A Thousand Years of Darkness: a Thriller

by Charles W. Sasser

  A commanding voice shouted, “Redeploy! You know where to go.”

  Nail felt himself lifted by his bound arms and tossed into the back of what he assumed to be a van or SUV. He bounced off another passenger who was apparently in the same state of bondage. He was so overwrought that he barely heard his fellow captive’s surprised yelp. He continued to kick at his tormentors until they captured his legs and tied them together with rope, so tightly he felt his circulation cut off. Secured hand and foot, all he could do was lie there wedged between the other prisoner and the side of the van. The double doors slammed. He heard them lock. The engine kicked over and the vehicle lurched forward, immediately picking up speed and jouncing over rough country roads.

  “James, are you all right?”

  His head hurt like hell, but he forgot all about the pain in his relief at hearing Sharon’s voice.

  “Oh, God! It is you,” he whispered back. “I was so afraid—I mean, the fire and everything.”

  “I’m glad to see you.”

  “Under the circumstances, maybe neither of us should be so glad.”

  “You think we’re being arrested?”

  “More like abducted.”

  “James, I’m scared. Terrified.”

  “Now’s the time for it if you can get an extra wish on your falling star,” he said.

  * * *

  As Nail’s vision cleared, he determined they were being transported in a utility van with small windows in the rear doors and none on the sides. The van stopped after awhile and one of the two men up front came back and tossed a blanket over the prisoners. Nail guessed it was to conceal them from any nosy local cops.

  “What are you doing with us?” Nail demanded. “I want to see Kimbrell.”

  The man emitted a harsh laugh. “You don’t want to see Kimbrell.”

  They started up again. Nail succeeded in dislodging a corner of the blanket by shaking his head back and forth. At least now he could see enough from the van’s floor to tell dark from light. They left gravel roads and were soon speeding along a freeway. Headlights of passing traffic washed the inside of the van. There was nothing within reach of the cop’s hand that he could use as a weapon or as a tool to cut his bonds.

  They passed through a small town, slowing, and Nail saw through the rear window the name of the town on a stalk-like Love’s sign: Roland. “We’re on I-40 heading east toward Arkansas,” he relayed to Sharon, whispering.

  “Shouldn’t they be taking us to Tulsa? That’s where the warrants were issued.”

  “I guess we’re not in Kansas anymore, Toto.”

  “I always despised that wimpy little dog.”

  “How about Dorothy?”

  “James, will you listen to us? We’re babbling.”

  Nail attempted to use his teeth to remove the blanket from Sharon’s head, unsuccessfully.

  “James, I’m really scared.”

  He felt her body trembling against his.

  They reached the Ozarks after an hour. The van lumbered uphill and picked up speed on the down slopes. Nail thought they were headed north and east, maybe up toward Mountain View. He moved as close as he could to Sharon to try to comfort her. After awhile, she stopped trembling and dozed off from exhaustion. Nail remained awake and alert for an opportunity to escape, although the possibility of that seemed slim at the moment.

  Since he had nothing better to do, he pondered over what could have gone wrong at the schoolhouse. Big C had assured him that only he and Colonel Mosby knew about Sharon’s and his pending visit. The snitches should have found out only that evening along with everyone else, certainly not in sufficient time to contact Homeland Security for a raid on the schoolhouse. Yet, the Homies knew exactly what they came for. The attackers made their way directly for Sharon and him the instant stun and tear gas grenades began going off. Nail knew they had been set up.

  But by whom? Where was the leak? Had the Homies tapped their cell phones through the National Security Agency? These days the feds didn’t need a tap warrant to listen in on private conversations.

  All this brought up another nagging question. Why weren’t Sharon and he shot at the scene instead of snatched if Kimbrell wanted to get rid of them? That would be the easy solution: Kill them and claim they were part of a militia plotting to overthrow the government.

  Further consideration opened another avenue of exploration. Zenergy and perhaps even some of the government-tamed news outlets might begin to connect the dots if Nail and Sharon were killed in a Homeland Raid. It would be too obvious. Jerry Baer murdered—and then a week later his apparent heir successor killed.

  The same reasoning applied to Nail, who was known to be investigating the case on his own and whose daughter was slain with Baer. Nail and Sharon had fled from material witness warrants, apparently afraid for their lives at the hands of the Homeland Security agency that had killed two previous militia members under questionable circumstances. The conclusion was sobering. Sharon and he were already fugitives. Instead of being murdered in the open to become martyrs to their cause, they were about to disappear and never be seen or heard from again.

  “James?” Sharon whispered, stirring.

  “Huh?”

  “Were you asleep?”

  “Like a baby.”

  “Who are these people? Are they from the government?”

  “They’re here to help us. The check’s in the mail.”

  “What are we going to do?”

  “I don’t see we have much choice except to go along for the ride.”

  “This is not going to end well,” she decided. “James, will you pray with me?”

  “If you think God is listening.”

  “He’s better than wishing on a star...” She hesitated, then began to pray. “Dear Precious Jesus, our Savior in Heaven, son of the Living God...”

  The long ride and the steepness of the driving terrain suggested they were deep in the Ozark Mountains of either north central Arkansas or Missouri when the van slowed and geared down to turn onto a rougher road. Nail heard gravel crunching underneath the tires. They traveled several miles like this with tree branches slapping against the sides of the vehicle before it stopped and the engine cut off. It was near dawn. From his restricted point of view, Nail saw gray sky and a pine bough hanging above the windshield.

  Sharon began to hyperventilate as she struggled with approaching terror. She must have reached the same conclusion as Nail had. He struggled against his tethers, but it was no use.

  The back doors flung open. Summer heat and humidity flooded into the air-conditioned cargo bay. Nail cocked his bound legs for a last desperate stand, intending to kick out the teeth of the first man who touched them. He would not go peacefully into that good night. Someone jerked their blanket off and jumped back before Nail could get a good shot at him.

  “Ooo-whoo!” whistled a young cocky character wearing the AmeriCorps uniform of black jeans, boots and green T-shirt with the crossed-shovels AmeriCorps emblem on it. “She’s a looker on TV, but she’s even hotter in person. ‘Hello, America,’” he mocked, mimicking Jerry Baer’s distinctive voice. “‘Welcome to The Jerry Baer Show’ …Oh, I forgot. There ain’t no Jerry Baer Show no more.”

  His comrades laughed. They were likewise uniformed. Several carried rifles and sidearms. An older man stepped forward. He appeared to be in his thirties and transported himself with some authority. He was muscled like a bodybuilder, with blond hair cut military style.

  “Move over, shitbirds,” he snarled at the others.

  Nail’s legs were still cocked, but he froze in astonishment. The colorful tattoo leaped out at him even in the poor light of dawn. It decorated the blond man’s left arm from bulging biceps to wrist—a dragon previously burned indelibly into Nail’s memory.

  Citizens Train as Pro-Government Militia

  (Washington)—The White House confirmed Friday that it has begun military training for civilians in what White House spokesman Dewey Gubbins called a f
irst step in assuring law and order in the nation. AmeriCorps, he said, will provide most of the manpower. Recruiting centers are to be opened in seven major locations nationwide...

  “We must no longer rely on just the military,” President Anastos said. “We must have, to attain our national security objectives, a civilian defense force just as powerful, just as strong, just as well-funded and well-trained as the military...

  Chapter Thirty-Two

  Bunch, Oklahoma

  Big C Brown had lost sight of Nail in the tear gas and turmoil of gunfire and men coughing and hacking and running about in near-blind panic. Although his gun appeared in his hand, he found it impossible to discern friend from foe in the smoke and gas. All but blinded, he located the doorway by chance and dived through it with others into fresh air, his great bulk knocking over a couple of raiders in gas masks attempting to enter. He whirled to fight, but Defenders and attackers were so mixed he hesitated to fire for fear of killing his own people. It was against his nature to run, but he saw no alternative except to offer himself as a target to men not handicapped by loss of vision. He bolted for the nearby line of elms, threw himself to the ground in a thicket and waited for his eyesight to return.

  Shooting ceased almost as abruptly as it began. Noxious gasoline fumes filled the air. Windows in the schoolhouse glowed. Flames began lapping, as though seeking oxygen to breathe. Heated eerie light drove darkness into the trees. Armed men in black still wearing gas masks ran about shouting at each other as they broke for their vehicles parked down the road. One attacker was so excited he thrust his automatic rifle at the moon and released a burst. Another man cursed him.

  As far as Big C could tell, most of the Defenders had escaped into the woods. The aggressors were after bigger game. He spotted Sharon, dazed and with her hands cuffed, being hustled off by a squad of goons.

  Not far behind rushed another squad with Nail in its midst. He was struggling but appeared hampered by cuffed hands and the effects of tear gas.

  Big C swore underneath his breath as he chose caution over valor and held his fire. As far as he knew, he was the only armed man among the Defenders and was thus heavily outgunned. A one-sided firefight likely ended in the deaths of Defenders and perhaps even Sharon’s and Nail’s.

  He sprang to his feet. Crouched over and using the trees as cover, he headed at a fast dogtrot toward the invaders’ vehicles, hoping to reach them before they sped off with his friends. He would let circumstances there dictate actions.

  He encountered other militiamen lying low in the darkness. In his haste he did not bother to stop for explanations. He had almost reached parked cars north of the schoolhouse, out of the firelight, when the vehicles started peeling out, slinging gravel. Too late. He broke into a full run.

  Only a heavily-armed rearguard of four attackers remained when Big C reached the site. These men were backing toward a four-wheel-drive Ford Ranger, the only vehicle left, weapons ready in case their victims rallied. Big C spotted a lone straggler hurrying along the road in the moonlight. Apparently, the others hadn’t missed him yet. Big C crouched in ambush as the guy approached a curve in the road that hid him from view of his comrades clambering into the Ford’s open bed.

  He smelled the man’s sweat mixed with the odor of gasoline and smoke from the burning school.

  His quarry was a small man, not much more than a kid. Big C sprang from hiding. In a single practiced movement, he disarmed his prey, ripped off the guy’s gas mask, clamped a big hand over his mouth, and snatched him back into the darkness of the trees. He threw him on the ground and straddled his body as he heard the attackers’ remaining vehicle peel out. The kid was so terrified he was sputtering into the baseball mitt-sized hand that covered most of his face. Big C tapped the muzzle of his Glock against his captive’s forehead.

  “Nod you understand what this is,” the cop hissed.

  The kid nodded, kept nodding.

  “Nod some more you understand you do anything except keep your mouth shut until I say otherwise I put a bullet through your pointy little peckerwood head. Got it?”

  Continued nodding.

  “You can stop now. We in agreement.”

  Big C relaxed his grip. The kid whimpered. Nearby came some rustling through the undergrowth. Still astraddle his prisoner, Big C swept his weapon toward the sound. Two shadows emerged.

  “Identify yourself or you dead,” Big C challenged.

  “That you, Brown? It’s us.”

  Big C recognized the voice. “All right.”

  They were a couple of Defenders named Cantrell and Beaver, the latter a full-blood Cherokee Indian. They squatted next to Big C and his captive.

  “What you got?” Beaver asked.

  Instead of answering, Big C shot back a question of his own. “Have you see Colonel Mosby?”

  Suspicion was taking root in Big C’s mind.

  “Last I seen him,” Beaver said, “he was in the woods out back. Him and Shorty Smith. Man, we didn’t stand a chance tonight. They was all over us.”

  “Any casualties you know of?” the TPD officer asked.

  “I seen somebody fall in the grass. I couldn’t tell who it was. Them bastards ran off with Miss Lowenthal though. I think that’s who they was after.”

  The prisoner’s choked sobbing drew Big C’s attention. Another tap on his forehead with the Glock made sure the cop had his undivided attention.

  “You all by yourself now, man,” Big C informed him. “Ain’t nobody come to help you. I ask you some questions. You lie to me, I will kill you. Do you believe that?”

  The kid believed.

  “Good. You come here to kidnap a man and a woman. Where you taking them?”

  * * *

  Two Defenders died in the attack, gunned down in front of the schoolhouse. Colonel Mosby conducted a headcount to ascertain that no one was missing other than James Nail and Sharon Lowenthal. Fire quickly gutted the old school and collapsed much of the exterior natural rock walls. Militiamen, now armed, stood somberly around the fallen bodies of their comrades as the flames receded. One of the dead was a farmer named Calhoun, the other Luther Hawkins, the man Big C suspected, along with Tom Fullbright, of being an informant for the Homies.

  “Them sons of bitches will pay for this,” Fullbright muttered as he stared down at his dead friend. Some of the others glared balefully at Big C’s prisoner lying in the grass with his hands and feet tied with pieces of electrical cord.

  Colonel Mosby, who stood next to Big C, looked paler than normal and stood with his lean frame hunched at the shoulders. His head looked small and his nose huge in the light from the schoolhouse embers.

  “The sheriff’s department will have to be notified,” he decided. “What about him?”

  He indicated Big C’s prisoner.

  “Leave him here tied up for deputies to find.”

  Big C stood looking at the dead bodies of his fellow militiamen.

  “Not a pretty sight, is it, Colonel?” he said.

  Mosby seemed to choke on words lodged unspoken in his throat.

  “How’s Alice and the kids?” Big C inquired softly. “They getting over Ol’ Ranger dying?”

  “They’ll be all right,” Mosby finally replied in a small voice.

  “You a cold liar, Colonel.”

  There was no reaction from the militia leader.

  “Walk over here with me,” Big C ordered.

  Mosby followed dutifully, anguish written all over his narrow face. They stopped out of earshot of the others.

  “They shot Ol’ Ranger, didn’t they?” Big C said, his dark eyes boring into the commander’s. “It was a warning the same could happen to your wife and kids.”

  Mosby almost passed out on his feet. He licked his dry lips.

  “I—”

  “It wasn’t Tom Fullbright or Luther Hawkins set the trap,” Big C said, his voice low so that nearby militia wouldn’t overhear. If they knew the situation with Mosby, they would likely execute their
own leader. “You the one played us, Colonel. You the only one know I bringing James and Sharon to the meeting.”

  Mosby still couldn’t find his voice. Big C lowered his own voice to a threatening growl.

  “Colonel, you the one also set up Ron Sparks. You and I are going to have a little back to Jesus session.”

  Mosby stared at Hawkins’ and Calhoun’s corpses lying obscenely in the firelight, blood drenching Hawkins’ shirt and part of Calhoun’s skull blown away.

  “He promised,” Mosby blurted out suddenly. “He promised nobody’d get hurt. He just wanted to arrest that rogue cop and the girl. That’s all, I swear.”

  Big C likewise looked at the corpses. “Kimbrell? I see he kept his word as usual.”

  “I had to do it,” Mosby wailed in a thin, wavering voice. “You seen how Alice and the kids were. They’re scared to death. Hell, man, I’m scared to death. These people are serious.”

  Big C took the Colonel’s arm and guided him away from the fire-lit clearing toward the darkness of the elm groves.

  “Now, Colonel, you going to tell me all about it...”

  Chapter Thirty-Three

  Ozark Mountains, Arkansas

  Coming face to face with his daughter’s killer so unexpectedly stunned Nail that he neglected to resist when the young AmeriCorps men pulled Sharon and him out the back of the van and dropped them on the ground. Sharon cried out and gasped to catch her breath.

  “Put this on your lying show, bitch,” someone taunted.

  Nail’s eyes fixed on the Green Shirt with the tattoo. The hate and fury he felt was enough to peel paint off a new barn. Only through arrogance or incompetence would the man have allowed his dragon to show from the helicopter when he and his still-unknown accomplice opened fire at ORU.