The Long Night Box Set

by Kevin Partner

  "We've struck oil!" Solly said as the sloshing of the bucket echoed up out of the hole. "Now, let's see whether this thing works."

  He pulled on the rope and lifted the tube out. "It's full!" Solly upended the bucket and carefully poured it into the jerrycan.

  "Are you Ruskies?"

  Solly was so startled he almost dropped the bucket. When he twisted around, he was looking into the barrel of a shotgun and, beyond it, stood an old man with trembling arms.

  "No, we're from New York," Solly said, his voice trembling.

  The old man spat as if to suggest that this was almost as bad an answer. He wore baggy jeans and a red checked shirt covered by a thick fur lined coat. Watery eyes peeked out from behind round spectacles and his yellow stained white beard wagged as he chewed.

  "You're not Ruskie spies, then? Sent to finish us off. Well, let me be tellin' you, I ain't surrenderin'. I did two tours of 'Nam and ten years as a deputy and you can take my gun from my cold dead hands if you want to try. Are you feeling lucky?"

  Solly had seen many examples of the mad and the bad since the Long Night. The worst people he'd met had managed to combine the two. His mind flashed back to the fake religious leader in New York and he wondered, in that instant, whether he had survived and what he was doing now. Seeking revenge for their escape, and the wound he suffered? But what of the Lee Corporation? They might have remained idle, but that didn't suit their style. What would they make of attempts to restore government in DC?

  As for this man, he was definitely in the crazy camp, but, despite the quivering gun, Solly didn't see him as a threat—except accidentally.

  "Sergeant, you can lower your weapon," he said, calmly.

  The old man's eyes widened. "How'd you know I was a sergeant, sonny?"

  Lucky guess, Solly thought. "Call it military instinct. Now, will you put the gun down? You're frightening the boy."

  Glancing to the side, the old man shook his head as if to wake out of a dream and lowered the shotgun. "Sorry son. I didn't mean to alarm you."

  Ross looked embarrassed and relieved at the same time.

  "Sergeant Walter Hammond, 1st Brigade, 5th Infantry Division of the Red Devils," the old man said, popping a perfect salute.

  Solly did his best to replicate it. "Solomon Masters, Special Operations," he said, tapping the side of his nose. Ross went to open his mouth, but Solly kicked his shins and the boy remained silent.

  Solly and the veteran shook hands. "Sergeant, we need some diesel. We're heading west on a secret mission. Do we have your permission to resupply using your fuel dump?"

  "Oh, yes indeed sir. I'll fetch the manual pump and we'll get it out of there easy as apple pie."

  Another salute and the old man hobbled off to the rear of the kiosk.

  "I guess we know why this place hadn't been raided before now," Solly said.

  "He's a bit soft in the head, Sol," Ross replied. "Can we trust him?"

  Solly nudged the boy in the ribs reproachfully. "You'd be a little addled if you'd gone through what he has and then, when you should be enjoying a quiet retirement chasing kids out of your pumpkin patch, the Long Night happens. It wouldn't surprise me if he's got a shortwave radio tuned to a military frequency and heard the National Guard call up. Where has he gone?"

  Solly and Ross walked around the back of the kiosk and found the old man rolling up a sleeping bag and stowing it in his pack.

  "You've been living out here?" Solly gasped. Hammond's shelter amounted to the roof overhang and three garbage bins that had been rolled around it as a makeshift wall. "Why didn't you get inside?"

  Hammond straightened up painfully. "It don't belong to me, that's why. I'm here to protect the fuel supply, not break into other folks' property."

  "But it's freezing!" Ross said, gesturing at the snow that was now falling steadily.

  "I'm pretty tough. Though it did get awful cold last night…"

  "Sergeant, I give you official permission to use this kiosk as your sentry post."

  The old man bent down to pick up a series of picture frames that had been laid in a row beside where he slept. "Thank you, sir, but that's no longer necessary."

  "Why?"

  Another salute. "Because I'm coming with you, sir."

  "You can't let him come!" Ross said. They'd made camp beside the camping stove which they'd set up in the store room behind the kiosk. A large can of stewed beef was bubbling away, filling the room with a delicious aroma that set Solly's stomach rumbling.

  "What do you suggest? You know he'll die if we leave him here."

  "But he stinks! And he's mad!"

  Solly turned to Ross. "I don't imagine we smell too sweet at the moment, and I don't think he's quite as crazy as I imagined at first. Some food and human company will hopefully bring him around a little. And anyway, he might be old—"

  "He is old."

  "—but he's a veteran. We could do with an extra pair of hands."

  "You just love the fact that he thinks you're some sort of James Bond."

  Solly laughed out loud. "Give it a rest. I mean, look at me. Do I look like Jack Reacher? John Milton?"

  "You look a lot more like them than you did a few weeks back. Face it, Sol, you're not the man you once were."

  "For better or worse," Solly said, shaking his head, though he felt a tinge of pride.

  "We could just make a run for it while he's back at his house," Ross said, though without conviction.

  Solly spooned a third of the can of stew into Ross's bowl and a third into his own. "Just enjoy your stew. And don't worry, you're still my second in command." He smiled and looked sidelong at Ross whose face flushed a little as he ate.

  Solly reached into his bag and pulled out the cylinder. He'd discovered he could activate it without removing the outer wrap. What he hadn't worked out was why he felt so obsessed with activating it at all. He'd been talking to the device every night since it had spoken that first time. It was almost as if he half expected it to not answer one night. He wondered whether that would bother him and decided that it would. Now who was the crazy one?

  Hello Father.

  "Hello Alison."

  Are we there yet?

  "Now Alison, I told you it would take many weeks."

  I know, but we seem to have been traveling for ages.

  Solly looked down at the cylinder. Alison's lights could be seen through the semi-transparent silvered wrapping and he'd noticed that they reflected her mood—if a machine could have emotions. Right now, she was emitting a distinctly reddish tone.

  "We’ve been refueling today," he said. "So we can travel faster tomorrow and the days after that."

  I don't understand. What is fuel?

  Maybe this was why he was so keen to talk to her every night. She asked questions he could actually answer with confidence. Alison reminded him of an empty mold—the shape existed, but there was nothing inside.

  "What in the world is that?"

  Solly snapped around to see Walter standing over him and Ross, pointing a shaking finger at the red pulsing thing in Solly's lap.

  "It's a noo-clee-ar weapon, ain't it? What are you doin' with a noo-clee-ar weapon?"

  "It's not a weapon," Solly said as he deactivated Alison and stowed the cylinder. "It's a computer. A bit like Alexa."

  The old man rubbed his bearded chin. "Alexa? Isn't that the darned creepy thing that talks to you about the weather and suchlike? My grandson tried to get me one, but I told 'im I don't need no talking Pringles tube to tell me the weather when I can look outside my own door."

  Hammond stopped for a moment, as if lost in memories. "Of course, he died when the Ruskies hacked them darned implants all the young folks got. I told 'em it would lead to a bad end. I'm seventy-eight and I've not had a day's sickness in my life. I wish he hadn't had to learn the hard way," the old man said, shaking his head sadly.

  "This is a specialized version," Solly said, impressed that Hammond had worked out what had happened, even
if blaming the Russians was going a bit too far. "We need to deliver it to our agent on the West Coast. It contains crucial intelligence."

  "Oh, I see. Well, I'm with you. I've had a wash and brush up. I reckon I wasn't smellin’ all that nice."

  Solly glanced at Ross, and then up at Hammond. The beard was still there, though washed and trimmed, and the clothes looked like clean versions of those he'd been wearing.

  Getting up, Solly took the old man's hand. "Glad to have you along, serg—"

  His pack had begun to beep. Solly bent down and grabbed the cylinder. It was vibrating and flashing red.

  Father. The beacon has been activated. Here is the message:

  Her voice then deepened as if she was replaying a voicemail.

  To the bearer of this device. Bring it to the following coordinates as soon as possible. Bring it soon or it will be too late. The fate of humanity depends on what you do over the next days. Hurry. The secret is out, and the enemy is hunting you.

  Father.

  The girlish voice had returned.

  I'm frightened.

  Solly nodded sadly. "So am I, Alison. So am I."

  Epilogue

  The mayor of Fort Brad, CA let out a loud snore and rolled over. His wife had long since found sanctuary in the bedroom furthest away from her husband and so he was the last to be woken up.

  A hand reached down and shook the recumbent man's ample shoulders. "Mr. Mayor. Mr. Mayor!"

  Luis Garcia sucked in a huge lungful of air, almost swallowing his tongue in the process, then floundered around, shaking his head to clear it of last night's tequila.

  "Como? Who is it?" He leaned onto the bedside table to reach his spectacles, became suddenly aware of his nakedness and pulled the blankets up to his hairy shoulders. "Jones, is that you?"

  "Yes, sir. Sorry to disturb you, but there's a situation on the beach."

  Garcia was fully awake now, awake enough to be indignant. "On the beach? Look, Jones, if it's just some kids messing around on quad bikes again, I don't want to know."

  "It's nothing like that, sir. Someone's coming ashore."

  "What?"

  "I think it's best you see for yourself, sir."

  And so, Mayor Garcia was now in a police car smoothing his hair down with his hand and wondering what he'd done to deserve yet another emergency. He'd achieved the near impossible by uniting the remaining population and welcoming in those from neighboring towns to make a secure community. Geography had been on their side as Fort Brad was based around an old emplacement built during the wars of the 19th century and could only be approached from one direction.

  He'd quickly galvanized the people, managing somehow to prevent the complete disintegration of order. His wife had to take some credit for helping with that—folk tended to do what she told them. Yeah, what a lucky stroke that she'd survived the Long Night when everyone he cared about had died. Lucky.

  The sun was just beginning to rise behind them as they approached the beach and Garcia could instantly see that something was seriously amiss. The tide was just starting to retreat, exposing acres of wet sand but whereas he'd expect to spot nothing more than a few people walking dogs or riding horses, what he actually saw reminded him more of one of those moving anthills from the South American rain forest.

  The car bumped and slid a little as it left the slipway and headed across the sands. It was instantly illuminated by search lights that combed the beach, identifying the car and checking for any others. Perhaps he should have brought reinforcements.

  A group of armed men was walking toward the car as it traveled over the sand.

  "What shall I do, Mayor? Turn around?" The driver's voice was trembling.

  Garcia felt like a rat in a trap. It was too late to do anything other than take the bait.

  "No, pull up," he said.

  Mayor Luis Garcia got out of the car and walked toward the approaching group. As they came within range of the car's headlights, he could see there was about a half dozen of them, most in camouflage fatigues, but led by a man in a peaked cap and light green uniform. Hundreds more were scurrying in the distant half light.

  They halted a few paces apart.

  "Who are you?" Garcia said.

  The man in the cap stepped forward briskly and Garcia saw another figure move with him, holding a camera.

  "Do you represent the local authorities?" the officer said in clipped English with an American accent.

  "I am the mayor."

  The officer nodded curtly. "My name is Colonel Kun Sung-Jin of the Glorious Expeditionary Force. I claim this land on behalf of our dear leader."

  Another man walked forward carrying a flag on a spiked pole. He handed it to his commander who raised it high and plunged it into the sand.

  "You will return in one hour with any others who are required to make a lawful surrender."

  Garcia's mouth had fallen open and he stared at the man in wide eyed shock.

  "Surrender to who?" he finally managed.

  "To the army of the Democratic People's Republic of Korea."

  States of War

  Book 3

  STATES OF WAR

  The Long Night Series

  Book 3

  By

  Kevin Partner

  Mike Kraus

  © 2019 Muonic Press Inc

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  Table of Contents

  Prologue

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  Untitled

  The Long Night – Book 4

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  Prologue

  Four Years before The Long Night

  The prayer wheel rumbled to a stop as Annabel Lee was hauled from the cell, gagged and bound, and dragged down the mountainside.

  Strong arms lifted her when she fell, and she tried desperately to see who had captured her. Dressed in black from head to foot, there were at least three of them pushing and prodding her at pace down slippery paths lined with snow, unmistakably heading towards Friendship Bridge and the border with China.

  How had they known she was there? Her visit to the monastery at Liping on the Sino-Nepalese border had been a secret from her closest friends. Even her husband didn't know exactly where she was. So she must have been betrayed by one of the monks.

  Om mani padme hum.

  Annabel tried to focus on the mantra. She'd spent a month battling the darkness that had settled on her soul since the diagnosis. Another betrayal. She'd gifted the world the means of curing the previously incurable only to discover too late that she had a rare and terminal condition.

  Om mani padme hum.

  She stumbled again, but when she was hauled to her feet this time, she could see that they'd reached the bottom of the mountain where a road snake
d its way towards the bridge that separated Nepal from China.

  Om mani—

  "Silence!" hissed the man gripping her arm. A Chinese accent. What did they want with her? This was no random kidnapping, so he was either part of a bandit group that was going to hold her to ransom, or this was official business on behalf of the Chinese government.

  Three guards stood on the bridge. With military precision, they unhooked their rifles and pointed them at Annabel and her captors.

  "Declare yourself," the middle guard called. Annabel pushed back the terror and focused her mind—her Mandarin was good, but she had to concentrate.

  One of her captors stepped forward, hands held high. She watched as the man approached the end of the bridge. He was dressed like a cross between a ninja and an SAS commando; all in black, his head covered by a balaclava. From his belt hung what looked like a kukri—the ceremonial weapon of the Gurkhas. Maybe he wasn't Chinese after all.

  She could hear that he was speaking but couldn't make out the words. Whatever he was saying, however, seemed to work as he was invited onto the bridge where the guard took the papers he offered and checked them carefully. He flicked to the final page and suddenly looked up, glanced at Annabel, then turned to his colleagues. She could see him talking to them in hushed but urgent tones before all three retreated to the far end of the bridge and the lead kidnapper followed them across.