Killswitch Chronicles- The Complete Anthology

by G. R. Carter

  The cold shiver came back with a vengeance. “Can we hold them off?” she asked hopefully.

  “Maybe,” came the truthful answer. “It'll cost us dearly. But hopefully we'll just have to do it once. Don't guess those prisoners are big on organization. Reckon if we're lucky, they'll kill each other off so's all we'll have to deal with is the survivors.”

  “I can't believe we're having to deal with this in America. The heartland, no less.”

  Bohrmann laughed at her. “One of the reasons I love you Yanks. You really believe the laws of history and nature don't apply to you. Even after all these years, still that optimism. Think you can overcome Fate itself.”

  “You don't?” she asked.

  Bohrmann shrugged. “Reckon I've seen too much in my life to think we're anything but a heartbeat away from darkness,” he said. “Hate to be a downer, but the way I figure, people are always going to revert back to their selfish ways. When their willing to do anything to survive, then nothing is off-limits to them.” He shook his head as memories he didn't want tried to force their way back into his mind. “Nothing off-limits at all,” he said quietly.

  Kara stared at Bohrmann. The man had gone someplace far away in his mind; likely a place of nightmares she wanted to avoid.

  She returned to her window. Trey Casey sat on a well block, alone and watching other kids play. She'd do her best to surround the boy with folks who cared for him. Everyone sheltering at the lodge would pull together. They'd figure out a way to survive this catastrophe. As long as it took, they'd stay together.

  She patted Bohrmann on the shoulder. “Come on. The patient isn’t going anywhere for a while. Let's find something to eat before all the good stuff is gobbled up.”

  He nodded and followed her down the hallway to the stairs overlooking the Great Room. The two-story open space echoed with activity. Folks caught glimpse of her, smiled, waved and went back to their assigned tasks. In the back of her mind, the thought occurred she'd given each one of these people their assignments. Just like a thousand other times this week, no one really argued, they'd simply done what she asked to the best of their ability.

  Bohrmann and his crew—like Red Morton and his—looked to her for guidance about what to do next. Kara had always heard that some people stood up and stood out in a crisis. She never expected it to be her. But her she was, in the middle of an impossible task, working to save as many people as she could. Even hardened men like Bohrmann and Morton seemed to trust her decisions, to feel comfortable with her hand on the wheel.

  Inside, she smiled at that.

  *****

  “I’m glad he’s got the back hoe,” McCoy yelled to Morton. Both men watched Sy Bradshaw work the hydraulic controls on his utility tractor, bringing a long metal arm backwards, slicing through turf and soil. “Hate to dig foxholes by hand with just a few of us.” He kicked at the dry dirt below his feet. “I wonder how much fuel he’s got left to keep it running?”

  Morton didn’t reply. He was busy studying a hand drawn map, trying to make sure he was pointing everyone in the right direction.

  The roar of a chainsaw chewing through a fallen tree branch overcame the steady rumble of the tractor engine. McCoy watched as two men placed pieces of oak in front of and around the freshly dug holes. One of Heath Bohrmann’s men – a Canadian named Hobson - inspected each firing position, jumping in and out, sighting his weapon, imagining how unfriendly groups might arrive. Morton oversaw the digging, Hobson oversaw making sure the holes were useful.

  Finally Morton looked up and pointed to a spot about thirty yards away. “Hobson wants these holes spread out, but close enough a guy can run from one to another.”

  McCoy stayed quiet, letting his CO think out loud. “Seems like a lot of holes to dig for not very many men,” Morton sighed.

  “Women, too, Sarge,” McCoy reminded him. “That Kara Bradshaw is a force of nature, and her staff is amazing.” McCoy did nothing to hide his admiration of Ridgeview Lodge’s leader.

  Morton smiled a little at McCoy. “Right, sorry. Women, too. I’m glad for everyone’s help. We got a lot of ground to cover, even with a group like Bohrmann’s to help out.”

  “Yeah, two hundred and fifty people sounds like a lot before you take out old folks and kids. Then split it up into shifts, take out some who are needed for chores or taking care of livestock, or fixing things…We’re gonna be spread thin for good security,” McCoy agreed.

  Morton looked back towards the lodge. “Quite a mix of people the Bradshaws have here. I think I even spotted a couple of the Kaplan family staying in a camper here on the property.”

  “That surprises you?” McCoy asked.

  “Sure it does. Can’t imagine the Kaplans ever leaving their place. Lot of hard feelings between that clan and the other locals.”

  “You said it was a big family. Maybe some of them are afraid of the tribes, too. Decided here was safer.”

  Morton shook his head. “I don’t think so. Looking back now, I think it was them that tried to raid the prison to get the fuel. And I’d swear they were there at the loading docks when we escaped.”

  McCoy looked surprised at the information. Morton continued, “By now, I’d guess they’ve looted that food warehouse. Probably stole any truck and wagon not under guard to steal every rat bar they could. Between them and Lewis’ National Guard group coming back for another load, the whole place is probably empty.”

  “No disrespect, Sarge, but don’t you think you’re giving a bunch of Syn cookers too much credit?”

  Morton’s glare nearly wilted his young protégé. “Whatever you think of people like that, they’re smart and completely ruthless. Don’t ever underestimate them.”

  McCoy looked away from Morton’s icy eyes. “So you think they had someone on the inside?”

  “I’m sure of it. We knew they had family doing time inside, but the belief was they were estranged. I’m thinking we got played.”

  McCoy thought about it for a minute, once more kicking his boot through the dirt. “One of ours,” he said quietly. “So Santos didn’t just switch sides when the inmates took over. He was already working for them…probably more than just him. Is that what Watson was trying to tell you?”

  Morton’s didn’t answer as he let McCoy’s mind walk through the scenario. He needed to learn to think strategically, not just instinctively.

  McCoy’s eyes narrowed in frustration. “Sarge, how are we going to know who to trust out here? I like the Bradshaws. And Bohrmann’s crew seems decent. But like you said, it’s a strange mix. And there aren’t many we really know ourselves.”

  “You forget, I’m a local, too. I’ve known most of these people all my life, good and bad.” Morton’s look went to a distant place. “Besides, better here than back in town or at the prison,” he said.

  “Who do you suppose got control?” McCoy asked. “You knew those tribes better than anyone.”

  Instinctively Morton looked in the direction of Mt. Sterling. They could still see black smoke rising above the tree lined horizon. “I imagine it’s not settled yet. But figure whoever forms the right alliances will come out on top. Otherwise they’ll tear each other apart until nothing’s left.”

  “Cha Cha’s Code 11s were the biggest. Put them together with Trevino’s group and they’d be able to overwhelm the others,” McCoy offered.

  “That’s the safe bet. But if the Kaplans really were pulling the strings on the others, they’d have the weapons and the Syn to be able to buy loyalty. I’m hoping the two sides, or three sides or whatever, tear each other up.”

  McCoy still wasn’t satisfied. “When one of the tribes consolidates the survivors, what then?” he asked. His expression and nervous twitch suggested he may not want to know the answer.

  “The leaders of all those tribes are smart. Whoever still stands at the end will know if they can’t feed the tribe they can’t control the tribe.”

  “They’ll have the rat bars.”

  “Maybe,
maybe not. Even if the Kaplans win, not everyone will want to join up. There will be pockets of the other tribes still around, trying to make a go of it. Bunch of wanna be shot callers trying to be the big man. Even twenty or thirty sharks together could cause major problems.” He chuckled nervously. “Can you imagine any Code 11s working with someone like Hector Kaplan?”

  McCoy shook his head. “The picture you’re painting ain’t too pretty, Sarge. Imagine all them sharks coming off their Syn highs.” He scratched his head as he thought through the scenario. “Dear lord, what happens if those surviving inmates run out of food? They might all come out here to the lodge!”

  Morton hollered and waved to Sy to move his tractor to the next spot. “If they show up…” he began to say, then paused. “When they show up, McCoy, we find out if those foxholes are our salvation, or our graves.”

  Old Main

  The Seventh Day

  “That’s the last of them for today, Mom,” Rebekah sighed. One thousand, seven hundred and fifty-two people went through the lines and were served their meal. That was really a bit more of an estimate than a definite; they’d given up trying to count - mealtime was chaos. Just getting the limited food supplies prepared and served took a minor miracle. At first she’d wanted to keep records, to track and plan efficiently…maybe later she’d have enough provisions for records to matter.

  Only so much food was available to prepare for the daily meal, regardless of how many people showed up. Just enough calories for one adult person to survive and get some work done. Get them served, get them out, clean up, start again.

  Julia Ruff – her official title was still President of Old Main College even after days of confusion and turmoil - finished her daily tasks as cook. She sank into the chair behind the serving counter, ripping off her apron and throwing it into the corner.

  She was exhausted, but thankful that for one more day her little flock had at least something in their stomach. Ration bars filled in the rest of their nutrition needs. One in the morning and another in the evening had so far kept hunger from destroying the Old Main College community. From the trickle of news from outside their community, it sounded like most were dead, starving, or quite willing to make someone else dead for a meal.

  Just a short time since the power went out, and already America was gone. Julia knew her country was greatly weakened from the once-mighty empire of her youth, but she never expected the collapse to be so epic or quick. Only fast action and, she believed the grace of God, allowed her group to make it through so far.

  On the day the computers and everything that required electricity stopped, she had over three thousand students and almost five hundred faculty and staff on campus and living in the surrounding community. Only about half were now accounted for. Many of the students made their way home, wherever that might have been. Those who couldn’t get home remained here on the campus, still hopefully glancing into the parking lot to see their parents pull in to pick them up. That did still happen occasionally, but it was rarer all the time. Some of the parents even decided to stay here on campus; from the tales they told about the trip, at least some semblance of organization held hope, at least compared to what people were experiencing outside.

  The staff was a different story. Better than three quarters of the faculty and most of the support staff had disappeared, apparently left and went home, never to return. Unlike her concern for her students, Julia couldn’t have cared less about what happened to adults who left these frightened young people behind to fend for themselves. These kids were away from their families, sometimes hundreds of miles away from home. How could they have left them?

  Applied Sciences staff were a pleasant exception, most brought their families here to live on campus, and their fast work was helping save them all from starvation. The entire campus lawn was already torn up to be planted with any seeds capable of squeezing something out in the cooling weather. They brought in edible plants from the fields and woods. The little bit of livestock at the College farms and in the surrounding area was housed in the basketball arena under armed guard. Armed guard…more like the football team in their helmets with whatever weapons we could find for them she thought. At least they’re brave!

  The Applied Science Department originally developed the formula for the government ration bars by mixing grain with available local fruit and vegetable matter with a special bonding agent. The College intended to patent the process, hoping to use the proceeds to endow their college for future generations. Instead, the federal government nationalized the formula.

  None of that mattered now; those cities were mostly dead, and the government regulators right along with them. The College staff simply dusted off the formula and went to work combining grain from local farm storage with whatever edibles and vitamins were available. Owners of the few remaining school cafeterias and stores around town donated their supply and expertise in exchange for a safe place to stay on campus.

  “What’s the matter, Mom? You seem extra troubled tonight,” Rebekah asked.

  “Just worrying about food, Bek. Every time we sit down and run our calculations, we come up short on how long the supplies will last. I don’t think we can cut back any more on the calories we’re giving people, but were going to run out before the first batch of crops come in.”

  “Have faith, Mom. You always tell me ‘Good things happen to good people,’ right?”

  Julia nodded and smiled at her with reassurance. That’s right, my wonderful daughter, we could use a miracle right about now.

  Shelbyville

  The Seventh Day

  “It’s only a matter of time before the hospital gets overcrowded. People are wandering in from all over town, some just want to just move in,” Anna Hamilton told the group. “They’re scared to be alone now.”

  Clark Olsen jumped in. “We can’t get around to everyone in town and patrol the county at the same time. There’s just too much ground to cover. We need to consolidate.”

  “Won’t that make tempting targets?” Mayor Nellie Horath asked. “Putting all of our food and people into just a few places seems dangerous. Those people that killed the Watsons and the others might risk taking on bigger numbers if the reward is worth it.”

  “Then we’ll fortify the buildings.”

  “How do you propose we fortify our buildings? I don’t even know what that means.” Mayor Horath looked tired. She’d slept little in the past few days. Exhaustion and stress were taking a heavy toll. She tapped her finger on the dusty table that dominated the executive meeting room of Shelby County’s courthouse. Scattered coffee cups and plates told the story of another working breakfast, standard practice now when each waking moment counted. Since the town hall meeting, this room had been the central nervous system of Shelbyville’s efforts to maintain order.

  Phil and Anna Hamilton sat next to each other, just to Mayor Horath’s right. For both to be in the same room these days was a rarity. Anna had taken charge of the hospital and Phil had taken charge of…to everyone involved it appeared Phil Hamilton was ten people instead of one. Organizing work parties, coordinating the efforts of the Cooperative to increase biofuel capacity, helping get volunteers out into the town to search for older folks in need of help; there was a never-ending list of things to get done. The four Hamilton children spent their days tending the family farm while their parents tended everyone else.

  The sheriff replied to the mayor’s question with the concerned look he carried nowadays.

  “Nellie, I’m not sure what our next steps are, that’s why I brought it up. I thought as a group we might be able to come up with something.”

  “I think I’ve got it, Sheriff,” Phil said.

  Phil handed sheets of paper to everyone in the room. Hand-drawn sketches that resembled a collection of squares and circles filled the pages, arranged in what appeared to be a rough plan for a castle.

  “Phil, I appreciate the idea of building forts, but I think we’re a little short of massive stone bl
ocks right now,” Horath said testily.

  “I appreciate it’s a little outside the box, but here me out. We actually do have the materials on hand,” Phil replied. “Anna talked to Susan Albright, she’s volunteering at the hospital. Susan runs…well, ran the concrete plant down in Windsor. It dawned on her that all those concrete box drains, culverts and pipes could provide protection for Clark’s deputies. When she brought the idea to me, she was thinking about a way to put them around everyone’s homes.”

  “That’s impossible,” Horath said.

  Anna agreed. “Fortifying house by house is impossible. But what I’m proposing is turning all the schools, the bigger churches, and the hospital into shelters. We can fortify them over time, and Clark’s deputies will have fewer places to watch.”

  The sheriff’s face lit up. “That’s perfect, Anna. Ten or twelve places around town should be all we really need, right?” His face returned to dark. “But that doesn’t solve the problem of protecting the farms. We just said we can’t fortify each house. There’s hundreds of farms around the county.”

  Phil and Anna looked at each other, then at Olsen. “That’s what those drawings are,” Phil told him. “That’s a model for turning farms into fortresses.”

  “But that would take thousands of those pieces, Phil.” Sheriff Olsen looked up from over the drawing in his hand. “You’re talking about thousands of feet of concrete just for one farm.”

  “That’s right,” Phil agreed. “But we can put the precast concrete pieces in at intervals, and then use the working bulldozers to fill in the gaps with dirt and rocks. So the wall might include a culvert or box drain every fifty or a hundred feet. That would give cover to riflemen and they could move from station to station without exposure. If nothing else, it would look darned impressive to any of these gangs coming out of the ditches.”