by James Ryke
“We fight for the noblest of causes—the protection of our families, freedoms, and our beliefs. Let us be like Shadrach, Meshack, and Abed-nego and say to this Executor with a voice that shakes even the very foundations of hell. We may fall, but we will never submit.”
THIRTY-EIGHT
Day 101
They came in the morning, just as the sun was appearing on the horizon. The Drone Operators were the first to acquire visual; this information was relayed via radio to the waiting ‘Snipers’ inside the building at their sniper roosts.
The crackly voice of one of the drone operators came across the radio. “We’ve got movement on the north and east side, in sections November 16, 17, and 20, and Echo 16 and 17.” The attackers were noiseless at first, but as soon as the first shot was fired, the Red Sleeves let off a hellish wail as they surged forward. Their charge was chaotic and disorderly, but their sheer numbers were overwhelming as they broke from the trees. Gunfire exploded from both sides, filling the air with constant noise. The noise occasionally accented as one of the attackers triggered one of the hundreds of pipe bombs scattered across the parking lot.
Another drone operator spoke, “We’ve got a group breaking the tree line at a run. Prepare catapults for three volleys of fire in Yellow 12 and 13 on my mark—fire.” In response, Molotov Cocktails from several catapults were released instantaneously. Before the first wave of bottles hit the ground, the catapults were reloading another payload. A wall of flames erupted as the bottles struck the ground, turning dozens of bodies into instant fireballs.
“Rick,” said one of the drone operators, “We’ve got some attackers crouched down in the outside trench. Do you want to fire the pigeons?”
“Negative,” Rick replied. “Wait for my command.” He positioned himself at one of the sniper ports on the Northside of the building, within close proximity to the Command Center. Rick set his sights on a man with blood splattered across his face. He held his breath and slowly squeezed the trigger. The gun fired, and the man tumbled to the ground in a cloud of dust. He shot again—this time at a woman who was trying to raise a rifle to her shoulder. She, too, collapsed to the ground.
Rick was sprayed with bits of rock and debris as a bullet struck the wall he was hiding behind. He keyed his radio, “We’ve got riflemen in the trees—Snipers, be sure to shoot and move to another sniper hole—I repeat, shoot and move.” Rick followed his own advice and stepped up to another sniper port. He keyed his radio again. “Roofers in November and Echo—prepare to fire, Red Sleeves will be in range in seconds.” The air exploded with a chorus of gunfire as the first row of Red Sleeves came into view of the Roofers.
Attackers fell in every direction, spilling blood across the black parking lot. They tripped over the dead and dying bodies, slowing the pace of the assault. The scene was horrific and chaotic, wounded bodies were everywhere, and their painful cries only added to the deafening noise.
“They’ve got some military-grade, armored vehicles trying to break through the vehicle barriers at Echo 16,” a voice said over the radio. “My rifle won’t penetrate the armor.”
“Drone one,” Rick asked. “Did they get through the vehicle barriers?”
“They were able to yank one out, but there’s a dozen more still in their way,” answered a crackly voice.
Rick ran to a sniper port on the east side, his vision trained on the large vehicles in the distance. Rick recognized the shape and size: they were M35’s—large military vehicles that were used for transportation of goods and supplies. They were an older design, a vehicle that had long since passed its glory days, but its limited circuitry meant that the EMP did little to affect its operation. These M35’s were modified with large snowplows, reinforced steel armor, and a heavy machinegun that was mounted on the back. The machinegun was unmanned and pointed up into the air—undoubtedly, its operator had long since been shot.
“Drone two, three, and four, hit them with napalm—that’s the only thing that’ll take them out.”
“Ten-four,” multiple Drone Operators replied.
Rick fired several shots from his sniper hole before he moved
to another position. Just as he reached this new post, several fireballs exploded, consuming the two M35’s with flames. The lead vehicle backed up and ran into the one behind it, effectively preventing any retreat. It then pulled forward and rammed into the vehicle barriers. The concrete slab canted to the side but did not break. The flames intensified as the movement provided more oxygen. The driver attempted one last maneuver but the vehicle stalled completely. A door opened and the driver jumped out. Before he even landed, Rick fired his rifle, hitting the man in the head.
The other M35 was able to slowly lumber out of range, but Rick was sure the vehicle would be worthless in a few more minutes.
Someone spoke on the radio but the transmission was lost in
static.
Rick cued his microphone. “Last unit, repeat transmission.”
“We’ve got intruders at Echo one—they’ve reached the building,” it was one of the Drone Operators, this time it was a woman’s voice. “They’re planting something against the wall. We’ve got intruders at Echo one. I repeat, intruders at Echo one. Roofers—drop Molotov cocktails.”
A moment later, an explosion went off, shaking the building. Rick was knocked to the ground, his ears were instantly buzzing, and his vision blurred. He rolled to his side and pulled himself up on all fours. His breath was knocked entirely out of his body—it took a moment for his lungs to recover. He took a deep breath that soon turned into a series of hacking coughs. Rick wiped spit from his mouth and recovered his M4.
“Build Crew,” Rick said with a dusty voice. “Respond to Echo one and secure the area.”
He raised his rifle to his shoulder and approached the area of the explosion. A small hole about the size of a trashcan was punched into the wall. A wild head, its features covered in sweat and blood, appeared through the crack. The man continued to squeeze through the opening, his progress hampered by the rifle he carried. Rick cracked the man over the head with his gun and yanked the body inside. He then fired through the hole, hitting three more individuals who were lined up to enter. The bodies twisted and fell back as they were hit, disappearing into the dry moat that was behind them.
Moments later, a forklift appeared with a half-inch steel plate that sat vertically on its tongs. Six defenders were running alongside the forklift, each one was armed with a rifle and a tool belt. Upon seeing Rick, they picked up their speed.
“Are you all right, sir?” one of them asked.
Rick ignored the question. “Secure the prisoner and patch the breach.”
The forklift operator could instantly see what Rick meant by the ‘breach.’ He drove his forks through the hole until the wall was flush with the metal plate. While two of the defenders secured the prisoner, the rest attached the metal plate to the wall using pneumatic drills and thick concrete screws.
“They’re falling back,” a drone Operator reported.
“Keep up the fire,” Rick ordered.
“They’re falling back to the outside trench,” another drone Operated asserted.
Rick smiled, “How many are in the trench?”
“Maybe a couple hundred—whatever is left of that first wave.”
“All units: Keep them pinned down in the trench. Drones, advise me when they’ve all fallen back to the trench.”
Rick grabbed the prisoner, pulling the man roughly to his feet. He wordlessly ordered the man to turn around and face the wall. He then spread the prisoner’s legs and searched him from head to toe, finding nothing but a wicked-looking knife and a half-empty water bottle. Rick handed the knife to one of the defenders and dropped the water bottle to the ground. He cuffed the prisoner’s hands behind his back with one of the many nylon electrical ties he carried and then walked the man to a fenced area that once held cigarettes. The prisoner stepped inside, and Rick se
cured it with a padlock.
He turned towards one of the individuals on the build crew, “Keep an eye on him. If he moves, do not hesitate to shoot him.”
“Sir,” one of the drone operators said over the radio. “They’ve retreated to the trench—the rest have either been shot down or escaped into the trees.”
“What are the grids for the trench?” Rick asked.
“Looks like November 19 and 20, and Yellow 21, 22, and 23.”
“Good copy,” Rick said, “Break…Pigeon Operators—prepare to fire ten volleys of equal coverage between November 19 and Yellow 23, how copy?”
“Stand by,” a voice responded. A few moments passed before the voice returned. “On your mark, sir. Prepared to fire.”
“Fire,” Rick ordered.
The air went quiet except for occasional gunfire. Moments later, that all changed as dozens of pigeons simultaneously exploded. The loud sound continued as more volleys hit the ground in concussive repetition. Rick approached the closest sniper hole and peered out. From his angle, he could just barely see the dust and gravel being kicked up from the explosions. They weren’t massive fireballs, but they were still impressive.
The shelling continued for several more moments. Once the explosions stopped, the air was suddenly quiet. The absence of sound seemed almost unnatural.
Rick cued his radio, “Shoot to wound any survivors, not to kill. Nothing hurts morale like seeing your own soldiers bleeding out. Let them crawl back to their master with their own blood on their hands.”
***
“I demand to speak to the leader,” a voice drifted through the walls.
It had only been half an hour since the first attack. Rick had been inspecting the breach in the wall when someone raised him on the radio. “Rick, someone is calling for you from Echo 18. There’s some sort of armor-plated vehicle, and they’re talking through a megaphone.”
Rick had already heard the noise and was not far away. “Ten-four. En route.”
He reached the wall within moments and peered out a sniper hole. “What do you want?” Rick’s strong voice barely traveled the long distance.
“I want to talk.”
“Then talk.”
“Face-to-face.”
Rick laughed to himself. “Negative.”
No response.
Finally, one of the Red Sleeves stepped forward, a white flag
raised in his arms. He approached Costco at a sprint, stepping gingerly around the dozens of dead bodies strewn across the parking lot.
When the man was only twenty yards away, Rick yelled out. “That’s far enough. What do you want?”
“The great Executor sent me to deliver this radio,” the man’s
voice was even and strong. “He wishes to discuss terms. I demand to be let inside.”
“Well, you can demand it,” Rick said, “but I’ll be damned if
I’m going to give it. How’s your throwing arm?”
“You pathetic bastard, do you know who I represent?” the man asked, his feigned civility disappearing almost instantly. “Do you know who stands behind me? There is not a man alive that could stand against the will of the Executor. By order of the Great One, I must go inside. Open your doors, or things will be much worse for the survivors when we take this building over.”
“No,” Rick replied curtly, “You can either pitch that radio onto the roof, or goose step it back to your Great one, but there’s not a chance in hell any of you are stepping in this building while I’m alive.”
The man did not respond. He was visibly taken aback by the dilemma, surprised that his approach had not worked. “Where do you want me to throw it?”
“On the roof.”
“I don’t know if I can throw it that high.”
“Then get the hell off my doorstep,” Rick yelled, his voice now dripping with venom, “and send someone back here who can.”
The man looked at the radio and then back towards the Executor. He hesitated for a few more moments before he pulled his arm back and threw the small device. It sailed into the sky, barely clearing the top wall before tumbling across the roof to a stop.
Someone retrieved the radio and several moments later, handed it to Rick. He turned the radio on and adjusted the volume. He paused for a moment before he cued the radio, “Speak.”
The Executor’s cold, calm voice melted into the air. “Is this the leader?”
“What do you want?”
“I want to talk. Impressive display this morning. You’ve been the first group that’s actually been able to defend themselves for any length of time. Every city before has not been able to withstand my first assault—and I truly began to believe that people did not care about surviving. I’ve never given anyone a chance to surrender—I did not think they could earn it—but I’ll give you a chance now.”
“I can only play with the cards in my hand and surrender is not one of them.”
“Don’t think of it as surrender but as a mutual agreement between two people that respect each other—”
“You assume too much.”
The Executor dropped his friendly tone, “You’ve got a talented group of people in there, but don’t think for a second you have any leverage in this conversation. I’m giving you a chance. My first assault was a test—a test to see if you were worthy of joining me.” The Executor paused for a second before he continued to speak again; this time, his logical, warm tone returned. “Of course, I would have to kill a few of your people, just to set an example, but, as their leader, I’ll let you pick out who I execute. They won’t be tortured—simply killed. Most people don’t have the strength to survive in this world—and in a way, I’m doing them a favor by removing them from it. Fifty people must die.”
“There are over a thousand of us—why do you only want fifty?”
“That’s not true. You are a mere four hundred and forty-two—assuming that none died in the first assault. So, Rick, you can stop the lies right now. I know a lot more about this situation than you might think.”
Rick narrowed his eyes. How did he know my name? How did he know how many people are here? There’s no possible way he could have counted our forces during the invasion or even before.”
“Rick?” the Executor asked. “I’m sorry, was I not supposed to know that?
“Well, then,” Rick replied, “I guess we can drop the games, Senator McKeet. I know what you are and what you’ve done to get here. Even before this world fell apart, you made your living off the ignorance of others.”
“See,” the Executor said, “you are impressive, but I know infinitely more about your situation. Your name is Rick Savage, a former CIA operative. You were married and had a child, but six years ago, they were murdered. You’ve since been living off the proceeds of an extremist, doomsday website. But your mind is slipping. You’re not well. You’re sick. I’ve got plenty of women here that can help you with your loneliness—whatever it takes. I’ve got psychologists in my army, true to life trained doctors that can help. You couldn’t save your wife or child, what makes you think you can save these people? Give up now and everyone will be that much better.”
Rick could tell that several of the Congregation members were now staring. He kept his gaze forward, pretending to be unfazed.
“I could go on,” the Executor said. “The people you are protecting can hardly stand to be around you. You push them too hard; you demand too much of them. Look around you: They are not soldiers, and yet you’ve got them running around with guns in their hands. Most of these individuals are good, god-fearing people that want nothing more than to settle down in peace. It’s a good thing that your brother, Isaac, is the Pastor of the Congregation, because, if not for him, they would have been rid of you by now. But, even he sometimes feels that you take things too far. Chass had to use more restraint to stop himself from killing you than anyone else.”
Rick nodded with sudden understanding. It was Chass
. Chass leaked the information.
There was a long pause on the radio before the Executor spoke again. “You must be trying to figure out how I know all of this. I’m sure it isn’t too hard to figure out—he’s one of your brothers after all. See, even he betrayed you. Listen, Rick, you’re one of us, not one of them; you’re a warrior, not a weakling. You’re practical and talented. I’ll tell you what—I know how we can solve this whole problem. I’ll leave these people alone if you do one simple thing: Leave them and join me. No one has to die. We leave here together, you and I become friends, and these god-fearing people of this city can move back into their church and start Sunday sermons. I’m a reasonable person—I only want the best for our race. The decisions I make are for the good of the whole—that’s what’s required of a leader. That’s how you should approach this decision.”
There was another long pause in the conversation. Rick used the break to talk to some of the Congregation members that were standing nearby. The defenders moved quickly through the building in response to Rick’s orders.
Finally, Rick cued the radio and began laughing, a cold and mirthless sound that sent shivers through the people who heard it. “If you keep talking like that, you might be able to convince yourself you’re not full of shit, but nothing you say can persuade me that you aren’t. You’ve been killing people ever since you first became Mayor and not just enemies either, but your own people—the people that follow you. There’s not a word that slips from your mouth that’s not tainted with a lie: That’s how you lived before the EMP, and that’s how you have survived long after it.”
“Listen to me—” the Executor hissed.
“No, you listen to me,” Rick replied. “Even if you marched your army out of this city and you suddenly became a Saint, even if you used your followers to repave roads and feed the hungry, you must still pay for your crimes, and I’ll be the one that comes to collect. When you’re brought low and are close to death, my face will be the last thing you see—I swear. Even if I have to sell my soul to the devil, I will kill you.” With this, he let the Executor’s radio fall to the ground where he smashed it with his boot.