The Gathering Storm

by Marshall Miller

  “His father was a federal agent for Homeland Security when the first rock hit, here in Atlanta. His father had been on the fast track for promotion when all hell broke loose. Because he worked for the government, with a Top Secret security clearance, he knew what was happening after the first twenty-four hours. He knew who was being eaten, where, and why. He figured that out real quick.

  “He and his partner went to the field office, each grabbed a duffle bag full of pistols and ammo, and as many shotguns and M-4s they could carry. They then headed to the suburbs where they lived, and barricaded themselves in their respective homes. They each lasted about a week before a harvester landed nearby, and a shitload of those little ATV looking robots started running up and down the street, breaking doors in, looking for humans.

  “The father, defending his wife, two sons and daughter, blew several of those little ATV robos away before a robocop showed up. As his two sons and daughter fled out the back, he and his wife took on the robocop and actually managed to take it out. Five minutes later, a second robocop showed up and blew the front of the house off, leaving the parents for dead. And harvesting.”

  “The one son returned, saw his dead parents, grabbed the duffle bag and some of the long guns, and hot-footed it out. Unfortunately, he lost track of his other brother and sister, never to see them again.”

  Malcolm stubbed out his cigarette, and pulled out another one.

  “A month later, the son was back in Atlanta. How he made it there is hard to say. Sometime later, a large electronic and physical fence was placed around a three state area by the Squids, and here we are.

  “So, since it’s nearly impossible to get out, and if you did, you don’t have the firepower to fight the Squids–especially not without some pistols–why do you need my services?”

  Martin finished his cigarette after smoking it down to the nub. Tobacco was almost impossible to get, so he wasn’t about to waste any. “It’s complicated.”

  “No, it sure as hell isn’t,” Malcolm retorted.

  “How’s that?”

  Malcolm looked at Martin with an unwavering gaze.

  “You are the ‘house negro’ of days past; your help keeps your ‘massa’ happy, and things in the ‘big house’ running smoothly. The rest of us are just ‘field niggers’, expendable pieces of meat.

  “Now, wait a minute...” Joe started toward Malcolm.

  “Go ahead, big man. Gut me. Do you think killing me ends it, fixes it?” Malcolm slowly stood up. “Everyone in this death camp you call the Cattle Ranch is already dead. The only question is the exact time of death.”

  He pointed toward the briefcase.“Keep those three. But they need firing pins to work. I just came here to see if the Mayor actually existed. You do. And you need guns to help keep the troublemakers in line, so you ‘house negroes’ can keep ‘massa’ from eating you and yours.” Malcolm sighed in exasperation. “This has happened before. Some Jews became kapos in the death camps, sold out other Jews to the Nazis. Africans sold Africans into slavery. Revolutionaries sold their own kind to the secret police. Hell, people have sold their own children for drugs.”

  The man called Malcolm stared at Joe. “So, big man, am I free to go?”

  Joe tilted his head toward Martin, who nodded. Joe stepped back.

  “Thank you. Like I said, keep those. As a gift. I have lots of others. If you want more, I need food and specific medical supplies. You see, I plan on keeping us ‘field niggers’ alive past your deaths. I’ll be in touch.”

  Malcolm left. The Mayor sat quietly for quite some time. “Joe, any idea where his people are?”

  Joe shrugged. “Heard sewer lines, caves, just some place underground. Anyone who claims they have info winds up dead.”

  “That’s just great. A troublemaker who actually has ideas, not delusions of grandeur.”

  “Please, Joe. Bring me some lunch.” Joe left him to his thoughts.

  Martin Luther stayed alive because the Squids, through Director Lloyd, wanted him to run things, and to insure breeding, the reproduction of the species. He kept order so as to provide certain levels of fresh meat to the Squids. At first, criminals, dope fiends and the like were enough. Now, they are pretty much gone. You cannot keep providing individuals under the guise of malcontents when that applies to ninety-nine percent of the population now. Like his granddad always said, it’s “nut cuttin’ time”.

  Now, who could get some firing pins?

  CHAPTER 4

  MYRTLE GROVE, FLORIDA

  There were those humans who clearly embraced the idea of a superior alien culture represented by the Tschaaa. There were humans who embraced the tasks of controlling other members of humankind designated to be dark meat and prime veal for the Tschaaa tables with a zeal not seen since Nazi death camp commanders, Cambodian followers of Pol Pot and those Russian Communists who supervised the Gulag system in Siberia. They were soon collectively known as the Krakens.

  Krakens started from a name and symbol for a motorcycle gang formed by one John Talbot, one of the leaders of Renegade Flying Squads that operated as a Fifth Column in the first days of the Invasion/Infestation. Then one Reverend Kray appropriated the name and ancient symbol of the giant Kraken cephalopod sea monster for his Church of Kraken. For Reverend Kray, a religious fanatic of the same ilk as Jim Jones and David Koresh in North America and ISIS leaders in the Middle East, believed with all his heart and soul that he was serving a monstrous ocean-dwelling Divine and Ancient God. He soon imbued many of his followers with the same zealotry and fanaticism, often to the point where they ate members of their own species, an act which even the Tschaaa considered as an abomination.

  Even without examining all the mental characteristics and inner motivations of the Krakens, it is easy to identify them as the result of that same old evil and depravity that lurks, waiting to burst out, in the souls of our unfortunate species.

  The Tschaaa in their own evolutionary history had undergone species characterological deformation. My research from the sources available to me demonstrate that the Tschaaa originated in the seas of their home planet. There original source of protein was of an aquatic nature. The first interface between primate like animals and the Tschaaa on their own planet had been apparently accidental. Over perhaps eons, the original proto-Tschaaa evolved into a more highly evolved organism manifesting higher mental capacities and terrestrial mobility. It was then the Tschaaa, led out onto the land by apparent Prophets, began to codify in both writing and deed the culture and belief systems that we now attribute to all Tschaaa.

  - Extract from the Literary Works of Princess Akiko, Free Japan Royal Family.

  As Mayor Luther ended his meeting, something was about to happen that would eventually resound up the highways and byways from Myrtle Grove, Florida, to Atlanta. Myrtle Grove could be considered to be on the outskirts of Pensacola Florida and the former Naval air installation that was being rebuilt by Director Lloyd and the Tschaaa. This was why John Talbot, former outlaw biker and now head of his own gang known as the Krakens–the largest flying squad left in the Director’s arsenal–was there.

  The Squids had built a series of fences and electronic barriers that contained what used to be Mississippi, Alabama, and Georgia–give or take a few square miles here and there. Inside were those of sufficiently dark complexion as to be classified as cattle. To Talbot, they were all lesser men than himself.

  As advanced as the Tschaaa were, no system is perfect. And since humans for the most part were now guarding humans, occasionally cattle got out, and contraband got in. That was where Talbot came in. Starting about a year prior, primary responsibility for handling border issues, jailbreaks, runaways and so forth, fell to John Talbot and his ilk. Cyborgs backed them up when it came time to harvest, so woe to the person who damaged “meat” without cause. The heavy lifting fell to John. He was a member of a vanishing special club; one of the some ten thousand humans who had aided the Tschaaa invasion in the United States under the guise of t
he return of a master race.

  When some of Talbot’s supremacists had seen their first Tschaaa, and realized that the Squids were the race behind the invasion, they had breakdowns. Some killed themselves, others ran for the hills, and some joined the Resistance. Added to the ones lost in combat during and after the Strike, less than one in ten remained at the Director’s–and the Tschaaa–beck and call.

  Talbot didn’t care. Hell, he had believed in UFOs and grey aliens before the first rock hit. Now, he got paid to catch and sometimes kill human dark meat and their cousins. He and his people–some two hundred men, women, and children–were paid in money, drugs, precious metals, booze, and whatever he could salvage. Part of that salvage was strange and exotic women. Talbot was in hog heaven.

  Today, someone had whacked two good ole boy sentries for Cattle Country, blown a hole in the fence and now there was hell to pay.

  He and his Krakens traveled as a group in a series of fancy SUVs, RVs, public transit and tour buses, and a couple of converted bank armored cars. They had two old cattle trucks as well, one for a few horses they kept, the other holding a few motorcycles and spare parts. A semi-tractor trailer with ATVs rounded out the transport. Talbot himself drove a Cadillac SUV, while a Jeep Cherokee driven by his old lady followed him, pulling his Harley on a trailer.

  They had twin five-year-olds, one boy and one girl, who were the next generation. He had a half a dozen younger members who still rode Harleys all the time. The rest of the older members rode in the more comfortable transport. Traditional bikers were a thing of the past.

  Talbot still remembered when he had officially adopted his new colors–the Krakens– some five years ago when Director Lloyd began organizing the remnants of the supremacists, renegades, and bikers who had helped support the invasion. Front men, grays and a few robos had used them to stamp out anyone who questioned the New World Order, but it was too hit and miss. They really did not know how humans thought, but instead treated everyone as disposable; probably the reason why barely one thousand members of the original flying squads that had supported the Invasion still existed.

  When he had adopted his new colors, some old school bikers who hadn’t gotten the word that the old way was gone tried to tell him that he couldn't have new colors unless all the surviving biker gangs voted approval. “Don’t disrespect the old colors, there’s a way things are done… yada, yada, yada.”

  Talbot, with the help of the Director’s personal robocop, had offed some two dozen of the old school before they got the hint that the Krakens were the senior club in town. Hells Angels, Bandidos, Outlaws, and Pagans existed in small isolated compounds. Former skinheads and KKK members were still used in some areas to scare the locals and as sentries keeping the dark meat in Cattle Country.

  Mostly, since everything was organized around local committees and overseer robocops, coordinated through Director Lloyd, the old boogie men had no mission. The Director was also forming military style security forces in San Diego, L.A. San Antonio, Houston, Pensacola, and, of course, Key West. Since last year, as power, food, shelter and medical care began to be provided again in an organized, almost national form, only Talbot’s people were being used on a regular basis. They were also provided newer weapons and transport.

  The Church of Kraken and the Reverend Kray had risen using the Kraken, a mythical tentacle giant squid creature, as a symbol not long after Talbot had made his presence known. Talbot should have been flattered, but in reality, he was irritated. He did all the heavy lifting, making the Kraken a symbol to be feared, and then this religious fanatic had stolen his idea. What really pissed off Talbot was when some so-called Krakens–“churchers” he called them– started eating other humans. What type of sick bastard did that?

  Now Talbot’s people were stopped along the main road, a mile down from the hole in the fence. Hopefully, surviving sentries had kept many people from walking all over the escape route. They had found one piece of discarded clothing, which Talbot had in his gloved hand. He walked over to Dogman, who was built like an Adonis, a solid, muscular man making women–and any gay men who might still live–drool with desire. Talbot did not know his original name, the man called himself Dogman for as long as he had known him.

  Talbot handed Dogman the child’s shirt that had been recovered. The man took it, gave it a momentary glance, and then immediately brought it over to the bus he had set up especially for him. Dogman had spared no expense or effort to create a state of the art mobile kennel, which resembled a dog spa in its luxury. Inside, he had a dozen dogs of various specialized breeds. He opened the rear door and quickly removed three Black Mouth Curs, a now rare breed from the Alabama area. Bred as hunting hound dogs, they had excellent noses to track prey, with jaws and teeth to back them up if the prey decided to fight them before Dogman got there.

  The dogs sniffed the offered piece of clothing. Dogman said only one word, “Seek,” and the three, heads to the wind, took off. The man jumped on a four-wheel ATV he had primed and ready and took off after them.

  “Goddamnit. There he goes again,” fumed Talbot. “Takes off without a word.” Talbot signaled to three young bikers he had wisely standing by to follow Dogman, and they took off in pursuit.

  Talbot got back into his SUV to wait for word from the dog handler. That S.O.B. talked more to his dogs than he did to humans, Talbot thought. Dogman had told him once when pressed that he believed dogs were morally superior, not to mention nicer, than ninety-nine percent of the people he knew, so why waste his time talking to humans? But Dogman had never let Talbot down. This time was no different.

  A quarter of an hour later, and one of the bikers radioed back, “He’s got ‘em.” And gave a quick location. Then, shots were heard.

  “Fuck!” Talbot cursed. He yelled over his radio, “Assault team, follow me!” He took off like a proverbial bat out of hell, with three ATVs and a former border patrol Suburban inline. Thanks to the fact that the Director had gotten GPS up and running again last month, finding Dogman would be relatively simple.

  An old former farmhouse and barn were off the main road by about a half mile. The young bikers were already involved in a firefight with the occupants when Talbot and the assault team arrived. With practiced ease, tear gas grenades were fired into the structures, as an old M-60 machine gun fired bursts at the firing points. Without warning, a bunch of humans came bursting out of the former farm structures.

  “Look at those black bastards scatter. Just like a bunch of cockroaches!” somebody yelled. One fleeing man with a gun fired a shot from his pistol, and then was cut in half by the M-60. High-pitched shrieks were heard as more shots were fired.

  Talbot’s men were well schooled in leg shots. It took a little while longer, but some ninety percent of the adults were down with bullets in a leg, thigh, or knee. The rest, with the children, stopped and went to ground.

  “Alright, you black mofos!” Talbot yelled over a bullhorn. “Hands on heads while you still have a head.” A couple more shots rang out as someone still fought back, followed by a burst of assault rifle fire that produced more screams. “Cease fire! Cease fire!” Talbot yelled. The shooting stopped. Talbot waited a minute or two for the situation to sink in for the Cattle.

  “If you want to survive along with your kids, do as we say, and do not resist.” Talbot had already contacted a Falcon craft to respond and harvest the dead dark meat. Three adults had been killed outright. A fourth was dying from having parts of his body ripped off by one of the dogs. A robocop piloted Falcon could easily handle that small number. This had been arranged and accomplished many times during the last year. One just had to explain ahead of time the threat and to not indiscriminately start killing what the Squids saw as their Cattle, especially the young.

  As Talbot supervised the rounding up of the rest of the rebels, and treatment of the wounded to keep them alive until they made it back to Cattle Country, one of his Lieutenants, Ray Sparks approached him.

  “Bossman, Dogman has
a problem. You should come quick.”

  Sparks was one of Talbot’s more level-headed men, which was why he made him a Lieutenant. If he said Talbot should come, Talbot knew he had better. He found Dogman cradling one of his dogs. The Dark Mouth Cur was bleeding badly from a gunshot wound. Talbot knew it would die long before they made it back to their convoy vehicles, where there was a vet and a doctor.

  “Sorry, Dogman. Didn’t know one of the dark… ”

  “Don’t,” the large man growled.

  “What? I just…”

  “Just… don’t.”

  Talbot made a lot of allowances for Dogman because of his unique abilities, but this attitude was getting old. Before he could say anything, Dogman turned and walked, carrying his dog to his ATV. On the back cargo rack he had made a padded bed area on which he could strap wounded dogs. With practiced hands he quickly secured his dog. But it was already too late. The dog gave one last sigh, and died.

  Dogman stared at his canine companion. He bent over, whispered something in the dog’s ear, and gently covered him with a blanket. Then, Dogman turned, and walked toward the crowd. Before Talbot realized what was happening, the big man approached one of the half dozen children, grabbed a fifteen year old boy, and producing a fillet knife, slit his throat from ear to ear all in the blink of an eye.

  Talbot screamed, “No! Goddamnit. Stop!” But it had already happened.

  The Falcon seemed to appear from nowhere. Dogman calmly walked to the ATV as the boy spasmed and bled out, adults screaming and crying around him. The robocop in the Falcon quickly took in the tableau, blue light alighting on Dogman as he now stood at the back of his ATV. He looked directly at the Falcon, as he rested his hands on his dead dog. The light went out. The Falcon, using its signature metal tentacles, picked up the dead dark meat, including the boy, and was gone.