by Akart, Bobby
Tyler brusquely opened the door, startling Angela. “Okay, I’ve got our little monsters in their designated places and threatened them within an inch of their lives if they wander off.”
Angela laughed. “Good luck with that. Listen, I’ve only begun to check out what’s available to us, but I’m impressed. Look.”
Angela walked Tyler through the facility, showing him the fully stocked cabinets. “They’ve got a great mix of OTC medications and even some prescription basics.”
“I’ll have to ask how they pulled that off,” added Angela as she stood to the side, allowing Tyler a closer look.
“Online sources,” he mumbled. “Probably out of Canada. You know how that works, babe. You call into an eight-hundred number from a website. They ask you a handful of questions just like a physician’s assistant does at your general practitioner’s office, and maybe you have to take a pic of your arm in a blood pressure cuff. They’ll prescribe just about anything except scheduled narcotics.”
Angela shook her head and smiled as she examined a bottle of a commonly prescribed medication for Type II diabetics. “And all for the low, low price of thirty-nine ninety-five.”
“Yep, that’s about right,” said Tyler. He closed the cabinets and moved on to a larger enclosure. Inside were several military-style rucksacks packed full of emergency medical supplies. He lifted one up and felt the weight. Then he opened a couple of them and confirmed they were packed with the same supplies.
“Whadya think?” asked Angela.
“I hope we never have to use this stuff,” replied Tyler glumly. He took a deep breath and exhaled, clearly overwhelmed by the possibility. “Ryan has assigned a vehicle to me.”
“A truck? I didn’t hear it when you pulled up.”
“No, something more mobile. Come take a look.”
Tyler grabbed his wife by the hand and led her through the front entrance. An olive-drab green Cushman electric golf cart sat in front of the hospital. It had a black roof with a solar panel affixed to it. Angela noticed the panel first.
“Battery operated? With a solar panel?” she asked as she left Tyler’s side and bounded out into the parking area. She immediately began to inspect the vehicle.
“Yeah, these guys have thought of everything,” replied Tyler. “Apparently, the local high school upgraded their own portable gurney cart, and Blair happened to be over there when it was delivered from Cushman. It’s just like the one you see on football games when a player gets hurt.”
“Impressive. It’s got room for your medical gear, and look, it’s even got hooks for you to set up an IV drip while you care for the patient. They must’ve consulted with doctors on this recently. The hospital wasn’t this far advanced the last time we came here.”
Tyler pointed back toward the door and led his wife by the arm inside. “Believe it or not, Ryan said he put things together based upon internet research and made a lot of the purchases on Amazon. He’d planned on calling us this month anyway and, well, um, here we are.”
A small office was located at the back of the building and Angela entered it for the first time. There were several bookcases filled with medical books dealing with all manner of ailments and injuries. A metallic box sat on the edge of the desk and she opened it. Two iPads with chargers were contained within the egg-crate-style foam cushioning. There was a laminated page containing instructions and Angela read some of them aloud.
“These iPads contain PDF files as reference materials for the Armageddon Hospital. There are downloads of trauma medicine techniques, a Physicians’ Desk Reference to help with identifying and dispensing medications, and specialty manuals on treating patients such as infants and the elderly.”
“These guys have done their research,” said Tyler. “They even stored all of this in a small Faraday cage.”
Angela continued reading. “The two iPads are identical and loaded with the same materials. Please keep them charged by only removing one at a time during the charging process.”
Tyler listened to Angela describe more of the contents of the iPad and looked behind the partially closed door.
“Check this out, babe,” he said cheerily. “I guess it’s official. Congrats on your new job.”
Tyler removed a white lab coat from the back of the door. It was embroidered with the words Dr. Angela Rankin, Armageddon Hospital.
“Let me see,” she said as she rounded the desk. Angela pulled the jacket on and was pleased with the fit. She reached into one of the pockets and retrieved a stethoscope. “I like it.”
A voice interrupted them. “Well, it certainly suits you.” The sudden entrance of Donna Shelton startled the Rankins. “May I be your first patient?”
“Hi, Donna,” greeted Tyler as he stood to the side so she could enter. “I was just leaving anyway. Ryan wants me to begin driving the roads and trails of the Haven so I become more familiar with everything. I guess I’m gonna double as an EMT and ambulance driver.”
Angela exchanged a fist bump with her husband and then rewarded him with a kiss on the cheek. “Enjoy your first day on the streets,” she said with a chuckle.
Tyler smiled at Donna, grabbed a trauma kit, and bolted out the door, leaving the two women alone.
“Come on in, Donna, and take a seat,” began Angela. “I’m just now getting acquainted with the hospital, so I hope what you wanna talk about isn’t too serious.”
Donna sat down and her shoulders immediately slumped. She subconsciously rubbed her chest just below her neck and then pulled her cardigan a little closer together.
“Unfortunately, I’m afraid it might be.”
Chapter Twelve
Monocacy Farm
South of Frederick Maryland
Briscoe managed a laugh, born out of exhaustion and fear, as he thought about how a person’s sixth sense worked. Leaning against a two-hundred-year-old oak tree, he surveilled the grounds between the house and where he’d emerged out of the tunnel. His eyes searched the woods, looking for any signs of movement indicating that his pursuers were aware of his location.
“Left for love, right for spite,” he mumbled to himself as he thought of an old saying. An oft-repeated myth was that if your ears were ringing, it was a sign that someone was talking about you. If someone was speaking about you in a fond way, your left ear would ring. If it was your right ear, it meant they were speaking poorly about you. Then, as the superstition goes, if you begin saying names of people who might either love you—or hate you, if the right ear is ringing—you could then determine who triggered the sensation. Once the person’s name was said, the ringing would stop, and the culprit would be revealed.
Of course, Briscoe knew that the changes in blood flow, such as after a fit of anxiety followed by unusual physical activity like he’d just subjected his body to, was the likely culprit. But in his state of semi-delirium, he couldn’t resist the urge to repeat the names of those who might wish him harm. Only one name caused the ringing to stop—George Trowbridge.
Briscoe gathered himself up and began to dart through the woods toward the caretaker’s house located about a mile away. He was old and out of shape, but he’d managed to muster the adrenaline and drive to escape from his attackers. As he jogged through the sparse underbrush, using the trees as cover, he considered his plight.
Trowbridge likely knew all along that Briscoe was extremely negligent in not overseeing the downing of Delta 322, or worse, the old man knew of his intention to kill Cortland. Either way, he was now a marked man, and he was sure his friends were few and far between.
He stopped short of the clearing overlooking his caretaker’s home. The elderly man had managed the grounds and the housekeeping staff for nearly thirty years. Clarence Johnson had approached Briscoe one day and said his family was destitute. He’d been incarcerated for stealing from a convenience store and was released after four years in the Maryland state prison.
Briscoe needed help around Monocacy Farm and gave Johnson a job as a groundskeeper.
Over time, the man proved himself to be a loyal, hard worker and was elevated to being in charge of the sizable staff that maintained the property and served its guests.
Briscoe waited over an hour to ensure that the caretaker’s home wasn’t raided by his attackers. During that time, he became increasingly paranoid about whom he could reach out to for help. His network of hackers might have been tipped off by Trowbridge’s people. His phone could’ve been monitored. Or they were simply waiting for an opportune moment.
Either way, no one had appeared after the botched mission to take his life, so Briscoe forced his stiff and shivering body toward the kitchen door at the rear of the house. When he saw Johnson making coffee, he gently tapped on the door and spoke in a hushed voice.
“Clarence, open up. It’s Hanson. Please hurry.”
“Mr. Briscoe, is that you?”
“Yes, please open up.”
Johnson came to the door and he was quickly joined by his wife, who wrapped herself up in a housecoat to ward off the cold air. Briscoe moved into the warm kitchen, and Johnson took a glance outside before closing the door.
“Listen to me. Close all the curtains and blinds.”
“But, Mr. Briscoe, why do—?”
Briscoe, cold and frightened, became agitated with his caretaker. “Because I said so, Clarence. Somebody broke into the main house and they tried to kill me.”
“What?” asked Mrs. Johnson as she poured a cup of coffee, almost spilling it as she heard Briscoe’s statement.
“Now, who’s gonna kill you, Mr. Briscoe? You’re a very powerful man.”
“People more powerful than me,” he replied. “Please do as I say.”
Briscoe wandered around the room for a moment as his body started to warm. Mrs. Johnson brought him some towels and offered one of her husband’s flannel shirts to change into. The shirt was massive on Briscoe’s wiry frame, but it was welcome and warming.
Briscoe had to make a decision. Could he trust his longtime employee? Or would they fold under pressure, the type of painful coercion that his operatives would be capable of administering?
The Johnsons had left him alone with his thoughts as he sat in the living room, which faced the driveway. He was beginning to feel more confident that he’d evaded his assassins, for now, but his next step was more uncertain.
Despite the fact that Briscoe felt like he was in charge, at the end of the day, everyone’s loyalty was to Trowbridge. The man’s failing health did nothing to sway power from the others who’d come together after that night on Deer Island in 1984. Briscoe furrowed his brow and snarled as he thought about his place in life. He was no different than his ancestor and namesake, John Hanson, the first president of the Continental Congress, who never garnered the respect he deserved.
“Well, I’m nobody’s stooge,” grumbled Briscoe aloud. He stood from the sofa overlooking the front yard and turned to find Johnson standing in the kitchen observing him.
“Mr. Briscoe, what can I do to help you?” he asked.
Briscoe closed his eyes and slowly shook his head. He’d made his decision. “Clarence, do you still have that handgun I gave you years ago?”
“Yessir. I’ve never shot it, but I kept it tucked away in the nightstand like you said. All the bullets are still in the box, too.”
“Good, I need it back.”
Johnson made his way to the bedroom, and Briscoe adjusted his pants, which were now fully dry. He removed the caretaker’s flannel shirt and adjusted his sweater to look more presentable. He subconsciously felt for his cell phone to ensure it was still tucked away in the sweater’s pocket.
Johnson returned with the weapon, the bullets, and his wife by his side, who spoke first. “Mr. Briscoe, maybe we should call the police. I mean, if there are people trying to kill you, the police can help, right?”
“Not this time,” he replied unemotionally. He reached his hands out and took the weapon and ammunition from Johnson. It was a .38 revolver, something easy for Johnson to load and fire in the event of an intruder. Briscoe accessed the cylinder and checked to see if it was already loaded. He saw that it was empty, so he quickly inserted six bullets.
As he shoved the remaining bullets into his sweater, his palms became sweaty as the realization of his next step hit him. Loose lips sink ships, and Briscoe couldn’t leave a witness as to his whereabouts.
To be sure, Hanson Briscoe had killed before, but not like this. He gave orders and others fulfilled their duties. He watched the aftermath from afar, usually in the safety and comfort of Monocacy Farm. He took a deep breath and steadied his nerves.
Without hesitation, he quickly grabbed a pillow off the sofa next to him, shoved the barrel of the pistol into it, and fired a round into the chest of the man who’d been his loyal employee for decades.
His quick actions and the muffled sound of the revolver stunned the couple. Mrs. Johnson gasped and covered her mouth in astonishment as blood poured out of her husband’s chest, the wound causing him to drop to his knees beside her.
Briscoe grimaced, but didn’t hesitate as he turned the gun on her, also shooting her in the chest. The couple, barely alive, were now lying together on the hardwood floor next to the kitchen where they gathered together for morning coffee before attending to the affairs of Monocacy Farm.
Briscoe tried not to look at their faces as he covered them with the pillow and fired another round into their skulls, finishing the job. He stood and stared at the ceiling before hurling the blood-soaked pillow across the room.
“Damn you, George Trowbridge! This is on you! You will pay for what I’ve been forced to do!”
Chapter Thirteen
The Varnadore Building
Uptown Charlotte, North Carolina
Uptown Charlotte was anything but uptown in many respects. Charlotte was a city of distinct neighborhoods, growing together over time as the Queen City became a regional financial hub and the second most influential metropolitan area along the southern Atlantic seaboard other than Atlanta.
Uptown Charlotte, the central business district of the city, had been split into wards over time that were divided geographically by the interstate system. As was true in many American cities, new growth, spurred by the arrival of major corporations like Bank of America, Duke Energy, and Wells Fargo, dominated the landscape. The rapid population surge associated with the influx of corporate America brought noticeable change to the city’s landscape.
New construction left behind pockets of abandoned buildings, low-income housing, and dilapidated retail structures. Just on the eastern outskirts of Uptown Charlotte was an area along East Independence highway where skeletons of once-proud structures barely stood, rotting away from the elements and vandalism.
These were the parts of the United States that became the target of Schwartz-owned organizations. Using the massive war chest of cash at their disposal, the Schwartz Foundation acquired buildings that remained largely vacant as a city modernized all around them. Jonathan Schwartz and his father took advantage of U.S. tax laws to reduce their liabilities to the government while also using the buildings to funnel monies from foreign income sources back into the States.
In the meantime, the crumbling structures could serve a secondary purpose—a staging ground for anarchist activity.
The Varnadore building east of uptown was a seven-story, brick and glass office building built sixty years ago. Once the offices of Charlotte’s major real estate firm and builder, The Ervin Company, it was now abandoned and surrounded by others structures in similar condition. But the empty storefronts that once sold pool tables, hot tubs, and grandfather clocks all had one thing in common. They were owned indirectly by the Schwartz family. Now they were being utilized by Joseph Jose Acuff, who’d adopted the street name Chepe, to lead a ragtag group of assorted malcontents who had been brought together to ravage Charlotte.
Chepe had arrived in Charlotte late the night before, but the midnight hour didn’t necessarily mean that the people of the
city were tucked away safely in bed awaiting another day of work, school, or play. The city was already under siege by those who would become Chepe’s army, and the Ghost Face Gangsters, who’d migrated from Georgia in search of a new locale for their criminal activities.
These two groups, coupled with the usual opportunists who sought the opportunity to break into storefronts and steal televisions as a display of their social angst, instilled fear in local residents. The police force was completely overwhelmed. The governor of North Carolina was hesitant to deploy the National Guard, and those who attempted to resist the anarchy taking place in the city were met with brutal, deadly force.
After Chepe met with his new lieutenants to get a clear picture of the state of affairs in Charlotte, he joked that he could’ve stayed back in Richmond and simply let his minions burn Charlotte to the ground without his involvement. However, he had been given an order from Jonathan Schwartz himself. He’d learned that the Schwartz family was successful in creating chaos when chaos was called for, and he intended to follow their instructions.
The ground-floor lobby of the Varnadore had been beautifully appointed in mid-century modern décor at one point in time, but as the building was abandoned and later purchased for a dime on the dollar by Schwartz interests, the vagrants moved in and tore out the old wood-stud walls to build fires during the wintertime. Now the lobby was a large open space, its broken tile floor, concrete walls and ceiling creating a cold, dungeon-like feel.
Two men had pulled several wooden crates toward the center of the room so that Chepe could stand tall above his new charges. He began to deliver a speech that he’d used many times to rally his fellow anarchists.
People of all walks of life needed motivation to act outside of their comfort zones. A shy child needed special encouragement to stand in front of a room to speak. A new resident needed to be prodded to join a gathering of their neighbors. Would-be rabble-rousers, those who spent their time flapping their jaws on social media, had never contemplated taking their anger to the streets to effectuate change. They did their part from the comfort of their sofas and through their weapon of choice—a computer.