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

by G. Michael Hopf

  “I know it’s hard for someone who doesn’t have a child, but believe me, once you hold that child, there are no regrets. A child is something so special. It’s an expression of the love two people have for one another. Share that with Seneca; share that child with all of us. That child would be so loved and cared for, and I can think of no one better suited to have a little one than you and Seneca. My kids love you and look up to you, you’re great with them, and when you have your own, you’ll be even more intense in your love for them.”

  “You think so?”

  “I know so. After you have your first child, you’ll come to me and say, ‘Wow, you were right.’ Having a baby is the most life-changing event a person can have. Even if I find out that Gordon is dead, he still lives on in Haley; I can look at her and see him. Half of him is her, so he lives on past death.”

  “Wow, so powerful.”

  “I don’t mean to be pushy; I just know when I see someone who’s getting in their own way. Go home tonight and tell Seneca how much you love her, then get on your knee and beg her to marry you!”

  A broad smile stretched across Nelson’s face as he thought about everything that Samantha had said. Deep down he saw the wisdom and accuracy in her declaration. He was in his head. He knew how violent and unpredictable the world was and that Seneca could be taken from him tomorrow. “Okay, I’ll do it.”

  “Bravo,” Samantha said, holding up her half-full glass.

  Nelson raised his and said, “To getting married.”

  “To babies.”

  NOVEMBER 1, 2015

  “Come what may, all bad fortune is to be conquered by endurance.” – Virgil

  Mountain Home, Idaho, United States

  Gordon opened his eyes but saw nothing but black. He looked up, down, left and right, but he was surrounded in darkness. He lifted his head and instantly was met with a sharp pain. He waved his right hand out in front of him but discovered a coarse and jagged slab of concrete just a foot from his face. Using his hands, he surveyed the rest of the darkness to discover he was encased in debris, mostly concrete but tiles and other miscellaneous things. Panicked, Gordon began to push the debris above him, but it didn’t move. He turned his attention to his right and began to make progress with his pushing and pulling until large pieces fell away, exposing the outside. Fresh air rushed in, and he stuck his head up and breathed the cool, crisp air.

  Having reached the surface, he became calm. He could see that it was even dark outside. Assuming it was still the same day, merely hours later, he pried himself free and rolled out of the concrete tomb. The night made it impossible to see much, but what fires remained from the attack still burned brightly. His body ached and his head wasn’t much better; a dull throbbing pain emanated from the back of his skull. He pulled the flashlight from its pouch and turned it on. From his vantage point he could see the building where he had been staying was nothing but rubble now. All around him he found the same thing.

  Each labored breath he took, he could hear it in his head. Blowing out his eardrums not only made it difficult to hear, but Gordon found it quite annoying.

  “Hey, anyone here, hey!” he called out.

  Moaning, cries and screams filled the air.

  Shadows darted around as people raced to help the wounded and trapped.

  Gordon stood and began to walk around, shining the bright beam of his light in every direction. Everywhere the light touched, he found destruction and bodies.

  “Jones?” he hollered, but no reply came back. “John Steele!” he yelled, but they didn’t reply. The only sounds that came were of the poor wounded souls and those few survivors who were doing their best to help.

  The pain in his head grew worse as he meandered through the endless remains of what had been Mountain Home.

  As he came upon more and more bodies of his fellow Cascadians, he suddenly realized that this could be it, this could be the official end of his army and with it the dream and vision that would be a free and independent republic. More importantly for him, it also meant that his family would be in jeopardy. Had he made a mistake? Had he miscalculated? Should he have taken Mountain Home? Was McCall next? Were they attacking it now? Endless questions plagued his mind, but the number one thing that kept popping up was if this entire expedition was a mistake, but was it only a mistake because he lost? Nothing is considered a mistake until you lose, right? Making bold and risky moves are great if they’re successful. You get called a genius for doing such things but a fool if you fail. Was he a fool? Had his hubris caused this, or was this just war? War is always sloppy, bloody and unpredictable. The badgering thoughts made his head hurt worse.

  His deafened ears kept picking up the moaning and weeping of his now defeated army. A withering fatigue struck him, so he stopped to rest along a concrete wall. Letting gravity work for him, he slid down until he rested on the ground. His body had been maxed. It was tired, dehydrated and hungry, but also emotionally depressed. Unable to remain conscious, he rolled onto his side and passed out again.

  Sandy, Utah

  Hector didn’t wait for the sun to fully rise before going out to the parallel bars. Annaliese had asked him to wait for her, but he couldn’t. He cursed the wasted time lost in his depressive state. For months he didn’t have the energy or desire to do anything but sit in his chair. His condition, specifically his physical appearance, had taken him to a dark place emotionally, even considering suicide. The only thing that stopped him from taking such a dire step was his deep Catholic roots.

  Things were different now. Like a light bulb being turned on, he suddenly wanted to walk. Actually that wasn’t entirely accurate, he needed to walk. Soon something bad could come, and he needed to have the confidence and strength to help Annaliese and the community.

  “Argh!” Hector cried out as he fell to the hard ground.

  Determined, he lifted himself to his knees, gripped the bars and pulled up. Steadying himself, he shuffled his left leg forward then his right. He had strength in his legs, but with the legs not being set correctly, it created a tremendous amount of pain. Biting down, he took a few more slow steps until he reached the end. He paused, turned around and headed back. He did this a dozen times. Stopping at the end, he looked past the bars, across the yard to the hospital. The walk had to be a hundred yards. He dared himself to take the challenge, but something warned him the pain would be too great. Afraid, he turned around and went back and forth on the bars. He stopped again at the end and looked at the hospital. The sun was just rising now past it. It was a new day, and he now felt he needed to go for it.

  His legs were trembling from the pain, and a steady sweat streamed down his face and soaked his clothes.

  People began to emerge to start their day. No one took notice of him as he stood at the end of the bars. He watched them stroll from the barn to the shed and other outbuildings. He was jealous of their ease of movement. Memories of his life before came rushing back. He had been a handsome and charismatic man, athletic and agile. That was all gone now, taken away in an instant and replaced with a crippled and disfigured man, or freak, as he’d call himself in his head. All he had left was…he couldn’t give an answer.

  “Look at you!” Annaliese hollered as she came out of the house.

  He nervously looked at her and almost lost his grip on the bars, which would have sent him tumbling to the ground.

  She rushed down the stairs and over to him. “How long have you been out here?”

  He shrugged and then decided to speak the best he could. “Hour.”

  “Look at you, big man, another word,” she joked.

  Speaking brought pain as well, his vocal cords had been severely damaged from the intensely heated fumes he’d inhaled.

  He pointed his head forward and said, “Thrrr.”

  “Another word, this is a big day for you,” Annaliese said but didn’t quite understand what he had said.

  “Thrrr,” he said again and pointed his head towards the hospital.


  “You want to go over there with me? Let me get your wheelchair,” she said, walking to get it.

  “No.”

  “So you don’t want to go over there?”

  He slapped his hands on the bars, gulped hard to lubricate his throat, and said, “Walk.”

  “No, that’s too far. You only just started this morning; that’s too aggressive.”

  “Walk,” he said. He took in several deep breaths and closed his eyes. In his mind’s eye he watched like a spectator as he made the distance with no problems, ending the journey by going inside and sitting next to the woman who was dying.

  “Hector, I don’t…”

  He took one last breath, opened his eyes and pushed off. The first five steps went fine. When he placed his right foot down on the sixth step, an electrifying pain shot up his thigh and into his hip, causing him to pause. He steadied his footing and continued. His eyes were fixed on the door as he took more steps.

  Annaliese came up behind him but made sure not to distract him.

  Others began to notice his journey and stopped to witness it.

  The red door grew closer and closer.

  Annaliese bit her lip, nervous that each next step would be his last.

  As the large red door grew closer, his confidence rose and the pain subsided.

  He could hear people talking, but he pushed their voices out of his mind and concentrated.

  Ten more steps.

  Annaliese was beyond frightened for him, but now hope began to replace that fear as he was closing in on his goal.

  Thirteen more steps, he was two-thirds of the way there.

  He paused when the pain returned with a vengeance, stopping a mere ten steps away. The pain had now spread to his lower back and up his spine. Sweat poured off his face and dripped to the dusty ground.

  The onlookers began to cheer, “Hector, Hector, Hector!”

  Their voices weren’t a distraction now. He used them to gather the strength to continue. Nine steps away, eight, seven, six, five.

  Annaliese came up right behind him now and readied to embrace him.

  Four, three, two and he stopped. The door was four feet away; he had made it. He turned his head around and looked back past Annaliese to the bars and the wheelchair. Full of pride, he faced the door and took his final step.

  Cheers erupted around him as his fellow neighbors came rushing towards him. They knew how important of an accomplishment this was and were all so proud of him.

  Tears broke from his eyes as he too knew how great it was. It had been hard, but it proved to himself that he could recover a piece of him that he thought had been taken away.

  Warren Air Force Base, Wyoming, United States

  Conner stood above Wilbur’s corpse and thought how someone like her could turn against their country. She had been raised in a military family. Had joined the Air Force, risen to the respectable rank of major, gone on to work within the government to eventually become the secretary of state, but suddenly one day thought it was best to throw that all away. For what? he thought. Did she think she was smarter than him? Did she think she had an opportunity? Was that it? Like they always say, in chaos there’s opportunity. Was she driven by hubris, pride or ambition? He’d never know now because there she was lying on a cold stainless steel bench, dead. A single bullet to the brain did the trick. One single piece of lead ended her life. But why? he kept asking himself. Why did people keep betraying him, why did they keep betraying their country?

  “Where did you find her?” Conner asked Baxter.

  “We found her in an alley. Her pockets were empty. She had nothing on her,” Baxter replied.

  “But who killed her, any suspects?”

  “We think it was either a random crime or she was targeted.”

  “Forget the random crime. One of her compatriots killed her so she wouldn’t speak. She was a traitor and they took her out. What’s the old saying? Dead men tell no tales.”

  “If we find Pat, maybe we’ll get an answer,” Baxter said.

  “Keep patrolling, I don’t think he’s left the city. I think that slimy bastard is still around.”

  “We’ll find him, sir.”

  Conner pulled the sheet over Wilbur’s pale face and said, “Dispose of the body immediately.”

  “Yes, sir.”

  “And that means just dump it, preferably naked on the prairie so the coyotes and other vermin can eat her. She doesn’t deserve a respectable burial.”

  Baxter turned stoic hearing Conner speak that way about her.

  Not hearing a response from him, Conner asked, “Did you hear that? Just dump the body, nothing more. I don’t want to waste the manpower or time.”

  “Yes, sir,” he replied, biting his tongue.

  “Now walk with me,” Conner said, stepping away from the body and heading towards the exit of the base morgue.

  Baxter took one last look at Wilbur’s draped corpse before following Conner. He caught up and began to walk next to him.

  Conner looked up at Baxter, who was a tall and imposing figure. “You know I take counsel from Major Schmidt, but I respect your guidance too. You’ve been a team player and strong advocate for my policies. What do you think our next step should be?”

  The only thought that ran through Baxter’s mind just then was reaching down and placing his large hands around Conner’s throat and strangling him. He had not only respected Wilbur but had grown to care for her even though she didn’t reciprocate those feelings, and now she was dead. He blamed Conner even though he knew Conner wasn’t directly to blame, but if this man wasn’t in charge, things could have been different.

  “General Baxter, did you hear me?” Conner asked.

  “Ah, yeah, um, no, sorry, I was thinking about things. I was thinking of who might have murdered her,” Baxter answered, clearly flustered.

  “What do you think our next step should be? We’re close to finishing off all the secessionists and putting this chapter in our history behind us.”

  “It does seem like we’re turning a corner,” Baxter said.

  “Yes, things are getting better.”

  “But not internally, these terrorist attacks are disturbing. How did Schmidt not catch this?” Baxter asked. Major Schmidt was responsible for all security and defenses of the city and government agencies.

  “We’ll dive into that, but now is not the time to point fingers and cast blame but find solutions. Obviously we can’t implement Project Congress or even think about lifting martial law and the anti-protest laws.”

  “Why not? Why should we allow a few to dictate to the many? Why can’t we move forward with those things while simultaneously increasing our antiterrorist policies?”

  Conner stopped and said, “You sound like Wilbur.”

  Baxter stopped too and turned to face Conner in the narrow hallway. “I’m not sounding like anyone. I’m my own man and I think we can do both. We have to be principled and not drift too far away from what our founders intended.”

  Conner’s eyes pierced Baxter as he found what he was saying counter to what he wanted. However, the points he made weren’t far from what he used to say before. When he was in Congress, he’d uttered similar things, and it was right then he realized how much he’d changed. He believed in the dream and vision of the Founding Fathers, but how could he maintain that vision or keep those principles when fighting against an enemy that required him to abandon such things. Even Abraham Lincoln had to discard the Constitution so he could save it. No, Conner couldn’t give up now. He was close to having total victory, and the last thing he needed was a pesky Congress constantly challenging his authority. He needed to get the job done first, and once there was peace, he could then look towards reestablishing the republic.

  “I hear what you’re saying, General, and I agree, but let’s finish the job then turn all of our energy to restoring the old system.”

  “As you wish, sir,” Baxter replied, not wishing to debate the issue.

&nbs
p; Mountain Home, Idaho, United States

  Gunfire woke Gordon. Confused and disoriented, he sat up and found the dawn had come and with it a large US strike force of what must have been two dozen helicopters with a hundred heavily armed soldiers.

  The whirl and whoosh of helicopters flying over turned his attention skywards. There he witnessed Apache gunships opening fire on his men with their M230 chain guns. The 30mm rounds rained down and shredded his people.

  Automatic small-arms gunfire to his left brought his attention there only to see a team of American soldiers shooting some of his men that were attempting to surrender.

  This was a clean-up mission. There was no negotiating or appealing to a greater good. This was war in its most brutal form.

  The thought of trying to rally a defense popped in his head, but as he surveyed the scenes all around him, he saw it was fruitless. His army was in disarray and there was no forming a meaningful defense, they were all on their own. If Gordon was going to survive the onslaught, he needed to get out of there fast.

  A rush of adrenaline shot through his body as he got up and ran for cover.

  In between the gunfire and helicopter noise, the cries and screams of his people rang out.

  Ignoring the pain that riddled his entire body, he sprinted west towards the refugee camp.

  People were running in every direction, trying to avoid the assault, but with each turn they’d encounter American forces that showed them no mercy.

  Having planned his own assault on the base, Gordon was familiar with the layout and knew that if he could make it to the far western edge, he’d be able to take cover along the Snake River.

  His heart pumped heavily as he sprinted and leapt over bodies and debris. The camp, a glorified tent city, extended for half a mile. Row after row of green or white general-purpose tents had been the home of thousands of homeless Americans. Now it was a graveyard as Conner’s first aerial bombardment didn’t spare them either. Hundreds of tents lay destroyed and burned while their occupants lay on the ground dead. It became apparent that Conner didn’t intend on fighting with any honorable or moral code. While Gordon didn’t hesitate to kill a military officer, there wasn’t anyone who Conner wouldn’t kill as long as it fulfilled his goals of defeating Gordon and his fledgling army. How could he win against someone who was willing to fight like that? Could he? Did he have to fight the same way? That was something he just couldn’t do.