“Captain Heath, it’s good to hear your voice. Any word from Colonel Kinnick yet?”
“No, sir. I haven’t heard from Major Alvarado either.”
Steele pressed the receiver to his ear. “Neither of them?”
“No.”
“How are things north of here?”
“We’ve had some success. My force has expanded as we’ve recruited farmers from inland, but things could be better. It’s getting colder and our outreach has stalled due to the weather.”
“It’s getting cold here too.”
The radio crackled. “Gentleman. This is Kinnick.”
Steele grinned and partially relaxed at the sound of his voice. “Sir, Steele here.”
“And Heath.”
“Glad to hear from you two. I’ll begin.”
Captain Heath’s voice sounded off. “Sir, what about Major Alvarado?”
There was a pause for a moment. Steele glared at Thunder and the man’s mouth tightened beneath his bushy gray beard. Silence was hardly ever a good thing.
“There’s no easy way to put this. We lost comms with Outpost Barron three days ago.”
“Sir?”
Steele kept silent. Kinnick was a fine commander. He would relay the information they needed, but why would he wait?
“I was giving them time to fix the issue before we took action. At this point, we can only assume the worst.”
“Sir, there were over two-hundred Marines in a fortified base in the middle of a river. If they’ve been overrun, our chances are worse than I thought,” Heath said.
“I understand that, Captain. Any way you slice it, this puts us in a tight spot. If the threat is north, then we must meet it.”
“What would you have us do?” Steele asked.
“We’re going to have to shift units to the north. If it’s the dead, I’d reestablish the outpost. I’m going to need Captain Heath to shift two companies north to investigate and reestablish the outpost, if needed. Captain Steele you will move two companies of your militia north to support Heath. Do you understand?”
Roughly two hundred fewer fighters for our defense. This is a thin line we are forming, he thought. “Yes, sir.” His words were echoed by Heath.
Steele waited a moment before he spoke, the weight of the situation bearing down on him. “Sir, I’ve had a disease run through my forces centered in Hacklebarney. About ten percent of my force is incapacitated.”
“Understood. I assume this won’t be a problem?”
“No, sir. We’ll make it happen.”
“Good. Captain Heath, as soon as you’ve made contact at Outpost Barron, I need a situation report. Captain Steele, ensure your units are on their way as soon as possible.”
“Wilco.”
Heath followed. “Wilco.”
“Reconvene, same time, same place next week.”
“Yes, sir.”
“Oh, and gentleman, I almost forgot. We’re getting close to the holiday. Merry Christmas.”
Despite the situation unfolding, Steele smiled. “Merry Christmas, sir.” He put down the receiver and clicked the radio off.
Thunder raised his eyebrows. “What’d he say?”
“We’ve got to move two companies of militia north to support Heath while he investigates what happened at Outpost Barron.”
“Red Stripes can do it.”
“Nah, I’d rather keep you guys close to my chest. I was thinking about off-loading a portion of Jackson’s men with the War Machines to watch over them.”
“War Child will make sure they stay in line, but I’d hate to lose his gang if things go south here.”
“We will miss him, but I want to break Major Ludlow’s men up and spread them out. If they want to fight the dead, we would be stupid to stop them.”
Thunder leaned forward. “Not sure how I feel about giving them guns. You should have shoved them into the river and been done with it.”
“Would you rather have me send two companies of my loyal fighters and have them all bunched up down here? No, we utilize the ones willing to fight.”
“You think I like the idea of putting down servicemen? I am a fucking Marine for God’s sake.”
Steele drifted back to his desk. “No more than I do.”
Thunder found his feet. “Send the bastards north, but remember who’s had your back. Trust is all you got in this world, and I don’t trust them.”
“Thank you, Thunder.”
Steele’s staunch ally left. He knew Thunder spoke the truth. How could you have people you didn’t trust watching your back? Bullets in the back, teeth to the front. No options were good options, but he had to drum up something if they wanted to survive long-term which included acquiring the government’s vaccine. If they have a vaccine? They do. Kinnick wouldn’t lie. What if they lied to him?
He sighed, looking at the radio. I’ll send the War Machines and a full platoon of Ludlow’s men, but I need my own eyes and ears on the ground. Tess? Margie? Larry? Ahmed would have been perfect, and now he’s gone along with Macleod.
A knock came from the doorway leading to the foyer. A slender woman stood there in her bulky green coat, her hair slicked back. She leaned on the frame, her arms crossed as if she expected an answer to a question. She eyeballed Thunder’s back.
“Whatcha doing?”
“Figuring out who to send north. We’ve lost contact with Outpost Barron.”
“Ouch.” Her ebony eyes awaited his response. “Who’re you going to send?”
“Thunder volunteered, but I want to keep him close here. I’m going to send the War Machines and a platoon of Ludlow’s men.”
“Getting some of the Legion out of here?”
“Yes.” He glanced at his map. “The next question is who we have as our eyes and ears on the ground?”
She moved inside the parlor and made her way to the fire. She rubbed her hands between one another and held them in front of the fireplace. “I’d send myself or Margie. We’ll make sure the job gets done. Not to mention we’re loyal.”
“What are you trying to say?”
She gave him a side eye. “I’m trying to tell you everyone isn’t what they seem.”
Steele furrowed his brow. “Tess. Don’t skirt around. What are you saying?”
She left the fire and plopped down on the couch. “I saw a few things yesterday that didn’t sit right with me.”
He waited, watching her make herself comfortable.
“The pastor is out there hemming and hawing about how you aren’t helping the sick.”
Steele stretched his neck and stood. He moved near the window. “We don’t have any medicine. It’s gone. Gwen went to get what she can.”
“He sent people out too.”
Steele sighed. “He shouldn’t have done that.” He inspected the soldiers returning from trench duty around the camp. It was a thankless job in hard ground, but someday it would pay off and they couldn’t afford to wait until spring.
“You aren’t going to do anything?”
“What would you have me do? Punish a man who is trying to help?”
“He could ruin the negotiations that Gwen is conducting.”
“He could. I’ll speak to him.”
“There’s more.”
“More?” He turned around to face her.
Her features took on a foreign seriousness. “I saw Thunder getting all chummy with Peter earlier.”
He felt anger bubble in the pit of his gut. “What do you mean?”
“They were talking close together and shaking hands. Not something that I’d expect out of the big Thunder Cat.”
“They’re allowed to talk.”
“I dunno. I just got this inkling that something wasn’t right. Like they were hiding something. When I asked Thunder about it, he said they were planning their patrols.”
“Something I would expect them to coordinate.”
Tess gave him a skeptical look. “You and me both know I love Thunder, but he wasn’t act
ing right. Listen.” She scooted closer to him. “I know that man. He’s hiding something. He hates the Chosen just as much as me. He might not be as vocal, but there isn’t any reason for him to be chest-butting and patty-caking with Peter even if they were coordinating patrols.”
Everything she said was valid. Since the Battle of Little Sable Point, there was bad blood between the bikers and the Chosen. The Sable Pointers hated the Chosen too, but they followed Steele’s lead and reluctantly accepted them. That wasn’t even taking into consideration the fact that Tess had attempted to assassinate the pastor while he slept, furthering the divide between his followers.
He took a hand and ran it over the scar traversing the top of his skull, a wound he’d taken in the hills of West Virginia. “I appreciate you telling me this.”
She clapped her hands together softly. “What’re you going to do?”
“I’m not going to do anything. Thunder’s my ally. One of my best allies. I can’t believe there is any guilt in this.” His brow creased tighter, tugging at his hardened scar tissue.
“And why would Thunder meet with Peter? Garrett plans the patrols.”
Steele held up his strong hand. “I won’t hear any more of it. Keep track of the pastor, but please drop the stuff about Thunder. If I can’t keep him on my side, who can I trust?”
She raised her eyebrows. “Me.”
He stepped closer to his desk, speaking over his shoulder, “I can’t survive with just one ally.” He jotted a name down on a piece of paper. “Which is why I need you here. I won’t hear anything more about Thunder.” He faced her. “Nothing.”
“But.”
“I will not hear conspiracy theories. I don’t care what you think you have.” His eyes hardened signaling an end to discussion. “I’m going to send Margie north with the War Machines and Major Ludlow’s men.” Steele studied his units and their deployment over the southern portion of Iowa on his map. Everything just got a little slimmer.
THE PASTOR
South of Camp Forge, IA
He floated far above orange-and-yellow flames that danced a scalding ballet. Unable to control himself, he hurtled toward the inferno. His body was nonexistent, only a level of consciousness making him acutely aware of his own existence.
The ball of fire exploded, enveloping him with heat. Blinded, he closed his eyes. Even as he tried to turn away, he couldn’t. The blaze leapt before him and encircled him on all sides.
Then the voice came to him. It was so deep he almost couldn’t understand the words. “Open your eyes.”
The voice brought upon him an unknown dread. A fear beyond anything imaginable made him want to scream. The inferno was a wave of holocaust surrounding him. The fire will burn me. My eyes will melt and turn liquid and run down the curve of my face. The flames will lap my tongue, searing it, and lick my skin, boiling it. Yet he couldn’t emit a sound despite the terror that filled him.
The voice came again, dominating the roar of the flames. “Open your eyes. See.”
He chanced to open his mouth instead, and his words dribbled out pathetic and weak. “The fire.”
“Only the guilty feel my righteousness.”
His voice was frail. Soft. Insignificant. It quivered as he spoke, a mere infant in the eyes of such power. “Yes, Lord.”
“You have fallen behind the false and blind.” The words washed over him like a tidal wave, drowning his very essence.
The pastor’s voice was weak and frail before the omniscient holy being, a form he could never begin to understand. “I am your humble servant.”
“Your enemies will burn before your eyes. Their idols will be shattered and their cries will fill your ears.”
He didn’t dare open his eyes. He feared it would be his last act. “Yes, Lord.”
“A champion comes. Look for him.”
“Yes, Lord,” he cried out. The fire roared in response like he was responsible for detonating in a massive explosion. He couldn’t hide from the inferno. He had to embrace it. He cracked open his eyes, and the flames crawled into his empty sockets and the gaping hole that was once his mouth.
He blinked, coming back to this world. His chest heaved. Light clouds covered a full moon in the night. The blazing tempest was gone. His breath fogged in front of his face like a cool mist. The temperature was bone-chillingly cold, cutting through his layers of clothes. He almost yearned for the flames again.
“Are you okay?” Peter breathed next to him. He held an AK-47 in his hands, a strap keeping it close to his body.
“Yes, Peter.” His respiration leveled out. His vision was so vivid and real he could still feel the heat on his skin.
The barn ahead of them was a rickety old thing. Boards were missing along the sides and shingles vacant from the roof.
“Do you see our comrades?”
“No, Father.”
“Come, Peter. The omens are good.” Their feet crunched in the soft powder turned frosty and frozen in the nighttime air. Near the doors, the men stopped and listened. Peter dipped inside the barn, checking the corners of the unlit structure. The pastor hesitantly followed his man.
A tense silence held the dark hostage. The quiet hid the presence of others undisclosed. Shhick. Shhick. A tiny flame lit up the barn. It drifted toward an old wrinkled face and glowed against the tip of a cigarette. The faint odor of cigarette smoke wafted in the air. The man sucked in and an ember gleamed with life.
The man’s voice sounded like feet stepping through gravel. “Pastor.” With a creak of worn leather, the burning ember leapt back for his face.
“War Child. Your attendance is comforting.”
Peter stared into the corners of the barn, his AK-47 held in unrelaxed hands.
War Child snorted in the blackness at his words. “Mammoth. Iron. Tiny. You can stand down.”
Leather-clad men emerged from the shadows, faint war gears on their patches. Both men were burly, hairy, and heavily armed with M4A1 carbines with optics. Weapons stolen from the soldiers they’d defeated. The wood groaned above the pastor, and he let his eyes follow the sound. Booted feet skipped down a ladder. War Child was cautious and clearly didn’t trust the Chosen.
“Go outside,” War Child said. The bikers stepped around the pastor and Peter. The largest stared the pastor directly in the eyes with a nasty grin on his hair-cloaked lips.
He could feel Peter tense at his side. The other biker chomped his teeth in Peter’s face, and Peter went rigid like a two-by-four.
The pastor placed a long-fingered hand on his disciple’s shoulder. The man was solid but not terrifying like the bikers, more stout than violent. “You may stand watch outside, my son.”
“But Father, these men.” His voice dipped quieter. “They cannot be trusted.”
“Have faith. While they may be uncouth, all men have their use to the Lord.”
“Hehehe,” War Child laughed. It came out like a dusty wheeze. “Your altar boy can stay if you’d like. Makes no difference to me.”
Peter bowed his head in deference. “Yes, Father.” He turned away, leaving them.
“Your people are loyal,” War Child said.
The pastor took a step forward. “So are yours.”
The two men admired one another from across the barn.
“It seems we have something in common that our captain does not.”
A faint grin formed on War Child’s lips. “It seems we do.” He dropped his cigarette on the floor and ground his boot into it. “You know nothing personal on the lakeshore. Just business.”
The pastor felt his face shudder. He licked his lips, feeling the dry chill of the night. “I understand your business.” War Child and his men were heathen mercenaries that could be turned to God’s will with the right divine hand guiding them.
“Then you understand why I’m here.”
The pastor spoke with the articulate reservation of a politician. “Our current leadership isn’t meeting my expectations.”
“Is that so?�
��
The pastor gulped. This man wouldn’t be here unless he was willing to make a deal. His mind wracked itself with doubt. He knew this man was a treacherous scoundrel, and he could be attempting to entrap the pastor on Steele’s behalf. He knew his foundation with Steele was weak despite the shaming he’d given Tess when God held her hand from taking his life.
Shhick. Shhick. War Child lit up another cigarette. An evil sneer sat on his leathery face. His snowy beard was still trimmed although not too close. He blew smoke out his mouth. “The boy’s been lucky to still have his balls sewn on straight. He shouldn’t have let all those soldiers go. I’m afraid we’ll wake up tomorrow and be staring at the same dumbasses down the barrel that we were before.” He took another drag off his cigarette. “We can’t afford those kind of mistakes.”
The pastor lifted his chin a fraction. “We need a man in charge who can order the harshest of actions done to ensure the survival of his people.”
“Aye. A man who is comfortable with his sins.”
A small smile crept on the pastor’s face. “Or a man absolved of his sins in the name of the Lord.”
War Child took a few steps forward. “I think we share the same vision. What did you have in mind?” He breathed out smoke.
“God came to me.”
A crooked grin carved onto War Child’s lips. “Did he? What’d the bastard say?”
The pastor ignored the man’s blasphemy as such men had their vices and, more importantly, their uses. “An angel came to me and he brought with him the fiery wrath of the Lord.”
“Did he? He’s vengeful, ain’t he?”
“He’s righteous and shows us the way.”
War Child twisted his head. “Meant no offense.” He placed a hand on his breast. “I’m a God-fearing man myself.”
The pastor eyed the biker to see if he was mocking his faith. “We should all fear him for he holds the power to make men great and to lay men low. What is your name?”
“You know my name.”
“No, your real name. The name given to you at birth.”
War Child took another step forward, his boot thumping the barn floor. He was within a few feet of the pastor now. Close enough to strike him if he wanted. His white beard was brighter now as if he were transforming into a ghost.
The End Time Saga (Book 5): The Holding Page 11