Killswitch Chronicles- The Complete Anthology

by G. R. Carter

  Sy and McCoy watched tan six-wheeled trucks maneuvering on the open asphalt truck yard. Men in some sort of uniform were running around, too far away for much detail, but clearly acting in concert with one another. “Army?” Sy asked incredulously.

  McCoy was already down at the edge of the roof, calling out to Morton and Tucker. “Sarge, looks like the National Guard is here!” he shouted down.

  Morton looked at Tucker, who just shrugged at him. The Sergeant of the Guards ran to the corner of the building and looked. “I'm going to go check it out,” he yelled, then started jogging across the field towards the gigantic warehouse ahead.

  He stopped twice during the run to walk and catch his breath. He knew men were watching him now from the truck parking lot ahead. He waved his hands above his head. The thought crossed his mind that whoever was there might take him for a threat. Or worse, the men up there might be the threat. But he’d spent the night taking calculated gambles, and this looked like the closest thing to a lifeline he'd seen since their nightmare began.

  “Hello!” he called out. “Sergeant Red Morton from the prison!” He received no reply from four men in identical uniforms watching his every move. Each had a large-caliber weapon in their hands, and each of those weapons was pointed in his direction. He repeated his call, kept walking then repeated the call again, all the time keeping his hands at his sides.

  “That's close enough, sir,” one of the young men called out to him. “Please stay where you are.”

  “I've got civilians who need help, son,” Morton replied in his best command voice. “I'd like to speak to your commanding officer.”

  “Afraid that won't be possible, sir,” the young soldier said. The last word didn't sound as respectful as it should have.

  “And just why not, exactly?” Morton said with an anger he didn't bother to hide.

  “There's a prison break. We've been ordered to treat everyone as hostile until our mission is complete.”

  “No kidding, soldier. I'm in charge of the prison guards. We barely made it out of there with our lives. Your mission be damned, we've got wounded people to look after!”

  Morton noticed two of the soldiers pass a nervous glance. They were doing the math in their head, trying to figure out the least bad choice; get in trouble for keeping this very angry authority figure away, or catch trouble for letting him in - a private's classic no-win situation.

  “Please just stay right there, sir. I'm going to send someone back to inform our CO. Can we work together on that, sir?” The sir sounded a little more respectful this time; the young soldier was hedging his bets that Morton might just be someone to take seriously.

  Morton struggled with the anger of it all. Syn zombies, crazed inmates, guards who had betrayed their own. It was enough for a lifetime. He wanted to march right past the soldiers and give whoever was in charge a piece of his mind.

  But he'd come this far. No sense in getting shot now. “Yeah, son. We can do that. I understand you're just doing your job,” he said calmly.

  The soldier nodded his thanks and sent someone lower on the food chain running back to collection of trucks about a hundred yards away.

  Morton stood in the field, waiting. He decided to make use of the time.

  “Where you guys out of?” he asked.

  The soldier had brought his rifle barrel down to point at the ground instead of Morton. He remained cautious. “Can't tell you that yet, sir.”

  Morton rolled his eyes and shrugged. Action in the group of trucks caught his attention. A tall man jumped out of the passenger's seat of one truck and started to jog in their direction. Morton couldn't help himself: “See, son? Someone's in a hurry to talk to me.”

  The soldier glanced back quickly, then back to check on Morton, then back to see who the jogging man was. Morton didn't have to wait to recognize his old friend.

  “Pete?” Morton yelled.

  The other man waved and pushed his way past the stunned soldiers. The two shook hands, then Captain Peter Lewis grabbed Morton and gave him a bear hug. “Red, I can't believe it! I thought you must be dead!”

  “Very nearly,” Morton told him. “Several times over.” He shook his head in disbelief. “I just can't tell you how happy I am the cavalry finally got here. I wasn't sure if you'd make it back.”

  Lewis fidgeted a little. “Yeah well, you can imagine what I thought when I looked at the prison.”

  “I got out of there overnight. I'm assuming it's still overrun? What's the plan for getting everything back under control?”

  Morton noticed Lewis refuse his eye contact. The Captain seemed uncomfortable, moving his hands from behind his back and folding his arms across his chest. Morton knew he was holding something back. “What is it, Pete?” he asked. “Come on, after last night you'll never be able to shock this old soul ever again.”

  “I'm afraid you might be wrong about that, Red. See, the thing is, we're not going to bother trying to save the prison.”

  Morton's heart sank as Lewis continued. “I only came back to get you and the rest of the guards. My orders were to bring you back to Jacksonville. We're setting up a base of operations out of the prison there. We need all the trained men we can get.” Lewis put his hands on Morton's shoulders. “Red, I want you to be my right hand there. My second-in-command.”

  Morton didn't look at his commanding officer. He couldn't just yet. “What about all these people?” he muttered. “I just spent the night trying to save them…Pete I promised there’d be help coming if they could hold out long enough. I told them we wouldn’t turn our backs on them.”

  “I know, it breaks my heart. It's my hometown too, remember? We're just spread too thin. We've got to consolidate the resources we have left. Once a secure zone has been established, the National Guard can start to work its way out, bring one area under control at a time,” Lewis said softly.

  “And this?” Morton asked as he pointed to the trucks behind them.

  “We're loading every ration bar we can to take back with us. We've got lots of people to feed. I think we're on our own for a while. No help from the Feds.”

  Morton didn't think it was possible to feel any lower than he had throughout the night. Now, here in the sunshine, a ray of hope became one of the cruelest disappointments.

  Lewis saw the despair in his friend's face. “Red, think about the men who survived. We can get them to safety. You performed a miracle getting them through the night. Let's get them loaded on these trucks and get out of here.”

  Gunfire from the other side of the building made both flinch. “See what I mean?” Lewis pleaded. “We won't be able to hold out here forever. Go get our men, by the time you get back we'll be done loading.”

  Morton didn't know what to say, so he did what he knew: he followed orders. He nodded to Lewis, who slapped him on the shoulder one more time. He started to jog back towards the school, lost in despair. He didn't need to stop this time, and before he knew it he was back to the side of the building.

  “Well?” Burton Tucker asked. Morton couldn't answer right away; the exertion had caught up to him.

  When he finally caught his breath: “They want us to evacuate with them to Jacksonville.”

  “Jacksonville?” Tucker asked. “They're going to abandon the town? Not even offering to take some with ‘em?”

  Morton shook his head, still panting with his arms above his head to try and get any extra air into his strained lungs. It was the first time he'd caught a good whiff of his body odor, ripened from nearly twenty-four hours of stress and exertion in the tactical suit.

  “Left behind to die,” Tucker said in disgust. “All those tax dollars for police and military, and just when you really need them, they save themselves.” He looked over Morton's shoulder to the warehouse beyond. “And to add insult, they're taking all the food with them.”

  Morton didn’t know what to say. He’d hoped for words of encouragement, to be able to rally everyone with reassurance. But Tucker was right, t
here was no excuse. Lewis and the soldiers wouldn’t be able to fit all the food into their trucks, there’d surely be some left afterwards, but the betrayal felt just as real.

  Morton waved over McCoy and the two guards who'd stayed with him. He'd already sent the rest out to help with civilians. “We've been ordered to accompany Captain Lewis,” he told them. “He’s headed back to Jacksonville to help establish a security zone.”

  He looked at Tucker and Sy Bradshaw, unable or unwilling to hide their disappointment. He recognized the look, likely the same he’d just displayed to Lewis. Morton was tired of letting people down. A vision of his son appeared once more. Morton knew the young soldier wasn’t present, but the feeling was perfectly real. There was no judgment on his son’s face, just firm resolve. Too late for Red to save his boy, or his mother, but he could help those here who needed him.

  His mind made up, he decided to let those who’d survived the night decide for themselves. “I intend to tell Captain Lewis I'm resigning my position effective immediately,” he said to his remaining Eels. “I'll be staying here to help the people of Brown County take back control of this area.”

  He nodded to Tucker and Bradshaw. He got the same in reply from them. He gave a father’s smile to the Eels. “Listen, you three are young men, you got a lot of life to live and I don't think you've got much in the way of ties to the area. The smart move is to go with Captain Lewis. Not only will I not hold it against you for going, I'd encourage you to go.”

  McCoy didn't say a word, he just stared at Morton. The other two looked at each other, then at Morton, then at the activity in the warehouse parking lot. “You sure, Sarge?” one of them asked.

  “Yeah, I'm sure. It's the smart play. Hard telling what's going to happen here. We've got thousands of prisoners running wild. You've done plenty to earn my respect after last night. If you got just one shred of doubt, get your asses out of here and on those trucks.”

  The two Eels looked at each other again, then at their Sarge. With a nod, they took off running across the field towards the soldiers.

  “McCoy?” Morton asked with an arched eyebrow.

  “Kind of like it here,” he answered. “Never could really stand Captain Lewis or the warden,” he said. “If it's all right, I'll stay with you.”

  Morton started to argue, but he was out of energy. Instead he watched the other two running across the field. When they got to the parking lot they stopped to talk to Lewis, then ran past to jump on board the trucks. Morton saw Lewis stand for a moment, looking in his direction. Then he waved the soldiers on the perimeter towards the trucks. Lewis was the last to leave as the trucks pulled out of the parking lot one by one.

  As the last truck disappeared, Morton knew his last chance to escape had disappeared also.

  Shelbyville

  The Sixth Day

  Shelbyville High School’s gymnasium rarely held more people than it did today. Despite the cool temperatures outside, and the lack of sunshine, the air grew stuffy inside. There was no electricity, only natural light filtering in through the windows surrounding the upper level. The building had been renovated with no thought to natural circulation. Modern HVAC allowed all the windows to be sealed, to keep the outside air from penetrating the perfect temperature recirculated air provided. With no functioning modern HVAC, every newer building was prone to stale air.

  Nervous energy rippled through the crowd waving well worn hats in front of their faces to create a little breeze, voices an octave higher and a little louder than usual. The fevered pitch created waves of indecipherable sound washing over Phil and Clark.

  The sheriff shifted uncomfortably on his metal folding chair, anxious at the idea of having to face so many people at one time. He’d been elected and reelected by the county’s most influential citizens. Stump speeches had never been part of the deal. He and Olsen were trapped up here on this temporary stage, without so much as a podium or even a microphone to hide behind. The two sat exposed to worried stares, eyes young and old searching for reassurance in their ever noisy world gone silent.

  Phil could sense Olsen’s discomfort. He knew he should feel the same way, especially since he’d do most of the talking in front of a crowd that easily turn hostile.

  Yet for some reason Olsen’s nervousness was the exact opposite of how Phil felt; a strange calm had settled over him. He wasn’t worried about what he would say, his speech would be from the heart, a simple explanation of the challenges they faced and what could be done about it – the same conversation he’d had for years with anyone who’d listen.

  Phil checked his watch out of instinct. It wasn’t working. He looked towards Paul Kelly who had an antique battery-operated watch that still worked. The thought of batteries failing, of replacements being permanently unavailable, made Phil’s mind wander into the unknown future. Could they learn to make more? Just a small addition to the list of things taken for granted. He cleared his head, there were more immediate concerns just now.

  He stood and walked to the edge of the stage, pushed back to the far wall so that more people could stand on the floor alongside rows of folding chairs. Seated in front, Father Steve Simpson and Pastor Douglas Hart each gave him coy smiles. The two spiritual leaders conspired to bring Phil and the sheriff together; they were the last full-time clergy in town and worked together amazingly well despite healthy theological differences. Somehow, they’d managed to get a town meeting organized in the space of less than 24 hours. A bigger miracle was bringing two very bullheaded men together to conduct this show. Men who just a short time before had been near blows over long simmering differences.

  County deputies were posted at each door, warily scanning the crowd. They seemed edgy to Phil, resting their hands on their weapons, like they expected trouble at any moment. Had Sheriff Olsen warned them to be on the lookout for a problem? Or was it just the way small town deputies responded to the stress they felt? Phil knew the female deputy better than the male. Both had families, leaving Phil to wonder how long they could expect unpaid first responders to put the priorities of community before their own kin.

  “I think it’s about time we got started,” Phil said, his voice raised.

  The front few rows turned their attention to him. But chatter still bounced off the solid walls and ceiling, just as loud. Phil turned it up a level. “Can I have everyone’s attention. Please!”

  Still the crowd continued speaking, too wrapped up in conversation to notice.

  “Hey! Quiet!” Olsen roared, nearly startling Phil off the stage edge. “Please,” he said as a quick after thought.

  Phil was smiling as Olsen shrugged and sat back down.

  “Thanks to all of you for coming,” Phil said at the edge of shouting. Even with everyone’s attention, the ambient noise of this many people in one space made it difficult for those furthest away to hear.

  “As many of you know, we formed a cooperative a few years back to try and create a fuel and food source we could use here locally. While only a handful joined us, we’ve learned a lot by trial and error. What we’d like to discuss today is how to expand that project so the whole county can benefit.”

  Dalton Cornin stood up. “I thought we were going to get news from Clark about when the government would be here to help. And when we’d get our electricity back.”

  “They’re not coming to help anytime soon, Cornin. And without our help, you’re not getting your electricity back, either,” Phil said. The crowd erupted into shouting. Some stood and threw up their hands, some even sobbed.

  Stupid way to start. Way to go Hamilton Phil thought. He’d had a day to come to peace with the end of civilization, he realized now the people in this room hadn’t been so well prepared. He looked back at Clark, who seemed unsure about what to do next.

  Back to the crowd: “Wait, wait, wait!” Phil yelled. “We’ve got a plan!”

  Father Steve stood up, put his fingers to his lips, and sent out an ear-piercing whistle that cut through the crowd noise and
brought everyone’s attention back to the stage. He winked at Phil and sat back down.

  Cornin still stood. “We don’t want any more of your hippy biofuel crap. How could you possibly make this work for everyone here? You couldn’t even keep a pumpkin farm from going out of business,” he said, turning around and fist bumping those laughing at the slight, made up mostly of a group seated around him.

  Clark shifted in his chair again but said nothing. He could see Marianne Olsen make eye contact with her husband, willing him to stay seated and quiet. Politically, a meeting like this could get dangerous, quickly.

  Anger welled up in Phil’s throat. After several long years of struggle, he’d reached a turning point in his life. Confident he was right, finally, about the disaster they were all facing, his tone and mood changed. “Cornin, maybe it’s true I haven’t had much of what you’d call worldly success. Truth be told, the world we lived in always felt hollow to me, like plastic. I didn’t quite fit into a world of trinkets and digital distractions…”

  He thought carefully about his next words while the crowd set on edge. The gym was quiet now. Good fights always attracted people’s attention. “But the truth is this. I’ve got electricity today, and you don’t. I’ve got food right now and you don’t. Sure, you’ve got a lot of money, you can buy anything you want. Except how many of your dollars can you reach today? What’s your pantry look like right now? What happened when your wife tried to turn the heat on last night? “

  Cornin’s face turned red, his lips pursed and eyes narrowed. Phil waited for the verbal lashes sure to flow from the sharp-tongued businessman. The moments ticked, until finally Cornin plopped down into his chair and folded his arms across his chest, bloodshot eyes glowing with disdain.

  Phil made a point to speak to no one else in the room except Cornin. “We’ve got a lot to cover. Please hold questions until the end,” The banker finally rolled his eyes and looked away.

  He began again. “Since the power went out the cooperative has been figuring a way to get everyone’s heat and power back working. To do that, we’re working to increase our biofuel production. Understandably, you might be asking, if this really is end of the world as we know it, why are we talking about a starting a community refinery instead of all heading for a bunker somewhere?”