THE ALEX FLETCHER BOXSET: Books 1-5

by Steven Konkoly

  “I’ll let all of you figure it out. I only have a few rules. Nobody gets on the bus until you’re down to seventy-two, and nobody leaves without getting on the bus.”

  “What the fuck do you mean?” muscle man said, gripping the fence.

  “He means you’re not coming along for the ride,” said a female voice behind the man.

  Before muscle man could turn around, a woman jumped on his back, straddling him with both legs and locking his chin back with her left forearm. Her right hand rapidly pounded the back of his neck, causing his legs and arms to go slack. She jumped off as he toppled to the ground, landing on her feet. Holding a bloodied, makeshift knife over her head, she yelled at the prisoners, “One down, eight to go. Who’s next?”

  Nobody in the front of the group took her up on the offer, but a scuffle broke out toward the rear. Two men and a woman bolted for the western fence line, followed by a few more. Eli raised the bullhorn.

  “Rule number three. If anyone escapes, everyone dies,” he said, watching the group spring into action and swarm after the small group trying to get away.

  “Liberty One-Five. Block the exit,” he said into his radio.

  The SUV on the dirt road next to the opening in the fence pulled forward, blocking their only way out of the facility.

  “I don’t think it would have mattered,” said McCulver as the horde enveloped the runners.

  “Probably not. Look at that crazy bitch,” said Eli, pointing to the woman that had stabbed muscle man.

  She stalked a group of three women that had purposely fallen behind the pack.

  “We don’t need any more psychopaths in the group,” whispered McCulver, glancing around furtively.

  “We don’t need another insubordinate psychopath in the group,” Eli countered. “A highly loyal one might come in handy. Let’s see how this plays out.”

  He watched in awe as she tackled the closest woman and jammed the knife into her back using a powerful icepick-style grip. Several strikes later, the woman pinned under her stopped thrashing. The two survivors of the ambush sprinted into the throng of prisoners in a desperate attempt to disappear. Eli flipped the selector switch on his rifle and fired several bullets over the group. The frenzy stopped just as quickly as it started, and the group made room for Eli to see their handiwork. He counted five lifeless bodies on the ground, at their feet. Six including the woman killed on the fringes of the gang. Seven in total.

  “I count seven. Close enough for government work. Form up at the gate,” he said over the bullhorn.

  They gathered in a more orderly formation this time, attempting to create rows behind the men and women brave enough to stand in front. His little trick worked like a charm. Create a little adversity amongst the recruits. Have them solve a problem together and abracadabra! Instant discipline! Just like boot camp—except for the killing each other part. All part of the new world order. Necessary for the greater good, or something like that. He didn’t plan to get too highbrow with his philosophy. As long as they followed orders, he didn’t care what they believed in.

  “Welcome to the Maine Liberty Militia. You’re all provisional recruits, still subject to dismissal,” he said, raising an eyebrow. “You’re part of my militia, and we have a lot of work to do. I don’t have time to deal with problems. I simply cut them out like cancer or pick them off like a scab. Simple rules. Follow orders and take your training seriously. You do that, and we’ll get along fine. If you try to escape or harm one of my soldiers, you’ll be killed on the spot. No questions. If this group of recruits gets out of hand, meaning I detect an air of insubordination, defiance, noncooperation or disobedience, I’ll be looking for a twenty-percent reduction the next time around. How many is that, Miss Killer?”

  “Fourteen.”

  “Fourteen,” he said, waiting for the number to sink in. “That won’t be a pretty sight. Does everyone understand the rules?”

  The group responded with different levels of enthusiasm and volume.

  “As a group, using the words ‘yes, sir,’ does everyone understand my rules?”

  A more coherent response filled Eli’s ears. Good enough.

  “Load ’em up, Kevin,” he said, pulling the gate open.

  Chapter 12

  EVENT +8 Days

  Limerick, Maine

  Kate aligned the rechargeable screwdriver with the barrel hinge and drove the three-inch stainless steel screws flush with the hardware. She repeated the process for the remaining three screws, handing the screwdriver to Alex, who was situated across the plywood on a second ladder. Kate kept the board pushed against the window frame while he adjusted the right hinge, trying to place it level with the other hinge. Over the past two days, the two of them had managed to construct makeshift hurricane shutters for all of the second-story windows, depleting most of the plywood supply.

  Alex planned to acquire more materials tomorrow, after resuming his duties at the airport, or wherever Grady’s orders took him. It had been nice having Alex around during the past two days. Despite the fact that they were guarded 24/7 by a squad of Marines, the two days together had returned a comforting sense of normalcy to their lives. She hoped his duties would be manageable on a part-time schedule. The kids needed him here. She needed him here.

  “Looks good,” said Alex, clipping the screwdriver to his belt with a D-ring.

  “Let’s see.”

  They grabbed the board near the bottom corners and lifted, swinging the heavy board upward and outward. The hinges didn’t move as they lowered the board back in place. Crude but effective. The board covered the window but was far from airtight, with half-inch to quarter-inch spaces lining the sides. Once the weather turned, they’d have to attach some type of commercial weather stripping—anything to block the cold drafts that would pour through these cracks. For now, they needed the ability to keep the rain from pouring directly into the house. They could refine the process later.

  “Not bad at all,” she said, glancing past Alex at a row of open hurricane shutters along the back of the house.

  Inside, Alex’s dad would attach a two-foot garden stake to the bottom of the board with a small hinge, providing a way to push open the board and prop it open against the windowsill. The only disadvantage was that the shutter could not be opened far enough to provide fire at distant targets. Even if they used bigger stakes and pushed the shutters open further, a single bullet to the propping mechanism could close the shutter. If they were attacked, Alex said they could rip some of the shutters out of the wood and reinstall them later. It wasn’t an optimal solution, but they had to balance the need for security with the necessity of keeping the rain, wind and snow out of the house.

  “We could start a business,” joked Alex, starting down the ladder. “There’s certainly no shortage of work.”

  When they reached the bottom, Alex’s dad was waiting with a worried look. Kate saw her husband didn’t seem to notice.

  “That’s it. Second floor is finished with two hours to spare. It’s time for an adult beverage,” said Alex, turning his attention from the ladder to his dad. “What’s wrong?”

  “Charlie picked up some bad news on the HAM radio. Ed sounds like he’s ready to leave tonight.”

  “Shit. They’re in no shape to go anywhere right now. What did they hear?” said Alex.

  Kate stepped off the ladder and joined them, hoping they hadn’t wasted two days.

  “A northern Maine militia group has started a full-time broadcast, warning Maine citizens that Homeland just dissolved the state government. They claim that the governor had a falling out with the Regional Recovery Zone Authority and—”

  “They used those words? Regional Recovery Zone Authority?” said Alex.

  “That’s what Charlie said.”

  “Why is that a big deal?” asked Kate. Alex used the term regularly.

  “Unless we’re missing federal broadcasts over AM or FM radio, the words Regional Recovery Zone shouldn’t be in the average cit
izen’s vernacular,” said Alex.

  “They’ve been scanning those channels too. Nothing so far,” said his dad.

  “Then whoever is broadcasting over the HAM radio must have a contact in the governor’s office or one of the reserve military units up north. I heard about the RRZ plan for the first time standing in Colonel Grady’s operations center. This was a closely held secret.”

  “Not anymore,” said Kate.

  “Especially if what we’re hearing is true,” said Alex. “From what I could tell, the RRZ administration planned to work closely with state and local officials to minimize impact on the designated area. Abolishing local government isn’t one of the steps,” said Alex.

  “But the RRZ Authority is ultimately in charge?”

  “Technically, yes. Once the Federal Recovery Plan is authorized and activated, RRZ infrastructure supersedes local government.”

  “What about in an area like Boston?” asked Tim. “Who’s in charge there?”

  “I would assume it’s the same situation. Each RRZ is responsible for recovery projects within a designated geography, with some overlap. We’re in RRZ#1, New England North, responsible for recovery projects in Rhode Island, Connecticut, Massachusetts, Vermont, New Hampshire and Maine. RRZ#2, New England West, is located halfway between Catskill and Poughkeepsie, New York, west of the Hudson. Its primary purpose is to shelter refugees fleeing west out of Connecticut, Rhode Island and Massachusetts. Unfortunately, they’re going to get crushed by runoff. RRZ#3, Tri-State Region, was originally based on Long Island.”

  “They got slammed by a tsunami from the south,” said Kate.

  “Right. They lost a majority of the gear earmarked for RRZ#3. They’re still trying to determine if Long Island is a viable location for the RRZ, given the physical damage.”

  “How does that make sense?” asked Kate.

  Alex shrugged his shoulders. “My guess is they have a fleet of supply ships, similar to the DoD’s maritime prepositioning ships. Roll-on, roll-off capable, high-capacity vessels, probably based out of Norfolk or Philadelphia. The MPS squadrons used by the military carried a shit ton of equipment. Each squadron carried enough gear to support a Marine Air Ground Task Force for thirty days—fuel, ammo, food, water. Everything. I’d be shocked if they didn’t have something similar.”

  “By the time they deploy something like that, it’ll be too late,” Kate said. “The people will be on the move.”

  Tim nodded. “Then it’s all a question of whether the runoff will head north or south. Navigating through the Allegheny and the Appalachian Mountains won’t be an option for most.”

  “The nearest RRZ south of Long Island is the Delaware Peninsula, but you’d be travelling through some seriously congested areas to get there, and you’d be competing with millions of people from Baltimore and D.C.,” said Alex.

  “But people won’t know about the RRZ starting out. Right?” asked Kate. “It’s eight days after the event, and FEMA’s still not advertising. They’ll look at a map and start walking. I’d want to avoid major population areas, but I’d be concerned about winter.”

  “Either way, this could spiral out of control if just a quarter of the people went north,” said Tim.

  “I mean, we all know FEMA can’t do a goddamn thing right in the first place. I hate to say it, Alex, but I think it might be a wise idea to finish up the patchwork and start arranging a contingency plan.”

  “First we need to talk Charlie and Ed down off the ledge. We’re not in any danger, yet. Not with a brigade from the 10th Mountain Division arriving tomorrow,” said Alex.

  “It might be time to take Ed’s Jeep on a trip to Belgrade,” said Tim.

  “And a few other places,” said Alex.

  Kate didn’t like the sound of Tim’s idea, not with Russell’s militia on the loose. They had no idea if he had people in Limerick looking for Ed’s Jeep or the silver BMW SUV. All it would take was one random sighting to initiate an attack, far from the safety of their guarded compound or an armored vehicle.

  “Promise you won’t take a trip like that without talking to me first,” said Kate.

  “I promise,” Alex said, but she didn’t believe him.

  Chapter 13

  EVENT +9 Days

  Sanford, Maine

  Alex’s tactical vehicle slowed as they passed Goodall Hospital. Tents swarmed the wide, grassy areas surrounding the main driveway, blocking their view of the parking lots. He leaned close to Lianez’s face and peered through the thick, bullet-resistant glass of the driver’s side window, straining to catch a glimpse beyond the tents.

  “Jackson, what do you have in the hospital parking lot?” he yelled into the turret.

  “Packed with vehicles. People milling around, camping in and around their cars. Looks like a tailgate, except nobody looks to be in the partying mood.”

  “Can’t imagine why,” Staff Sergeant Evans remarked from one of the back seats.

  He’d decided to bring Evans on the trip to meet with Harrison Campbell in Sanford before heading to the airport. Alex figured the militia leader needed to meet some of the Marines tasked with the “internal security” mission. To give them a human face. The sooner he pictured the battalion’s Marines as men and women with the same needs and fears as his own, the better. Same thing the other way around. Eventually, members of the York County Readiness Brigade would ride in vehicles and man checkpoints alongside 1st Battalion Marines. Integration of the two groups was critical to establishing and maintaining trust. Until then, Campbell was taking an enormous leap of faith.

  He followed the Mousam River for a few blocks, passing under the long shadows of several windowless four-story brick buildings, fading relics of a prosperous era in Sanford’s distant past. Alex was pleased to see people on the streets as they approached Main Street. Logically, he understood that none of them were out for coffee and a morning stroll, but on a deeper, emotional level, the sight of people encouraged him. This distant feeling of contentment faded quickly with the realization that the people avoided eye contact with the vehicle, hurrying their steps to increase the distance. He understood their concerns perfectly.

  “Take a left at the intersection and pull up behind that row of cars,” he directed. “We’re in the empty place next to the coffee shop. Jackson, down from the turret. No point in sending the wrong message to the good folks of Sanford.”

  “Looks like they already got the message,” said Evans, nodding at a group of people walking briskly away from the park across the street from the coffee shop.

  “Yeah. We have our work cut out for us. There’s Campbell,” he said, pointing toward the park.

  A small group of men in woodland camouflage appeared as the group gathered in the park dispersed. They wore black baseball caps with “YCRB” stenciled in white across the crown and carried military-style rifles.

  “Lianez and Jackson will keep an eye on our ride home. Report any vehicles that approach the intersection, and take notes. I want license plate, make and model. I saw a stack of Maine license plates in the church by Milton Mills. Probably lifted from cars throughout southern Maine.”

  “I don’t think the state police have internet access,” said Evans.

  “Probably not, but I’m willing to bet Homeland has an active license plate database. Never know, we might get lucky and stumble on one of Russell’s guys. If I were him, I’d be out looking around, very incognito-like.”

  “Driving a car these days ain’t exactly incognito, sir,” said Lianez.

  “True, but it’s worth a shot.”

  “Copy, sir. Staff Sergeant, you want us out of the Matvee?”

  “Affirmative. Kind of hard to keep an eye on Uncle Sam’s property sitting inside one of these buckets. Post yourselves on the sidewalk. Weapons slung.”

  “Roger, Staff Sergeant,” said Lianez.

  “Sidearms only—for us,” said Alex.

  “You’re killing me, sir.”

  “We have a 30,000-pound arm
ored vehicle backing us up. We’ll be fine. Let’s go.”

  They met Harrison and his entourage in the middle of Main Street.

  “Harrison, this is Staff Sergeant Evans. He drew the short straw and got stuck with me. His family’s in Worcester,” said Alex.

  “Pleased to meet you, Mr. Campbell,” said Evans, shaking his hand.

  “Likewise. Welcome to Maine. I wish it were under different circumstances,” said Harrison. “Any news from your family?”

  “They’re trying to evacuate military families to Devens or Hanscom Air Force Base. I haven’t heard anything definitive. It’s wait and see, sir,” said Evans.

  “I’m afraid we’re in one big wait-and-see holding pattern for now. We’ll say a prayer for their safe arrival, Staff Sergeant.”

  “Thank you, sir.”

  “Harrison. Please call me Harrison. Only these yahoos call me sir, and I wish they wouldn’t,” he said, nodding at his own group.

  “This is Margaret and Sheldon Klein. Neighbors, good friends and longstanding members of the militia. You’re getting two for the price of one out at the airport. Both highly capable and deadly serious. Probably not what you expected, but this way I don’t have to tear someone away from family.”

  “Works for me. Welcome aboard,” said Alex, shaking their hands.

  They looked uneasy, which he expected.

  “I brought some communications gear so you can talk freely with Harrison. I assume you have gear to transfer?”

  “Our gear is loaded in one of the cars,” said Margaret, glancing at Harrison, “but we’d like to bring the car onto the base.”

  “I don’t see a problem with that. We can sneak it through the back gate,” said Alex.

  “Perfect. I have to concede an ulterior motive for assigning the Kleins to the airport. Their son just started his junior year at U.C. Davis. Plant Sciences major. The Kleins own a hundred and thirty-three acres down the road, which he planned to turn into some kind of organic, sustainable farm. They were hoping there might be a way to communicate with their son. I figured the airport would be the best place for that.”