Seasons of Man | Book 2 | Reap What You Sow

by Anderson, S. M.

  Reap What You Sow

  Seasons of Man – Book Two

  S.M. Anderson

  This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places and incidents are either the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously.

  Copyright © 2020 by S.M. Anderson

  An MCE Press book

  All rights reserved including the right to reproduce this book or portions thereof in any form, physical or digital.

  Cover Art by Mihai Costas

  Formatting by Polgarus Studio

  Other books by S.M. Anderson – reading order:

  All titles are available on Amazon and enrolled in Kindle Unlimited. Audio versions for all books in both series are being produced by Podium Audio and are available on Audible.

  The Eden Chronicles:

  Book One: “A Bright Shore”

  Book Two: “Come and Take It”

  Book Three: “New Shores”

  Book Four: forthcoming (2020)

  Seasons of Man:

  Book One: “End of Summer”

  Book Two: “Reap What You Sow”

  Book Three: forthcoming

  Table of Contents

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  Chapter 11

  Chapter 12

  Chapter 13

  Chapter 14

  Chapter 15

  Chapter 16

  Chapter 17

  Chapter 18

  Chapter 19

  Chapter 20

  Chapter 21

  Chapter 22

  Chapter 23

  Chapter 24

  Chapter 25

  Chapter 26

  Chapter 27

  Chapter 28

  Chapter 29

  Chapter 30

  Chapter 31

  Chapter 32

  Chapter 33

  Chapter 34

  Some notes –

  Chapter 1

  Virginia

  “Gunny? We got a situation.”

  Marine Gunnery Sergeant John Edwin Bruce had been sure that he’d be able to get some real sleep tonight. Nine months, two weeks, and four days of evidence to the contrary, tonight was to have been the night when he’d sleep for more than a couple of hours at a time. He was nothing if not an optimist. He had to be; after nine-plus months of hiding underground while nearly everyone on the surface died, optimism was all he had left.

  “Gunny!” He could tell it was Corporal Hanson’s voice shouting from his open doorway. “Farmer” wouldn’t be disturbing him on a whim.

  “What is it? What’ya got?”

  “Sorry to bother your sleep, Gunnery Sergeant.” Hanson was a polite, squared-away kid from some farm town in Washington State. A solid Marine and the closest thing to a friend he had left down here. Which meant anywhere.

  “The El Tee is acting up again.”

  He swung his feet off his bunk and pivoted in one fluid movement. His socked feet landed in the accordioned pile of BDU pants. Elbows resting on his thighs, he was still unsure of whether “acting up” required his presence. With all due respect to Lieutenant Benoit, that bar had been raised several times. Once those boots came on, he knew he’d be awake for another day. Well, not exactly awake, but functioning on autopilot. It was the best any of them had left.

  “Quoting from the book of Revelations, acting up? Or something new?”

  “Gunny . . .” He could see Hanson’s head hanging low and shaking back and forth in the backlit doorway.

  “Lucas, just tell me.”

  “He’s dry humping the airlock door, Gunny. He’s not doing well.”

  Hanson spoke in a whispered rush as if trying to keep secret the fact that the El Tee’s mind had cracked around the six-month mark.

  “I was just gonna let him wear down, but he’s different. He’s freaking the guys out. ‘Poy’ isn’t handling it well.”

  The surviving members of his Marine recon squad were stacked on this side of the thick ballistic glass of the sliding door separating the airlock room from the hallway. They were watching their commander through the glass when he rounded the corner of the final hallway. He sensed the issue before he saw it. His guys were armed, and standing ready behind the glass.

  “He’s got a sidearm, Gunny.” Corporal Tommy Salguero looked back at him as he approached.

  He wanted to scream; somebody had fucked up. They hadn’t let the lieutenant have access to more than a plastic spork for months. He did a quick head count and came up with seven, including himself and Lieutenant Benoit.

  “Where’s Elliot?”

  His guys all pulled the momentary, standard military “who, me?” reflex look of confusion at the man standing next to them before they all realized Private First-Class Elliot wasn’t with them.

  “Shit!” Salguero spit out. “I’m on it.”

  He nodded in thanks as Salguero rushed past him, providing his first sight of Lieutenant Benoit. The El Tee’s back was to them; he was leaning up against the covered control lectern that controlled the airlock. On the other side of the forty-ton blast door was the elevator that had deposited them down here for what was supposed to have been a two-week rotation. They’d been a squad of twelve plus one sane, squared-away lieutenant at the time. Five suicides had reduced their number, and they’d been damn lucky that Lieutenant Benoit had managed to stop Lance Corporal Kearney before he could finish setting off the explosives that would have killed them all. Taking out one of his own men had been the beginning of whatever had snapped in the lieutenant. He pulled his own sidearm, knowing he might have to do the same.

  “Open the door.”

  “Gunny, just let him cry it out.”

  Nathans was a cold bastard, but that didn’t make him wrong.

  “He cocks up that control panel, we will be trapped. Open the door, close it once I’m through.”

  The lieutenant gave no indication he heard the hydraulic-powered door cycling behind him. He crept in, holding his gun up. Gunnery sergeant or not, he was no different from any of his guys. He wanted out of here in the worst way. The oppressive weight of “The Hole” had become ever present. Beyond the tons of rock between them and the surface, the constant hum of the air-cycling units was starting to feel like a beehive in his head. Over the months, the smell of the place had gone from hospital-flavored sterile to a funky mash-up of new paint, engine oil, and genuine Marine boot funk.

  He’d already made the unannounced decision that if no one showed up with the proper authorization code, he was going to pop the lid at the one-year mark. The virus might still be active on the surface, but at least they would die under the open sky. Their commanding officer was now in a position to screw that up.

  “That you, Gunny?”

  “Yes, sir.”

  Benoit shifted his weight but otherwise didn’t move. “John, I can’t see. My eyes . . . I’ve gone blind.”

  “Sir, if you lose the sidearm, we can check that out.”

  “I can’t do this, John.” Benoit sucked in a massive breath like a kid who’d been crying. “Not anymore.”

  “Sir, come with me. We’ll get your eyes checked out. You just need some rest.”

  “You’ve got this, Gunny. I’ve . . . I know I’ve had a poor effect on the command, I can’t . . . I’m turning command over to you.”

  “Sir?”

  “Gunny!” The lieutenant’s command bark almost brought him to attention out of reflex and eighteen years of progra
mming.

  “I wanted out so bad, Gunny.” Benoit’s free hand looked like he was reaching out and touching something, or someone. “Can’t you see? I’ve made it. I’m going to stay right where I am.”

  Lt. Benoit never turned to face him, didn’t make him do what he feared doing the most. The lieutenant’s dangling hand holding the sidearm just flashed upward. A heartbeat later, the top of Benoit’s head erupted, as the sound of the strangely muffled gunshot reverberated around the steel box of the control room.

  He opened his eyes to see the lieutenant’s body in front of him, the blood starting to pool. He knew jealousy was a fucked-up thing to be feeling right now, but there it was. He turned to look back through the glass at his remaining men; they were all looking at him—the one remaining person in their vast underground prison who could open the door and let them out.

  *

  Chapter 2

  “It’s a start.” Daniel surveyed the former soccer fields that had been plowed and planted with every kind of vegetable he could imagine. They’d planted some of everything they had seeds for.

  “Come July, if half of it’s alive.” Michelle was shaking her head. “That’ll be a start.”

  “Given we don’t have a bloody idea of what we’re doing, it doesn’t look too bad.” Rachel shed her work gloves and swatted them against her pants.

  “He’s having the time of his life, isn’t he?” Daniel asked the question, and everyone knew who he meant. One the far side of the plowed field, Pro was driving the small tractor like the rental it was. The teenager had discovered the hand brake that locked up the rear tires and was entertaining himself in the graveled parking lot adjacent to the former soccer fields.

  “Somebody should be,” Michelle answered.

  Rachel knew what Michelle meant. She and the other people who had decided to stay together following the change in ownership at the mall had been working nonstop for the last two months. Their numbers had dropped sharply following the events that led to their takeover of the mall and hotel. A lot of people, given the first freedom they’d had in a while, just disappeared as singletons or in small groups. Many had stayed close and watched what became of the place and had begun filtering back in, usually bringing other local survivors with them. They were over 450 people at the moment, and Michelle had been running herself ragged, keeping everyone busy and pulling in the same direction.

  Some of the returnees had traveled farther afield and returned with horror stories of ravaging looter gangs. Others had come back out of a need for some basic food security. Most places had been picked clean of shelf food that hadn’t gone bad. Feeding oneself or a group off the leftovers of civilization was a lot more difficult than it had been, and it was only going to get harder. Jason was convinced people would start banding together out of necessity, either to build something through hard work or to be able to take from others. She hadn’t liked the way he’d assumed the latter would be easier.

  She hoped Jason was alright. He’d made a pretense of caring about getting crops planted and more people trained up to defend what they were building, but it had lasted only until he had fully gotten his legs back. Then he was gone. Like he couldn’t wait to get out from under the responsibility and authority that everyone had seemed more than ready to saddle him with. Her greatest fear was that it was her. What she’d assumed they might have had, had only been more pressure laid on his shoulders.

  Whatever the reason, he’d left three days ago with very little in terms of a goodbye. He was out there alone. Looking for threats - “patrolling,” he’d called it. In her gut, it felt like he’d run away. It had been all she could do to keep Pro from going after him; staying put herself hadn’t been any easier. Everyone else’s confidence aside, especially Michelle’s, she wasn’t convinced Jason would come back at all.

  “I need a drink!” Michelle announced as she moved through the small group until she threw an arm around her shoulders and pulled her into a one-armed hug.

  “So do you, I think,” Michelle whispered.

  “Am I that obvious?”

  “He’ll be back, girl.”

  *

  Jason was a long way from Tysons. He’d started out with the intention of getting out to the Shenandoah Valley and checking out the farm property that Howard Dagman had left directions to. It was something that he’d wanted to do since discovering the directions during his first night in Dagman’s house. That had been his excuse. The real reason was a host of shit he needed to sort out.

  His world had died, and he’d made peace with that fact. He’d survived and stayed true to his promise to Sam—he’d helped. His ordered existence since the suck had almost made sense to him. He’d treated it like a mission that would have an ending. He’d thought he’d found that end, only to regain consciousness surrounded by people he had to admit he cared about. More than cared, in the case of some. That was where and when this feeling of impending doom had come down on him like a rainstorm that wouldn’t let up.

  He knew Rachel thought it was all her fault. He hadn’t been able to find the words to tell her that it had been Elsa’s sobbing hug of relief, that had almost crushed him. The little girl had already lost her real father. The pressure he’d felt to somehow step up and be a replacement had run head first into the wall of low expectation that he’d built up around himself and for future. He was self-aware enough to know it for the defensive mechanism it was. He was scared of caring again. It was far too easy to remember what he’d been thinking as he’d walked into the mall a few months past. If he was honest with himself, he’d been running from Rachel, Pro, and Elsa as much as he’d been trying to protect them.

  He tried to tell himself he wasn’t running away now, but he knew that for a lie, even if he did have every intention of going back. He’d let Reed and Daniel know he wouldn’t be gone long. He’d been too chickenshit to have that same conversation with Rachel. The coward in him hoped she’d build some walls of her own.

  Traveling at night, he’d made it out to Leesburg. Near as he could tell, the old city and surrounding suburbs were empty. He was sure there were survivors somewhere close. The shelves of homes and businesses had been picked clean. He’d seen firsthand the efficiency with which Bauman’s crews had looted, and Leesburg reflected that same wholesale approach. Anything of future use was gone, yet the town was dead. On a hunch, he drove out of town, parked the old Land Rover, and hiked to within binocular range of the resort at Lansdowne, fearing another hotel-based gang of lunatics.

  The place had been empty, at least of the living. He’d spent the rest of the daylight hours exploring nearby neighborhoods for any sign of life. Like Leesburg proper, it was as if whoever had looted the place had taken the survivors with them. At dark, he’d headed south on 15. With the scanner running, he started picking up scattered radio traffic. What started as squelch breaks, became scattered words the further he traveled south towards I-66. The interstate was the main artery running west out of the Washington metro area, and in different times, it was the route he would have taken out to the Shenandoah Valley.

  Near Haymarket, the radio traffic became heavier. He made it underneath I-66 and pulled into the parking lot of a Bass Pro in the hopes of trying to break out what he was hearing. Two minutes after stopping, he watched as a large convoy of vehicles went past on 29/15 headed south. There were over twenty vehicles, including a few military castoff Humvees and two tractor trailers. They blew by, doing close to fifty miles an hour. That meant two things to him; whoever they were, they already knew the road ahead of them was clear. They’d have to at that speed. They were also going too fast to be looking for anyone, or maybe they just didn’t care who saw them or their headlights.

  None of that added up to anything that made him feel any better. He sat there, sweating with tension, long enough to confirm the radio chatter he’d been listening in on belonged to the mysterious convoy. By the time the signal started to degrade, he was rolling out onto the road behind them. He drove for
an hour, using his night vision goggles to see by.

  It had taken him the rest of the night to locate what he thought was their base in a gated community just outside of Culpepper, further south on Highway 15. He couldn’t have been more wrong; it was their next target. In professional terms, it wasn’t the cleanest attack he’d ever seen, but it clearly had military leadership. The neighborhood was hit from multiple directions at once. He’d watched as one team of attackers passed within twenty yards of where he’d set up to observe the “community.” It was well past midnight, and the people in the houses had been asleep, except for a few guards who were killed outright or quickly taken prisoner.

  Someone dropped a single mortar round into the community center, which was either a lucky shot or an indication that someone knew what they were doing. It seemed delivered as a more of a message than part of the actual attack. Whoever these guys were, two things were evident. One, they weren’t military personnel. They just moved wrong, and their weapons were a wild mix of military castoffs and looted civilian gear. The same could be said of their vehicles. Two, they worked well as a group, showed some coordination, and most alarmingly, it was clear they’d done this before.

  If he had to guess, somebody had been training them and had them on a tight leash. He was too distant to hear the shouted commands the attackers delivered from the front yards of the houses they’d surrounded, but in most cases, whatever was said resulted in people coming out with their hands up. The attackers, mostly men but more than a few women, moved in and relieved those surrendering of their weapons, before rounding them up and getting them loaded into the vehicles that had streamed into the neighborhood following the assault.

  He wasn’t sure what he was watching. Many of the survivors were allowed to go back into their homes to retrieve duffel bags or suitcases before they were loaded up. No one was shot, or seemed to be mistreated beyond the two guards he’d seen taken out. There was no culling of the elderly that he’d been half expecting, and there didn’t seem to be any separation of the sexes. It was just a quick, matter-of-fact group abduction. More than a few people clearly didn’t want to go, but raised rifles and a few shouts got them moving.