by James Ryke
After the last explosion, Rick righted himself, his critical expression replaced by awe. “What was that?”
“The clay pigeons,” Jane answered. “Now, are you a little more impressed?”
“How?”
“It was Archimedes’ idea,” Jane answered. “We carefully filled the center of the pigeons with contact explosives.”
“Contact explosives?” Rick said.
“Yeah,” Jane replied. “We mixed ammonia with iodine to get nitrogen triiodide. Once we punched the center of the pigeons out, we replaced it with the nitrogen triiodide and then covered them with tape so that it could work in the trap thrower without detonating. Once it impacts the ground, it will detonate as designed. It’s not the biggest explosion, but we added some nails to create shrapnel. It will do some damage if it lands near or on someone—we did some preliminary tests on some animals.”
“That’s impressive, Jane. That’s something we can use. How predictable are their flight patterns?”
“Pretty predictable—they land within a few yards of each other.”
“Excellent. I want you to do something for me. Whenever there isn’t a breeze, I want you to shoot out about ten of those pigeons from each machine. We’ll dig a trench along the spots where they hit the most.”
“Right now?”
“Well, whenever you get a chance,” Rick answered.
“Why? Won’t that just provide cover for the bad guys?”
“It will provide cover from our guns, and that’s why they’ll be
drawn to it, but it will be a perfect trap for the pigeons.”
Jane nodded. “Yeah, that might work. All right, I can do that,
but I’ve got two more things to show you.”
She walked back to Kate’s side.
Kate smiled broadly as Rick approached. “So, what did you think of the pigeon bomb?”
“It’s…well…impressive.”
“The next thing we have to show you is our radio system,” Jane handed Rick a small earpiece. “Using the radios that we have available, Archimedes was able to create a prototype for more listening devices that pick up the frequency. A person who has these won’t be able to communicate, but they’ll be able to listen to radio traffic. We should be able to make enough for everyone.”
“What about radios that someone can communicate with,” Rick asked. “How many of those can we fabricate?”
“Well, Ricky, with the equipment we have,” Archimedes answered, “about fifty.”
“That’s not too bad.”
“Wait till you see the last thing we have in store,” said Kate with a wink.
Archimedes led the way to another portion of the roof that had several plywood boards laid down from end to end. On one far end, there was a rain tarp that was secured to the roof by several bungee cords. Jane and Archimedes walked around the tarp, unlatching it with care. They freed the tarp and pulled it off, revealing a large remote control airplane. The plane had a few post-construction improvements, including a video camera that was jammed into the cockpit and a large bomb bay underneath.
“Does this work?” Rick asked.
“Yes,” Archimedes squeaked.
“How come this wasn’t affected by the EMP? Or, come to think of it, how come the clay pigeon throwers and your radio equipment still work?”
“It’s Archimedes’ hobby shop,” Jane said excitedly. “We went there to pick up the Catapult, which was located two floors below the shop floor. Archimedes did not have a security system—he is really old school like that—so he protects his most valuable merchandise in old metal, military containers. With the combined protection of the basement and the metal boxes, most of the circuitry survived.”
“How many planes can you construct?” Rick asked.
“We have enough parts to make six of these planes—all of them strong enough to carry a payload of eight pounds of some kind,” Jane said. “We’re setting up a command station downstairs where we’ll be able to control the airplanes remotely. The planes will broadcast a video in real-time via microwaves so we’ll be able to see where they’re going. A smaller video camera is situated on the bottom of the plane that enables us to see the target zone. With a little practice, these planes could be deadly accurate.”
“What does the plane use for fuel?”
“Mostly methanol and nitromethane. I still have all of the ingredients to make fuel in my store,” Archimedes answered.
“You still have nitromethane?”
“Yes, why?”
Rick stepped closer to the plane. “With nitromethane, we can make cap sensitive boosters to detonate ANFO—”
“What’s that?” Kate asked.
“Ammonium Nitrate Fertilizer and fuel Oil. With that, we can make all kinds of stuff—from shape charges to pipe bombs that we can plant in the ground.” Rick shook his head, his usually hard to read expression replaced with a tight smile. He knelt next to the plane and looked at it from different angles, his mind working on different variables. He finally broke the silence. “Could you hook it up so it could drop a liquid?”
Archimedes nodded and he said something too soft to hear.
“What did he say?”
“He said yes and that he thinks that some type of fuel would be the most effective,” Jane said.
“If we take gas,” Rick said, “and add some Styrofoam or rubber bands, we’ll get something similar to napalm. I bet we could only get a gallon of gas in there before we hit the weight threshold—it’s not much, but a gallon of napalm in the right spot could do some real damage.”
“We thought of that too,” Jane said, “but we’re having a hard time figuring out how to light the gas. If we rig a lighter up onto the cargo bay, I think we can get ignition if we use the friction from the hatch opening, but then much of the fuel would be burned before it hit the target. We could compensate for this by flying at a lower altitude, but then they’ll be much more vulnerable to gunfire.”
Rick nodded. “What we need is powder chlorine and salt—that should give us ignition.”
“Chlorine?” Kate asked.
“Yes,” Archimedes chimed, his eyes opening so wide that Rick was afraid they might fall out. “Ricky is right. The right mixture of Chlorine and salt will create ignition once they’re exposed to gasoline. We can put the gas in a glass bottle, put some chlorine and salt in an envelope, and tape it to the bottle. When the cargo bin opens, the bottle will drop and rupture on impact. The gas will mix with the salt and chlorine, creating a chemical reaction that’ll explode into flames.”
“So, what do you think?” Jane said, her voice sounding vulnerable for the first time.
Rick winked at his niece and nodded. “Good work—all of
you. Very impressive. I did not expect anything even remotely like this. I was just hoping you would have the murder holes mostly done by the time I got back, but this is something different entirely.”
Jane shyly grinned.
Rick returned the smile, “But right now, I need to talk to Kate—alone.”
Jane’s smile faded ever so slightly. “Why?”
“Business,” Rick answered.
Her smile disappeared completely, but she did not offer further protest. She nodded and grabbed Archimedes around the arm. “All right, let us know if you think of anything else...Ricky.” They disappeared seconds later.
“How are the rest of the preparations?” Rick asked, his voice becoming even more serious than it usually was.
“Good. We’re ahead of schedule on everything,” Kate answered. “I don’t know what’s fueling these people, but everyone is putting in thirteen or fourteen hours a day—with only a few breaks to eat.”
“Death is a powerful motivator.”
“I think it’s more than that. Let me show you what we’ve done.”
She led the way back to the edge of Costco and gestured out with her hands to the parking lot. “We’ve been s
inking highway blocks into the pavement, as per your request. It’s hard work—with us having to break through the pavement by hand. Much of the dirt has to be moved with a shovel, but the forklifts can push the blockades in place when we’re done. We did find another old tractor that has a large attachable auger, and that really has helped with the digging.”
Rick looked at the parking lot and could see dozens of pillars that had been sunk into the ground and now stood perpendicular to the earth. The concrete barriers cast long shadows in the rising morning sun. It looked odd and cryptic, like a psychedelic version of Stonehedge. He also noticed the work of a dry moat and an electric drawbridge being dug around the front entrance—something that Rick did not think of before but quickly realized the benefit of. Even if someone was able to drive through the vehicle barriers, they would still be stuck in the moat. It would prevent a vehicle from just ramming into the building with high yield explosives.
“I saw that you’d made good progress on the internal structure too,” Rick said. “Our survival comes down to that last building—it’s our only chance.”
“I don’t understand. I built it—now tell me why.”
“First, I need you to pick ten people you trust.”
“Why does it matter?”
“It matters. I’m calling this Operation Rainmaker. Only a few people can know about this special project—not even Isaac should know; we’ve all seen how bad he is at keeping secrets.” Then Rick went into a lengthy explanation of a chemical compound, the use of terracotta planters that were found in Costco, and the installation of a massive fan that had an independent power supply. Initially, not much of this made any sense to Kate, but the more he explained, the more she seemed to understand what he was driving at. “This,” Rick continued, “will be the last card that we have—hopefully, it will be enough.”
“But why can’t we tell anyone else—it will give them hope.”
Rick nodded quickly. “Yes, it will, but for this to work, that’s the one thing I don’t want people to have—hope. I want panic to set in—I want the members of the Congregation to fear for their lives. I can’t explain it any better than that. Trust me, that’s the only way it will work. Can I count on you to get it done?”
Kate looked down at her feet. “I’m confused.”
“Can I count on you to get it done?”
After another moment of hesitation, Kate looked up, her eyes burning into Rick. “I trust you, and so I’ll do it. But, God help us if you’re wrong.”
THIRTY-FIVE
Day 82
Each day was long and hard. At the crack of dawn, Rick once again continued his tactical training of the Congregation. The ranks of the defense force had swollen to its largest size yet. It consisted of men and women of all ages, the youngest being eleven and the oldest being Old Pete, who was seventy-nine. Rick did not focus as much on everyone’s cardio as he did before; the training became much more focused on their defensive posturing. They drilled constantly on how to load and reload their guns quickly, how to clear a jam, how to provide cover fire while someone else was loading, how to react when someone had been shot. They learned how to spot enemies and lead their shots, how to communicate on the radio in code, and how to properly make and throw a Molotov cocktail filled with napalm. Rick designed a grid system that enabled everyone to know exactly where something was—which was essential for effective deployment of the catapults and pigeons. Day after day, Rick made everyone study the grid system, forcing it to stick into their brains through constant drills.
Once the tactical training concluded for the day, everyone ate a quick breakfast and then picked up on the task that they had started on the day before. The tasks were usually tedious and challenging, but Rick was surprised by how much was accomplished on a daily basis. After the sunset and the Congregation prepared to bed down, the people would gather and sing—sometimes hymns, other times pop songs. Several members of the Congregation knew how to play the guitar, and at least twice a week, there would be an impromptu concert. Oftentimes, dancing accompanied the music and laughter was sure to follow. Other nights were more relaxed, and people would gather around a few lit fires that used modified air-conditioning ducts as chimneys and swap stories of how life used to be. People seemed so much better at socializing than they ever did before: Even Jane, arguably the most introverted person Isaac knew, opened up like a flower to the sun. People looked forward every night to the simple conversations that they knew they were going to have with each other—there was nothing else to occupy anyone’s free time. There were sad moments too, where people broke down in bitter tears. It was an odd mix of an old and new culture that seemed to be formulating into something completely unique. The people were accepting and warm, and no one could pass the campfires without being drawn to the cheerful people around it. So many labels, like being rich or poor, did not seem important anymore—that perspective almost seemed foreign.
On Sundays, Isaac saw his church attendance swell to an unprecedented amount of people—despite his “new building” being nothing more than a couple hundred chairs that were set up in the receiving area of Costco. People seemed to look forward to service—even those who did not even believe in God—and during the week, several of them would come up to Isaac to ask about the next meeting or specific scriptures. Isaac thrived in this environment, driven by his impromptu nature. His wife too, although much more reluctant to publicly speak, melded into the crowd of individuals and shared several laughs. It was moments like these when Isaac knew for a certainty that what he was doing was right.
The more jovial the crowd became, the more Chass seemed to distance himself from the Congregation. After being back only a week, when the Congregation was loud with song, he finally strapped his swords onto his back and headed for a side door.
Isaac’s voice came out of the dark. “Where’re you going?”
Chass let out a long sigh, his face hidden in shadow. “I’m heading out.”
“Where are you going? Your place is here with us.” Isaac repeated as he stepped into the dim firelight.
Chass felt an urge of anger rip through is veins, forcing his muscles to momentarily seize. His hands twitched, and before he could stop them, he bit his cheek until it bled. He let out a long, deep breath. “Isaac, you don’t know what I face every day. I need to kill. I need to feel blood on my hands. And the cold blood the doctor gives me helps, but does not satiate my cravings. It’s like smelling food instead of tasting it.”
Isaac swallowed.
“If you would let me kill a few members of the Congregation, maybe I could stay. You could send them into a room with me and lock us inside. That way, I wouldn’t get carried away. I think I could keep my cravings in check.”
The words his brother spoke did not scare him nearly as much as his tone. He’s being honest with me. He really would stay if I let him have the occasional sacrifice.
Isaac shook his head. “You know that wouldn’t work. What about animals?”
Chass’ body tensed, his eyes flashing. “No, that won’t work. It has to be human.” He took another deep breath before he forced his body to relax. He turned for the door.
“You’re not as far gone as you think you are,” Isaac said.
Chass stopped but did not turn around. “If you think that, then you know idea who I really am.”
“You saved Rick and everyone else on that raid. All of them would have died—every single one of them.”
Chass narrowed his eyes and concentrated. What raid? He looked down at the dried blood on his hands, and memories slowly came back to him. The waterfall of blood down the stairwell; the death and destruction left in his wake. I remember now. He turned around. “I needed to kill—”
“Then why didn’t you kill Old Pete?” Isaac said firmly. “Why’d you leave him on the ground still breathing? He should have been your first victim, and when you ran into the others from the Congregation, why didn’t you cut them down as we
ll?”
“I’m tortured every second that I’m here, driven mad by the number of people around me. I’m a starving man sitting in front of a plate of food—but can’t eat. Has anyone ever choked you out to the point where the only thing you can think of is taking a breath? That’s how my mind works, and unless I kill someone soon, I can’t breathe.” Each word Chass spoke seemed more bitter and torn than the last.
“It doesn’t make sense—you’re saying two completely different things: First, you’re saying that you don’t care about anyone, and second, that it actually matters if you end up killing one of us.”
“You know you’re going to die here?”
Isaac did not respond.
“The Executor has over seven thousand soldiers, all of which are ruthless. And I was chief among them. There was not a city that we sacked where a single person was spared. You’ve got, what, maybe four hundred and fifty people.”
“Four hundred and forty-two,” Isaac corrected.
“And some of those are children.”
“They’re about four hundred people suited for fighting.”
“You’re dead,” Chass hissed. “It’s only a matter of time.”
“Is that why you’re leaving?” Isaac asked.
“No,” Chass said quickly. “I look forward to death, but it will be another two weeks before the Executor is here, and I can’t wait that long. You don’t have any idea who the Executor is, do you?”
Isaac shook his head slightly. “I guess I don’t….”
“There’s not a single person that has stood against him and not fallen. Those that survived the initial attack have it worse than those that die—because nothing but torture and pain awaits them. Here you are trying to protect those forty children, but the best thing you could do for them is let me slice off their heads before I go.”
“We can’t do that.”
“You’re a fool,” Chass said, his voice laden with rage. “The rape and torture that waits every single person that survives will far surpass anything those kids have ever seen or felt. Half of them will be driven mad by the process, their brains unable to handle the amount of suffering that their bodies endure. I know, Isaac, because I’ve seen it. You are subhuman to the Executor—worth less than livestock. And I’m one of them—the best they had.”