Killswitch Chronicles- The Complete Anthology

by G. R. Carter

  Maryanne spoke up, ignoring Phil. “You asked me to go to the library and pull out anything I thought would be helpful. Like books on life in the last century or some of those homesteading magazines for hobby farmers, right?”

  Olsen nodded, glad for something to take his mind off the terror he’d experienced. “Did you find anything useful?”

  “Definitely for small farming and gardening. Hobby Farms Magazine, Farm and Ranch, and I pulled Popular Mechanics for Delbert and Bob to show the rest of the Wizards. It's all old, though, there’s been nothing published on paper for the last several years. The ones I got were in the archives. Most of the issues come from the time before things like SmartWatchs and Grapevine,” Maryanne said.

  Phil interjected: “Wait, the library is open? Who let you in?”

  The sheriff and Maryanne looked at one another sheepishly. “I sort of let myself in. There’s no electric locks on the doors, so I just broke some of the glass and unlocked it.”

  “Oh, ok. Well, I guess the sheriff can put you under house arrest for breaking and entering,” Phil said with a sly smile.

  “I’m not necessarily proud of anything like this. But I’m telling you guys, there’s a reason that our ancestors thought it was so important to put a library in every little town across the prairie. The information in there is going to be invaluable. We just have to save those paper books before somebody figures out they burn for warmth,” Maryanne replied defensively.

  “Don’t worry, removing a few books is a lot less of an offense then commandeering entire stores and refineries like this guy’s done,” Clark laughed and pointed to Phil. “I think we’ll all be making confession with Father Steve before this is done. So, tell me, what did you find?”

  “In one of the Popular Mechanics magazines, there was a cover story about these homemade armored trucks used by insurgents in the Middle East. Crazy stuff, you know? Took whatever vehicles they could find, put some armor on them, and then drove them around their neighborhoods. Our troops were making fun of them because the flimsy armor couldn’t stand up against heavy weapons. But our guys had big tanks, and those tribesmen were just working with what they had,” Maryanne said.

  “And you’re thinking we could piece together some tanks?” Phil asked. He was trying hard to take Maryanne seriously.

  “I know, it sounds kind of silly. But Clark was asking what I thought would happen if his deputy patrols ran into the animals that attacked and killed the Watsons. We both figured that the bad guys would outnumber the good guys, beings how they run in packs usually. I told him too bad our guys didn’t have a tank to fight back with.”

  The sheriff nodded while his wife continued: “I’ve listened to some of the soldiers who served in the Middle East, and they were always outnumbered by the groups they were fighting. But since our guys had the armored vehicles, they usually came out on top.

  “So I said it would be cool if our deputies had a tank to fight whatever came their way. Of course, I was joking. But Clark asked me to figure out a way we could reinforce the patrol cars to at least give a deputy some protection against bad guys. You know, stay alive until help arrived. Or maybe give them a chance to escape, at least.

  “What I discovered was wherever there’s been war in the last hundred years, a particular type of vehicle kept showing up. The magazines called them ‘technicals’, but really they’re really just pickup trucks with big guns in the back.”

  Phil cut in, “Well, if there’s one thing this county has a lot of, it’s pickup trucks!”

  “Right,” Maryanne continued. “But the flip side of that is that there still isn’t a lot of protection. I like to think we can do a little better here in farm country.”

  “What did you have in mind, my dear?” Olsen asked.

  “We’ve got people all over this county who know how to weld. I’m sure some of the local shops have got enough welding gas to do quite a bit of work still. I propose we take some of the heavier framed trucks and armor them. Not like a tank, more like something in those 'Mad Max' movies.”

  Phil chuckled. Absurdity keeps getting one-upped in the new normal. What could possibly surprise me next?

  He looked at Maryanne and realized she was dead serious.

  “By the time we weigh those trucks down with armor, they won’t be able to haul any salvage. And they’ll handle like a drunk elephant on the roads. I’m not sure we can spare any running vehicles to experiment with.”

  “Phil, will you at least give my plans to the Wizards and see what they say?” Maryanne pleaded. “You know they won’t listen to me. But they’ll take the idea if you offer.”

  “You might be surprised. I’ll have to make them think it was their idea. They’ll say no at first. Call me all sorts of names and make fun of me for suggesting it.” For some reason the thought of armoring the trucks didn’t seem so ridiculous the more he thought about it. After all, wasn’t that what they were doing with the buildings? No, this may be exactly what we need…I’ll make them see it. “This just might work, Maryanne. Honestly, this is just the kind of project they’d love to tackle.”

  The weight of worry lifted off his shoulders briefly. He’d lost track of the weeks since all this began. Calendars meant little compared to sun up and sun down. Toil and terror sapped his energy, constantly grinding at his nerves. Yet that old American optimism seemed to peak out of the dark, if only for a moment. Ingenuity helped Shelby County survive this long. Maybe, just maybe, something as farfetched as welded steel on old trucks could be a turning point for them, let them start planning instead of just reacting.

  “You know,” he said to himself as much as the Olsens, “if we could just catch a break, be able to plan ahead instead of always scrambling to catch up, we might just make it.”

  Ridgeview Hunting Lodge

  The Tenth Day

  Ghosts wandered through Red Morton’s vision. He eyes were weighted like stone. He couldn’t keep them open long. A second, a minute, an hour? Force of will separated his eyelids, a painful snap pulled them apart. He forced himself to yawn, trying to get tears to seep from the corners. Days and nights of constant strain, the terror of near death – his body rebelled against his mind, begging for sleep. His mind refused, terrified of what might happen when unconsciousness came over him.

  Ridgeview Lodge sat just up the gentle hill behind his foxhole, barely visible through the light rain falling through the dusk. Tiny streams of water ran down the slope where Sy Bradshaw’s back hoe dug out a few feet of top soil, leaving just enough room for a person to hunker down under cover.

  There were no lights in the lodge windows, no sign of movement in the yard. The weather didn’t prevent chores from getting done, but movement along the roads leading up to the lodge property did. Anyone capable of pointing a weapon was hunkered down in foxholes or standing watch out of windows. Everyone else waited quietly inside one of the lodge’s rooms…Red was sure somehow that would be tougher than sitting here in six inches of muddy water.

  The cool damp sucked his energy away. The hour since the warning horn sounded gave his body a chance to process the adrenaline, now his system demanded rest. He wouldn’t give in. Not just the danger kept him awake. He didn’t want to see the faces visiting him each time he gave in. His wife’s sadness, his son’s, the men he lost…the terrifying ones, too – the one’s still trying to kill him.

  A smattering of bodies lay just a hundred yards away from the foxhole he occupied. They’d staggered in earlier in the day. Heath Bohrmann took them out one at a time from his perch on top of the lodge, before anyone else even knew they were there. Kara Bradshaw launched into fury at him when it happened, afraid they were more locals trying to escape. Only then she realized he’d been able to see their Syn contorted faces and tattered uniforms through his high-powered scope; stragglers from the gangs occupying the town and prison he’d escaped from. He didn’t let himself think about what it must be like inside those walls. Of course, how much worse could it be than
when he left? Guilt found him. His guards, his Eels, counted on him to lead them out. Why did I survive when so many others didn’t?

  He pushed open his eyelids again through force of will. When he did, something was moving out by the bodies. Not a coyote this time, or the turkey vultures already working on their free meal. A different kind of animal this time, predators infinitely more dangerous.

  Red counted two, then three shapes obscured by the gloomy weather. Low visibility saved one of the shapes their lives. A geyser of bloody mud spurted up from the ground signaling a rare Bohrmann miss. His target sprinted for the treeline followed by his companion. Two of the three made it while the third flung forward and slid to a stop in the muddy field.

  Twinkling lights flashed along the treeline, followed shortly by a sound like a chainsaw. Exhaustion prevented Red from the realization that someone, a large group of someones, had opened fire on the lodge behind him. There was no way the bullets were aimed at any particular target, just a reaction to seeing one their own struck down by something unseen. The lodge walls paid the price for being visible. Red held his fire, not wanting to tip his location. He’d be a target much more reachable.

  In the foxhole five yards to his left, a rifle appeared followed by a young man’s face. He stood and pulled his trigger. When nothing happened, Red heard him mutter a swear and look down at the trigger. After releasing the safety, he raised the rifle and let loose a short burst. He did it again, and again, shooting at nothing but the treeline where muzzle flashes continued to sprout. Red had to close his eyes and wait for his eyes to wash the weapon’s flash from his sight. The sound was deafening. He heard a thudding sound all around him. Water and chunks of muddy grass splashed into his foxhole. Red cradled his own rifle and tried to press down further into the squishy earth below. He felt water seeping in to every seem, yet still he wiggled down. Panic seized him, a terror more abstract then the desperate hand to hand struggle in the prison. He knew what caused those thuds, what they could do to a person, but he couldn’t see who was shooting at him.

  He tried to muster the courage to stand and fire back. Self-preservation convinced him to wait for the thuds to stop. Satisfied they had he took a deep breath and gathered himself to spring up. As he tried, his feet slipped out from underneath. Now his head was in the standing water, his soaked boots pointed up the foxhole’s slope towards the lodge. Panicked and furious, he tried to roll to his side and then push up with his arms. He got a face fill of slimy dirt and a nose full of murky water for the trouble. In a rage now, he screamed and clawed at the mud.

  As he gained a grip and pulled himself up, he heard others shouting, a guttural sound, animalistic and foreign. Red tried to wipe his eyes with his shirt sleeve, but came up muddier than before. He blinked out the grit running down his face and watched the meadow ahead fill with shapes running his direction. He fumbled for his weapon in the water below, trying not to take his eyes off the meadow, illogically afraid the shapes might get to him any moment.

  Cracks and bangs pierced the air as the lodge’s defenders stood behind their own dirt mounds, every few yards lighting up with orange and yellow bursts. As quickly as the noise began it ended. Absurd quiet fell over the field…they’re out of ammo Red thought. Most of the men on either side of him weren’t experienced warriors, they’d emptied their weapons as quickly as possible, most without bothering to really aim. Red had spent hundreds of hours on the practice range, but he knew he’d likely have done the same thing if he’d been able to get up the first time.

  He regained his composure, making sure everything was set with his own weapon before he raised it to his shoulder and took aim at the nearest shape heading his way. The man ran wild, arms flailing as he stumbled through the field. His clumsy motion saved his life as Red fired his first burst. Elation faded to frustration as the man rose and began running again. Red sighted again, this time the target fell for good. Red moved his aim to the next, then the next, three round bursts finding their target each time. He felt a hint of pride before realizing his marksmanship was aided by the distance. Terror returned. He fumbled for one of the three spare magazines on his belt, all thumbs once again. The magazine came out of the belt but when he tried to slam it in he realized he hadn’t removed the spent one. Furious with himself, he yanked and yanked, his hands slipping off the wet metal.

  Then something heavy fell on him and drove him into the mud. Confusion clouded his mind until whatever fell on him began to move. Red screamed trying to push the weight away from him. He was looking up at the gray sky desperately moving his hands underneath to gain hold of the chest heaving on top of his own. Bony fingers reached for his throat. Red slipped a hand up from the man’s chest and pushed against his chin bending his head back harder and harder. Still the fingers pushed, prodded, poked ever closer.

  Red’s hand strained to push the chin, to force this animal away from him. He thought he’d break the man’s neck…his hand slipped off the wet skin and the attackers head slammed into Red’s nose. Stars filled his vision and he gagged on the pain that shot through his head. Now the fingers found their mark and twisted his throat tightly despite their mud coating.

  As the blackness of unconsciousness encroached, a somber peace filled him.

  I tried son, I really tried. He felt weight lifting off and a bright light filled his mind. I’m coming to be with you sweetheart. I’ll be there soon.

  Federal District of Columbia

  Charlotte Jenkins settled down onto the couch beside her already snoring husband. Lamar hadn’t sat there long, but the exhaustion of eighteen-hour days and the constant strain of security meant any chance to sit down was an automatic nap. Charlotte worked just as hard, but learned early in her life that she just didn’t require as much sleep as others did. Laying her head down on Lamar’s massive shoulders, he unconsciously raised his arm over her head to pull her closer. Just as he had done for their twenty-five years together.

  Cooking aromas still circulated through their small office/apartment located just off the main cafeteria. Her little family group settled in to the Jefferson Middle school just a short time ago. Already it had developed the feeling of home with so many family and friends around. Without the distractions of electronic entertainment, the old joys of games and fellowship brought back memories of her childhood. Even the men being on constant watch wasn’t so different than when she was a kid. Back then, it was a different kind of bandit they were on watch for, the kind with hidden faces who stalked at night. But the subtle nag of worry always remained.

  Already, the group forced off mobs curious about something was happening at the school. The largest threat came in the form of an organized gang bent on establishing their control over what was left of the neighborhood. The leader of the gang made the mistake of pulling a gun on one of Lamar and Charlotte’s nieces; by the time the gunfire had stopped, four of the gang members lay dead or dying. It took several men to pull Lamar back and keep the gang leader from being dead man number five. Lamar’s men weren’t trying to save the bad guy, just trying to keep Lamar from breaking any bones in his hand. The remaining gangs in the area quickly learned that the school wasn’t easy pickings.

  Lamar and Rusty constantly repeated the same mantra to the group: We have to make ourselves a hard target.

  Charlotte’s heart broke knowing they were just turning the gangs on other folks who couldn’t defend themselves as well as the Jenkins and their loved ones could. She prayed God would forgive her, but she had to protect her family first.

  Family now included almost one hundred people. In addition to the blood relations the Jenkins brought along, several members of the Community Baptist Congregational Church joined them in the move to the century old building that once housed their bi–weekly services. Everyone, whether blood relation or soul relation, living in the giant stone fortress now simply referred to themselves as the “Congregation.”

  The Congregation ate together, worked together and prayed together. Gardens s
urrounded the building, always under the careful eye of armed guards keeping watch from the rooftop. Guard stations shared the elevated view with water collection tanks and raised garden beds that added to the group’s food production.

  Tonight, Charlotte drifted in and out of sleep, dreaming of the beautiful green shoots coming from each garden, the laughter and play of the Congregation’s little ones, safe behind the walls of this building and under the watchful eye of strong men dedicated to protecting it all.

  Her dreams led to memories of the family keeping watch over her as a child. Playing around the farms of her home in rural Virginia, running up and down the dirt lanes to her friend’s houses. Birds and butterflies flew to each side out of the tall grass that encroached on the path each year. Up to the front door, her friend’s father greeted young Charlotte with a smile and a wave inside. As she opened the old screen door and walked inside, the smells of frying and baking greeted her; the same smells being recreated here in this building. She longed for those days of freshly turned earth as the machines dragged implements across the soil to prepare for the next planting.

  Moving to the city from the farms was supposed to make life easier for her folk, but the exact opposite occurred. Families that once cared and fended for themselves became wards of the state. In the rush to get out from under the sharecrop system her ancestors despised, they wound up in a trap of dependency here in this urban nightmare where there were no green fields. Only concrete and steel, cold in the winter and blazing hot in the summer.

  Charlotte’s family remained strong in the face of it. Lamar being her choice of husband and life partner meant the circle remained unbroken, at least for a few years more.