rick asked.

  “Ten people—one day,” said Archimedes. “If we get ten of these built, we’ll be able to throw about five hundred Molotov cocktails a minute—that should get ‘em.”

  Rick eyed the old man carefully as he scratched the back of his head. “Where are we going to get all those bottles?”

  “The recycling center,” Jane said with a grin.

  Rick sighed. “What else do you have to show me?”

  Archimedes gestured to ano
ther portion of the Costco. “Now, let’s see if this is something you will like, Ricky.”

  They walked over to several electrical clay pigeon throwers. Next to the throwers were dozens of boxes of clay pigeons that had been carefully stacked and organized by type. The pigeon throwers were powered by an extension cord that ran along the roof until it disappeared down a hole to the battery bank below.

  Rick’s frown deepened. “I think I like this idea less than the catapults.”

  Jane matched his frown. “First of all, Uncle, those are high tech catapults—not ones from the dark ages, and second of all, why don’t you wait and see what this can do before you cast judgment—you might even be impressed.”

  “I know what it’s capable of,” Rick answered, “I’ve gone skeet shooting before.”

  “Let’s just show him,” Jane said with an exaggerated sigh. She grabbed Rick’s hand and dragged him to the edge of the roof.

  “If the skeet thrower is over there, why do I need to stand at the edge of the building?”

  “The skeet thrower is just a skeet thrower—it does exactly what you expect a skeet thrower to do—but you won’t see what I want to show you from back there.” Without wasting another second, the girl turned her attention to Kate, who picked up a small control switch. “All right, we’re ready.”

  Kate gave a thumbs up and pushed a large red button. Immediately, a clay pigeon flew out of the thrower and sailed through the sky. Within moments of each other, three more pigeons were released one after another. The orange birds sailed peacefully through the air as they drifted towards the ground.

  Rick was about to question the effectiveness of the bright pigeons when the first bird struck the ground. It immediately exploded on impact, creating a small dust cloud. Despite himself, Rick flinched, his hands instinctively reaching for the pistol that was at his side. The explosions continued as the other three birds hit the ground.