Blood, Sweat & Tears: A Postapocalyptic Novel (The New World Series Book 5)

by G. Michael Hopf

  “Think before you leap, so to speak,” Sebastian said.

  “Exactly, but train your mind to do it quickly, it’s important. Take, for instance, when your grandmother and I debated having that painting there. I really wanted to put a stuffed head up there or an antique musket. You see, I wanted this old house to feel like a cabin in the mountains, but for my Sam, she always envisioned that painting there, that along with the other items like the stain color, drapes, rugs, etcetera; that was her vision not mine. She had always wanted a mountain home to look a bit more mountain chic, as she called it. I say we debated it, but we really argued. I looked at the mantel as my last refuge to win, but I relented, and now I’m glad I did. I look around this place and everywhere I turn I see her. I could have put my foot down, got angry and let my pride and desire to win take over, but I didn’t. I can’t express enough how happy I am that I thought before I went stupid and blathered nonsense. If only I had that wisdom at other times.”

  Both Hunter and Sebastian nodded as they intently listened.

  A smile broke out on Haley’s face and grew wider the more Gordon mentioned Samantha, her mother.

  Gordon lifted the glass and tossed the rest of the scotch back. He leaned forward, placed the glass on the table, and stretched. “The morning was cold that day. It was the first frost, actually. Over a period of three weeks we had sent people into Mountain Home, pretending to be refugees. The plan was to have people on the inside to get a little rebellion going with the civilians camped there. I just never expected to find what we found. It was horrible; the FEMA camps could be better described as death camps. The neglect and utter disregard for the people surviving there was astonishing. How it’s portrayed in the history books is quite different than what really happened that day.”

  “Like what?”

  “It was a great victory, but it wasn’t a glorious battle. The US forces that were there were haggard and their morale was low. Anyway, our people on the inside did exactly as we had planned and started a revolt in the camps; this was the perfect distraction. With everyone focused on the riots, we advanced on the base,” Gordon said and paused. His hands shook as he rubbed his eyes and forehead. He turned his head and looked outside.

  Hunter looked at Haley then to Sebastian, who shrugged, indicating he wasn’t sure what was wrong with Gordon.

  After an awkward pause, Gordon continued, “I can still see the children, those poor children.” He reached out and grabbed the bottle of scotch and poured. With a quivering hand he lifted it and gulped. After wiping his mouth, he said, “I was already angry over what had happened to Sebastian, but it was seeing those poor children gunned down that sent me over the edge, and when I say over the edge, I went head first.”

  OCTOBER 28, 2015

  “You will not be punished for your anger, you will be punished by your anger.” – Buddha

  Mountain Home Air Force Base, Idaho

  A welcome cool wind swept over Gordon, chilling him slightly but providing a respite from the heat his body was giving off. Sweat mixed with blood streamed down his face and soaked the top of his shirt. The blood was not his but those who had fallen at his hands. Around him the last vestiges of the opposing forces were being cleaned up and finished off with the exception of the command element. With nowhere to go and reeling from the surprise attack by Gordon and his Cascadian army, they found refuge in the two-story headquarters building.

  The building bore the scars of the battle. Many of its windows were shattered and the concrete exterior walls were riddled with bullet holes. A small fire had started on the far right end of the second story; its smoke poured out and rose into the gray skies.

  Gordon knew this fire would spread and soon he’d be face to face with his enemy. Just thinking or saying that word still seemed odd to him. It wasn’t that long ago he’d considered these people fellow countrymen, but with Sebastian’s murder at the hands of Conner, he had lost all connection.

  Even though his army of thirty-five hundred was formidable, it was always tough for any army to attack a fortified position and be successful. With this knowledge, he’d decided to create a ruse, a distraction that would throw the forces on the inside off guard. Over the past few weeks he had sent over a hundred of his people into the base, camouflaged as refugees seeking shelter.

  Mountain Home had been designated by the federal government and the state of Idaho as a refugee center. Using what one commodity it had, protected land, it opened its gates to all that came seeking shelter and safety. What many didn’t know was after several months the camps transformed from safe havens to collections of humanity all trying to survive with what few resources the base had. The only hope for those there was the monthly shipment of MREs and medicine that would flow in from Cheyenne. With limited supplies, corruption was rampant, as a few opportunists took advantage and thrived under the blind eye of the military.

  At first the reports Gordon received sickened him, but he saw an opportunity. Under any tyranny there were always those who resisted. He directed his people to find them, connect and begin the stages of the ruse that would be the prelude to his full-scale attack.

  Like a well-oiled machine, the plan worked. The revolt in the camps took off like a flame to gasoline. Soon the thousands of starving refugees rioted and overwhelmed the few guards who had the unfortunate responsibility of being on watch. Within an hour the riot turned to an all-out revolt and spread across the base.

  When Gordon and the main force arrived, they found the gates unguarded. They moved in to find a situation that was chaotic and bloody.

  Fearing for their lives, those military units that had once sworn to protect Americans turned on them. With ferocity and ruthlessness, Gordon watched as dozens of children were gunned down. These weren’t victims of collateral damage, they were targeted and murdered. Their pleas for mercy fell on deaf ears as he heard the commanders order the troops to shoot them.

  A deep-seated anger resided in Gordon, one that went back to his treatment at the hands of an over-politicized military after his altercation in Iraq. Seeing these defenseless children slaughtered was too much, and if they were not shown quarter or mercy, he would show the same disregard to those he was fighting.

  Gordon wiped his brow with his hand and smeared the bloody sweat on his trousers. His AR-15 hung from a two-point sling in front of him. A thick tactical vest protected his vitals, and holstered on the front of that was a Sig Sauer P220, a .45-caliber semiautomatic pistol. Also clinging to his vest were several HE hand grenades, two smoke grenades and three magazine pouches containing thirty-round magazines for his AR-15. He saw the smoke from the second-story fire growing, and now visible flames could be seen licking the exterior of the building through the gaping windows.

  “Should we storm the building?” a voice boomed from behind Gordon.

  “No, they’ll come to us,” Gordon replied.

  The man who asked the question stepped next to Gordon and turned. “If you say so.”

  Gordon didn’t return the look; his eyes were fixed on the building and the ever-growing fire.

  “We kicked ass today,” the man said.

  Not wanting to chitchat, Gordon ordered, “John, radio the company commanders. Instruct them to gather the refugees up and calm them down. It’s time we show them we’re the good guys.”

  “Roger that,” John replied. “Um, what about the agitators and camp thugs?”

  Finally breaking his gaze, he looked into John’s brown eyes and flatly said, “Kill them.”

  “Roger that,” John said and walked away. John Steele was Gordon’s executive officer and over the past two months had grown to become a trusted friend. John was a native of Idaho but left shortly after high school. He was highly intelligent with an intense intellectual curiosity and drive to succeed. The combination of these characteristics led him to become the founder and managing partner of one of the largest contract law firms in San Francisco. He was married and had a young son named William, but every
one called him Bill. Like everyone else, John’s story included tragedy. His wife had been murdered and his journey back to Idaho was filled with similar altercations and harrowing tales of survival all known too well by many who had lived on the roads following the initial super-EMP attack.

  Gordon found him capable, smart and only willing to give advice when his advice could be used. Just after meeting John following the Battle of Rainbow Bridge, Gordon felt like he’d known him for longer. There was a bond or connection the two had that Gordon couldn’t quite explain but knew he couldn’t ignore. With Nelson in McCall, Michael in Olympia and Gunny Smith moving with the smaller force towards Fort Lewis, having someone he could trust was important.

  Another familiar face came up behind Gordon. “Sir, I’ve got a call from Chairman Chenoweth.”

  Charles Chenoweth had gone from being the leader of the western Cascadian movement to the chairman of an elected committee that would oversee the formation of a formal government for the republic. In a nutshell, he was the political leader of Cascadia while Gordon was the military leader. The committee was comprised of twelve members, with Charles being the thirteenth, so his vote would ensure no vote ended in a tie.

  Michael Rutledge, Gordon’s friend from McCall, was a member of the committee and had moved his family to Olympia after his election.

  “Jones, tell the esteemed Mr. Chenoweth now is not a good time,” Gordon barked. His tone and response told everyone within earshot that Gordon and Charles no longer got along nor pretended to. Shortly after Gordon’s successful victory at Rainbow Bridge and subsequent speech upon the tank, Charles had begun working against Gordon. This information found its way to Gordon, who didn’t take it well.

  Charles was envious of Gordon’s quick rise and influence, and let it be known to whomever would listen that he didn’t want someone like Gordon having any say over how their country was formed.

  Fortunately for Gordon, actions spoke louder than hateful words and his military successes bred confidence in the newly elected committee, and with victory essential, they voted Gordon to be the supreme military commander for Cascadia, a position he happily accepted.

  “Sir, he says it’s urgent,” Jones said, holding out the satellite phone.

  “It’s always urgent with him; tell him I’m fighting a war for them and that I’ll call back later.”

  “Sir, he says he needs you,” Jones pressed.

  Gordon cocked his head and looked at Jones. He smiled and said, “Tell him to go back to his committee meetings and spreadsheets; I’ll be in touch soon.”

  Screams and yelling from the building rang out.

  “Looks like we’ll get to meet the hosts of the party soon.”

  “Sir, he says—”

  Gordon grabbed the phone and quickly said, “Charles, I’ll call you back soon, bye.” He clicked the red button and hung up on Charles. Gordon handed the phone back to Jones.

  Jones took it and pocketed the phone. He wasn’t too surprised by Gordon’s behavior, but he could tell Charles was clearly upset.

  Gordon stepped towards the building and hollered, “Whoever is in the building, you have three choices: burn alive, come out guns blazing and die, or surrender. It’s up to you, I personally don’t care!”

  More screams echoed from the building. The smoke and flames had grown and now covered two-thirds of the second story. Thick black smoke billowed out of all the open windows, trailed by long bright orange flames.

  “Once again, you have three choices! What will it be?” Gordon yelled.

  The front doors opened slowly.

  A line of armed men in front of Gordon took aim.

  A hand appeared waving a white cloth.

  “Good, they’re surrendering,” Jones said.

  “Hmm,” Gordon grunted as he stepped up behind his men and waited to see who came out.

  One by one uniformed people came out, their arms high above their heads.

  “Go gather them up, process them, and bring me the commanding officer,” Gordon ordered.

  Jones watched Gordon and saw a distinct difference in the man he had met months ago in Oregon. He was harder, more distant.

  A squad of men ran up to those surrendering and began the rigorous process of separation and prisoner processing.

  Gordon watched intently but soon found it boring. He turned his attention towards the activity all around and beyond where he was. The base was alive with activity. Chattering, cries, moans, screams and cheering were coming from all corners. He had won, but he wasn’t proud. The victory was great and would show Conner and those leaders in Cheyenne that Cascadia was a force to reckon with. The goal was to show such force that Conner would want to talk and end the war, but something ached in him. There was something about being back in combat that he missed. He couldn’t quite pinpoint it, but in some deep dark crevice he didn’t want it to end just yet. He wanted revenge, and if they won their freedom and peace came, he would feel cheated.

  “Gordon, Gordon, we have the commanding officer over here!” one of his men called out.

  Gordon didn’t give himself a rank or title. He was beyond that, he was just a man fighting for his family like all the others. He didn’t look at himself as a general or officer. He was their leader, but he was just Gordon.

  He turned and marched towards the disheveled uniformed man kneeling on the ground. Gordon stopped just inches from him and towered over the man.

  A trickle of blood came from the man’s nostril and dripped down his upper lip. Soot and fresh abrasions covered his face.

  “Look at me,” Gordon ordered calmly.

  The man lifted his head, meeting Gordon’s hard stare.

  “Who are you?” Gordon asked.

  “Who are you? This is a government facility, a refugee camp. You’ve attacked a sanctuary, you savage!” the man spat.

  “Who are you?” Gordon again asked.

  “I’m General Warren, United States Air Force. Who are you?”

  “Who’s your second in command?”

  “I am,” a man blurted out several feet away.

  “Good, you’re going to travel back to Cheyenne and deliver a message for us,” Gordon said.

  “Cheyenne already knows about this heinous attack. They’re sending reinforcements,” Warren snapped.

  “No, they aren’t. We’ve been monitoring your communications. I know you’ve contacted them, but I know they’re not sending anyone just yet.”

  Warren’s face turned ashen when confronted with the fact that Gordon knew what was happening.

  Gordon stepped over to the other man and said, “We’re going to give you a vehicle. Drive as fast as you can and give President Conner this message,” Gordon said, handing the man an envelope. “Tell him that we can end all of this now. Tell him that we can meet in a neutral place and sort this out.”

  The man took the envelope, pocketed it and stood up. “Who do I say it’s from?”

  Gordon ignored his question and walked back to Warren. He looked down at him and asked, “Did you order those civilians be shot down? Did you? Were you the one who did that?”

  “No, absolutely not!” Warren blasted.

  Gordon was tired and didn’t want to play games. He pulled his Sig and placed it against the head of the man who was directly to the right of Warren. “Tell me or he dies.”

  “No!”

  Gordon looked at the man he held the gun to and asked, “Do you want to die?”

  The man’s eyes were full of fear. He mumbled, “No.”

  “Did General Warren order civilians be gunned down? Did he order the slaughter of those children? I saw it with my own eyes right over there!” Gordon bellowed and pointed in the direction he’d seen the gruesome incident occur.

  The man looked out of the corner of his eyes; he was terrified and didn’t know what to do.

  “I’m going to count to three. One, two…”

  “Yes, he did. He ordered that the riot be suppressed; he ordered that they ki
ll them all. Those were his words!” the man cried out.

  “I did not!” Warren huffed.

  Gordon turned his pistol on another man. “One, two…”

  “Yes, he did!” that man declared.

  “Lies!” Warren yelled.

  Gordon holstered his pistol and said, “Also tell Conner that we don’t play games, and if he’s thinking about fighting a bitter and bloody war, that we will resist. We will fight like him, we won’t give quarter, and we won’t show mercy. We will conduct this war like his Major Schmidt conducted himself as he plowed through one town after another. Tell him that in Cascadia we serve justice to butchers no matter their rank,” Gordon said. He looked down at Warren, squinted and in the next second punched him squarely in the face.

  Warren reeled backwards from the punch and fell hard onto his back.

  Gordon jumped on him and began to level one punch after another. With each punch his anger grew. “You like to have little children killed, huh?” he barked as he laid a succession of closed-fist punches to Warren’s face.

  Jones watched Gordon’s fierce attack and was in awe.

  Gordon stopped punching. He flexed his fist and was concerned he might break it. Not yet finished with his brand of justice, he removed his pistol, grabbed it by the barrel and continued beating Warren. This time the butt of the pistol grip was smashing into his face. After a half-dozen blows, the sounds of bones crunching could be heard. Gordon stopped, looked at Warren’s unrecognizable face, and determined he was dead. Just before getting up, Gordon spit in his face. He stood up, took a deep breath and said, “You tell Conner what happened here, and if he doesn’t want peace, we’ll come to Cheyenne and we’ll take it just like we took Mountain Home.”

  “Yes, sir. Can I tell him who you are?” the young officer asked.

  “Yeah, tell him Gordon Van Zandt sent you,” Gordon replied. He turned to one of his men and ordered, “Get this man a vehicle.”