The Doomsday Series Box Set | Books 1-5

by Akart, Bobby

  Ethan angrily swiped the handheld Nintendo device off the coffee table and stormed off to their bedroom. Skylar sat on the sofa for a moment, staring at the fire through the small glass opening on the wood-burning stove.

  She contemplated the fate of her mother and what her father’s true intentions were. At eleven, she knew she had little, if any, control over what her parents decided. She was still of the opinion to go with the flow because they knew what was best for her.

  There was one thing she vowed, however, as she considered the circumstances her family was in. She’d never grow up to be like her brother.

  Chapter Twelve

  West Clay Street

  Richmond, Virginia

  Joseph Jose Acuff was also known as Chepe, a Spanish name of endearment bestowed upon him as a boy because of his cherublike face. Chepe, however, was anything but a cherub. He had a master’s in public administration from Cal-Berkley and was well respected as an advocate for reforming payday loan practices. He was widely recognized as he walked the halls of Congress, running in the same circles as congressional aides and those who had the ears of powerful politicians in DC.

  Chepe led a second life, however, one that was unknown to the politicians whom he lobbied. He was a radical communist and Antifa leader who advocated the violent overthrow of the U.S. government. His platform on social media was one of the most widely followed by anarchists around the world.

  As far as Chepe was concerned, nothing was off-limits. Regime change, murder of the rich and powerful, and harassment of public officials and media personalities were just some of the things on his bucket list. He was a student of Saul Alinsky’s Rules for Radicals, a manifesto authored for communist activists on how to run a movement for change.

  Encouraging charismatic leaders like Chepe, Alinsky provided simple guidance on how to organize low-income communities, the proverbial have-nots, into a powerful voice. Many grassroots political movements over the past fifty years could be attributed to the techniques suggested in Rules for Radicals.

  Chepe was on Jonathan Schwartz’s payroll. He’d been recruited while attending graduate school in Berkley after making headlines for leading protests against conservative commentators on the Cal-Berkley campus. Once on the radar of the FBI because of his ties to radical leftist organizations, Chepe was instructed to avoid the limelight and public displays of protest. He was turned into an insider, one who knew his way around Washington, while still being able to recruit operatives for Antifa.

  Chepe excelled in his role and had become a rising star in the shadow organizations controlled by Schwartz. The events of New Year’s Eve triggered the chaotic scenario he’d been waiting for. His dream was to take advantage of government dysfunction during which the rule of law could not be enforced.

  He was a cerebral radical, oftentimes engaging in elaborate conversations with his contemporaries about the impact Saul Alinsky had on the American political landscape. His favorite of Alinsky’s rules, rule number nine, posited the threat is usually more terrifying than the thing itself.

  For decades, political change in America was effectuated by scaring people via the media until laws were passed to meet a certain ideological goal. Chepe’s job was to create the news headlines at the most opportune moment to benefit his political allies in Washington. The opportunity to back up those threats with real violence was a dream that Chepe thought would never materialize, until now.

  He’d been tasked with setting Richmond on fire, literally. His teams worked throughout Richmond to occupy first responders with widespread arson fires. While the fires raged, the members of his teams raged as well, smashing windows, destroying businesses, terrorizing and killing innocent homeowners while law enforcement officers chased ghosts.

  He’d been so successful on the night of January first that his boss, under direct orders from Jonathan Schwartz, instructed Chepe to pick a handful of his top people and travel to Charlotte. Just as General William Tecumseh Sherman had carved a wide swath of death and destruction through the South in the final year of the Civil War, Chepe, one of Antifa’s top field generals, would do the same. From Richmond to Charlotte to Atlanta and beyond, he’d lead an army of have-nots on a fiery display of terror.

  He was preparing to leave when a box truck arrived in front of the properties owned by the Schwartz foundation that acted as a rally point for the Richmond operation. Chepe wasn’t expecting any type of delivery, especially since the normal signage or tee shirts weren’t being used during the activities undertaken around Richmond. He stopped packing his duffle bags and peeked through the curtains of his upstairs apartment.

  Two burly men dressed in black with gray beanie caps made their way to the front door. Most likely, based on Chepe’s past dealings with his benefactors, the drivers were longshoremen from New Jersey. They nervously looked around before knocking.

  Chepe bounded down the stairs to greet them. He opened the door. “Gentlemen.”

  The driver spoke up. “We have a delivery for Sabokitty.”

  Chepe smiled and took an envelope from the driver. He opened it and began reading the typewritten delivery notice. He glanced past the men toward the box truck. A vehicle trailer was attached to the truck’s hitch with a small Nissan pickup in tow. He shook his head in disbelief.

  “The pickup, too?”

  “No, that’s for our return trip. We’re to leave all of this with you. It’s my understanding you’re heading to Charlotte today.”

  Chepe furrowed his brow, surprised that these men were aware of the plan. “Yeah.”

  The driver continued. “Take the truck. It has a crew cab capable of carrying you plus four more.”

  “Fuel? That’s a real prob—”

  “Both tanks are full,” the driver responded abruptly. “If there’s nothing else, we need to get back.”

  Chepe hesitated. “Um, I guess not.” The men walked away, and he called after them, holding the delivery notice over his head. “Hey, do you need to teach me how to use this stuff?”

  “The guys you’ll meet up with will know.”

  For a moment, Chepe watched the men unhook their transportation. He read the list again, which included military-grade weapons such as shoulder-fired missiles, grenade launchers, automatic weapons, and the corresponding ammunition.

  They had equipped him for a war.

  Chapter Thirteen

  Congress Heights

  Washington, DC

  “Prowler, are you up for a road trip?” Hayden walked toward the ceiling-to-floor windows as her cat made figure eights through her legs, methodically moving between them and rubbing against her calves. Cats were not bred as a herding animal, like some dog breeds, but they’d acquired this behavior, known as marking, as a way to get attention or, at times, manipulate their owner into doing their bidding. Whether it be a good scruffing behind the ear or a bowl full of yummies, cats, like most dogs, learned to communicate to their human companions through a series of actions and reactions. Humans, for their part, enjoyed being manipulated by their furry friends.

  “Okay, okay.” Hayden relented to Prowler’s persistent movements, mainly because the large cat threatened to trip her up by accident. She bent over and hoisted up the twenty-pounder and cradled him like a baby. Prowler nuzzled against her chest and purred his appreciation.

  The Washington area had received a significant amount of snowfall overnight, but the skies showed signs of clearing. She looked across the Potomac River at the plumes of smoke rising from Arlington Ridge on the other side of Reagan Washington National Airport. The primary commercial airport servicing the DC-metro area and its twenty-three million passengers a year had sat dormant since the cyber attacks of two nights ago.

  The lack of public transportation had caused commuters and travelers to take to their vehicles to get around the District, causing traffic jams and tempers to flare. Traffic on Interstate 295 between her building and the Potomac was slow but moving.

  “I think we’ll avoid
the interstate, big boy,” she said to an oblivious Prowler. “We’ll head toward Joint Base Andrews and then pick up 301 toward Virginia. Whadya think?”

  Prowler was asleep. He was a twenty-pound snuggle cat.

  Hayden carried him to the sofa and gently laid him on a gray faux-fur blanket, Prowler’s favorite, from Pottery Barn. CNN was now covering news from the London Stock Exchange about the impact the attacks on the U.S. were having on international markets. Hayden wasn’t invested in the markets, opting instead to purchase physical silver and gold with her after-tax earnings. Both precious metals had skyrocketed in value as trading opened in foreign markets.

  Before she began packing her Range Rover, she had to carefully consider what to bring. She had some things at her cabin already, namely food and clothing. Ryan had stored some of her weapons in the Haven’s armory, and the ammunition she’d brought down on her previous trips had gone into storage as well.

  She hadn’t unloaded the truck from yesterday’s shopping trip to Walmart, as everything was designed to be used for bugging out. As a result, her task was limited to stuffing a few duffle bags with additional clothing and personal toiletries. She retrieved her handguns out of a safe built into her closet and set them next to the door by the rifles retrieved from her gun-range locker.

  If she got pulled over during the four-hundred-mile trip to Henry River Mill Village in North Carolina, it would take weeks to talk her way out of the legal trouble law enforcement would make for her. However, she expected the cops would be the least of her troubles.

  She filled a large olive drab duffle bag with her weapons and readied them for transportation down the elevator to the secured parking garage. She made several trips down with her rucksacks and Prowler’s gear first, surveying the garage and the building to determine if any looky-loos were present. Her building was remarkably devoid of activity, so on the fourth trip down, she carried the heavy bag of weapons.

  Prowler, curious at the activity, conducted his potty business and was sitting patiently by the door when Hayden came up for him. Before she left, she looked around her loft, which she’d called home for years. It was her private space, decorated to reflect her taste, and perfectly suited the two of them.

  In the moment, sadness came over her as she walked through one final time, as if she were checking a hotel room for a forgotten item. Prowler joined her side, periodically stopping to examine a piece of furniture or to swat at one of his many toys that were scattered about. It was their home, and he sensed they were leaving for a long time.

  “We’ll be back, buddy,” said a melancholy Hayden. Her life revolved around the law and, most recently, defending the President of the United States. It was a dream job that surpassed her position as a clerk to Justice Alito on the Supreme Court.

  Prowler responded with a meow, of sorts, using a deeper tone than he customarily used. He’s not so sure, Hayden thought to herself.

  Neither was she.

  Chapter Fourteen

  DoubleTree Hotel

  Norfolk, Virginia

  Tom Shelton returned to their hotel room at the DoubleTree in Norfolk, frustrated and annoyed with the circumstances. He had been pleased to find the rental car counter open at the late hour the night before, but when the attendant revealed their GMC Yukon would be only half full of gas, Tom became agitated.

  “But, sir, you only pay for the gas you use,” explained the clueless young woman. She reminded him to return the vehicle with the same amount of gas as it had now. Tom didn’t want to explain to the naïve woman that he expected gas shortages to become the norm after the attacks, and the gas-guzzling Yukon would consume half a tank in just a couple of hundred miles. They had nearly four hundred miles to travel to get to the Haven.

  Donna Shelton greeted him as he entered the room, where she sat on the edge of the bed, watching the local news. “You were gone a long time.”

  “Yes, and unfortunately, I came back with less gas than when I started. As I suspected, the influx of travelers out of the northeast coupled with the attacks has stopped fuel trucks from running.”

  Donna stood and helped her husband remove his coat. She planted a kiss on his cheek and whispered reassuringly, “We’ll be okay. Come sit down. There’s more.”

  “Now what?” he asked, trying his best to shake off his fussy attitude.

  “I’m surprised you didn’t hear about this while you were out,” she said, pointing at Norfolk’s WAVY News on Your Side playing on the television. “A wildfire got out of control overnight. It’s to the south of us, just beyond Chesapeake.”

  Tom read the news chyron. “The Great Dismal Swamp? Really? Dear, are you sure they’re not referring to Washington?”

  Donna gave him a playful slug and led him to the sofa to sit down. She had her iPad open to the Google Maps app. The Great Dismal Swamp extended from Southeastern Virginia into North Carolina. It was a vast area of forest combined with wetlands and tall grasses to create one of the most unique ecosystems along the Atlantic Seaboard. It was also no stranger to wildfires. A spark from a logging operation in the mid-1920s caused the Great Conflagration, which consumed nearly one hundred thousand acres. The fire raged for three years. More recently, in 2011, another fire caused by a lightning strike scorched six thousand acres and burned for weeks.

  Donna was about to show Tom the road closures when he grabbed the remote and turned up the volume. The news crew on the scene was standing near a massive blaze that melted the light snow and the surrounding pine trees. The reporter explained what had happened.

  “Here’s how a peat fire occurs. Beneath the Great Dismal Swamp lies large areas of peat. You know, the partially decomposed organic matter resulting from fallen trees, leaves, and other plant material. Eventually, after a few million years or so, peat transforms into coal or oil. Even in its current state, it’s highly flammable.”

  The news anchor interrupted the reporter with a question. “It’s so damp out there. And we had a fresh snowfall. How does something like this begin to burn under those wet conditions?”

  The reporter held his hand to his earpiece and turned as a sudden gust of wind blew dark smoke toward his position. “It does seem out of the ordinary, but here’s how it works. Once the fire is ignited, and let me reiterate, we don’t have an official cause as of yet although authorities have told me off the record that fireworks landing in the swamp is most likely the source of ignition.”

  “From New Year’s Eve?” asked the news anchor.

  “That’s right. You see, it doesn’t take much to ignite the peat. Once the fire sets in, it sinks into the surface and spreads down to the peat layer, which can be as deep as fifteen feet below ground. That’s why a peat fire is so difficult to extinguish. You have to saturate the swampland with more water. In 2011, folks around here were praying for a tropical storm to move through after the fire began. As you might recall, the rains never came.”

  The reporter’s voice trailed off and Tom lowered the volume. He turned his attention to Donna, who was holding her iPad to show him the route options.

  “All the major roads leading south of us are closed,” she began. “Traffic is being diverted to our west.”

  “Richmond,” interjected Tom. “I suppose we could make our way to I-95. It’s a little out of the way to begin with, but then we should be able to make up time. Listen, it’s only a six-hour drive from here under heavy traffic. If we get going, we can be there by dark.”

  “I’m almost packed and we’ve already checked out. All we have to do is load up.”

  Tom patted his wife on the knee and stood to gather their belongings. He went to the bathroom, and while he finished, Donna told him about her phone call with Blair Smart.

  “How are they holdin’ up?” asked Tom.

  “They are incredibly prepared,” Donna replied. “They have a plan and they’ve stuck to it.”

  Tom washed his hands and looked at the mirror. There’s that word again—plan. Everybody seems to have a plan
.

  “Oh?” he said inquisitively.

  “She’s reached out to all of the property owners and heard back from most. Except for a few who intend to wait and see, as she put it, almost everyone who has a cabin is on their way. They only have limited space for property owners who haven’t built yet, but some have campers or motor homes. Plus, they have some kind of dormitory set up too.”

  Tom emerged from the bathroom still drying his hands on a towel. He dropped it into a pile on the floor created by Donna to make housekeeping’s job easier. He helped Donna pack the last of their things. As they made their way to the door, they both looked around the room one last time to confirm they hadn’t forgotten anything.

  Tom asked, “Do they have an opinion about all of this?”

  The conversation continued as they walked alone down the hallway to the elevator.

  “She said they’ve been too busy getting everything in order to give it an honest assessment,” replied Donna. “And she reminded me that they felt your military experience would be useful in sorting through the hyperbole seen in the news media. Remember, neither Ryan nor Blair have a very high opinion of the media.”

  “I don’t blame them,” quipped Tom as the elevator made its way to the first floor. They stopped their conversation as they walked through the hotel lobby. Several groups of people were standing around, watching television monitors and talking on cell phones. Travelers and refugees alike were at a loss as to what they should do next.

  The Yukon was parked near the front door and Tom quickly loaded the bags. Always the gentlemen, he helped his wife into the truck and walked around to the driver’s side. Just as he opened the door, his cell phone rang. It was their daughter Tommie.