Seasons of Man | Book 2 | Reap What You Sow

by Anderson, S. M.

  He shook his head, trying to come to terms with what he’d heard. Hadn’t the world had enough of the political bullshit? As a species, mankind was hanging by a thread, and already, assholes were dredging up failed ideologies to better control people. It scared him, because he knew how alluring the message was, like any good lie. Starvation was a great motivator. Fear, chaos, and trauma were the ultimate recruitment tools. Add in the idea of acting for the supposed benefit of all, and there was very little that people wouldn’t be able to justify doing. The analyst in him could appreciate the brilliance behind the idea. The former soldier in him could recognize the appeal of numbers; “we collect people.”

  He skirted around what he could recognize as the golf course’s clubhouse and noted the two rows of large plastic-skinned greenhouses that had been erected on what the signs said had been the driving range. Another indicator that whoever was running this place was squared away. They might be selling a pipe dream to motivate their people and using thugs to recruit more, but it functioned—and they were probably eating salad with dinner. Michelle had only gotten around to expanding Bauman’s greenhouse in the last month.

  Before he’d crossed the campus to find the stadium, there’d been a nineteenth - century-looking mansion behind the Rotunda that still had its lights on. He made his way back east across the northern edge of the campus. In the early morning hours, the only people he had to dodge were the occasional security patrol, roaming around in golf carts that they’d repurposed.

  As he approached, he realized the lights didn’t all emanate from the mansion. There was a sunken field behind the mansion, ringed with what looked like newly constructed floodlights. The sunken area looked like an old football field from the time when the helmets had been leather. In his imagination, he could almost picture Model T Fords parked around the perimeter, shining their headlights down onto the field for a night game.

  In the here and now, the field was lined with military equipment. It looked like these people had raided a National Guard armory. There were almost a dozen Bradley infantry fighting vehicles that he was more than familiar with, and two Black Hawk helicopters. The rest of the yard that he could see was filled with a motley collection of beat-to-shit Humvees and probably a dozen or more newer Joint Light Tactical utility vehicles or JLTVs.

  He slowly worked his way around the north end of the sunken field, through the parking lots of a couple of abandoned frat or sorority houses. He could only recognize a few of the Greek letters, and he figured the number of pledges rushing a frat this fall was going to be way down. It was there, kneeling behind the wooden staircase that ran up the outside of a frat house, that he realized he’d wandered into the midst of foot patrols.

  As opposed to the stadium, whatever was in the field and the mansion at the far end was being actively protected, and he’d just blundered inside the patrol pattern outside the fence line. He cursed himself, knowing that it had been blind-ass luck and nothing more that had saved him from being spotted. It took him a moment to realize why he was so angry. He’d been thinking about the people he needed to get back to, to warn. If he got blown up sneaking around this place, they’d never know. Rachel would never know . . .

  Fuck! Get your head right! He would have slapped himself if the guard he could see through his NVD monocle hadn’t already stopped and was now looking around between the houses, heading in his general direction. The BDU wearing guard might have looked military, but the way he carried his M4 like a lunch pail militated against that. These were civilians playing at it, he thought. They’d been coached, maybe even trained by somebody, but they were civilians.

  He wanted to get closer to the mansion at the far end of the field without anybody knowing he’d been here. Right now, that didn’t look like it was going to happen. The guard he’d been focused on took his time turning back towards the fence line. He took out his binoculars and focused on the top floors of what looked like a four-story brick colonial. He could clearly see the profile of a woman standing between open curtains on the top floor and looking out the window, a drink in her hand.

  Three o’clock in the morning . . . must be the politburo building, he thought. From just her profile and the backlight of the room she was in, she looked attractive. The asshole running this place probably lived by the “everyone is equal, some are more equal than others” mantra. He imagined the woman was part of the benefits package that went along with running the show. He scanned the other windows; the lights were on, but there was no one else in view.

  He slowly came up on his knees, and was peeking around the base of the staircase when he got a horrible idea. He was already climbing the stairs by the time the image of guard dogs and flashlights surrounding him on the ground popped into his head. He climbed to the top of the landing and went prone, getting a much better view of the equipment yard. The chill that passed through him was real. He didn’t linger. He checked the position of the patrol at the fence, took a mental picture of the parking lot, and started back down.

  These people weren’t playing. They had the power to enforce whatever people’s paradise they were selling. The image was seared into his brain; two Abrams tanks sat like massive bookends at the far end of the line of Bradleys. He’d been jealous of the cultivated golf course and the size of the greenhouse. There was enough hardware down there to take the mall and the entire Tysons population in as little time as it would take to get the equipment in place. Who were these people?

  Driven by the need to get home and deliver a warning, he took a lot more care getting back to the “beast” than he had sneaking in. And it was home he thought of. The realization hit him hard. Not the Ritz, not Tysons or Dagman’s house; it was Rachel. Rachel, Pro, and Elsa were home. He realized it with a suddenness that punched him in the gut. Everything that he wanted to protect had a face.

  *

  “You like looking at our toys?”

  His voice was one of the few things she had to admit she admired about him. She supposed it was a product of all those years of commanding soldiers. A command presence, reinforced with the traditional patriarchal structure of the military. She understood the concept very well. It was how she had recognized she needed him, and still did.

  In truth, Lisa Cooper, former UVA professor of sociology, was looking out the window at her toys, not their toys. It wasn’t the hunks of metal Steven seemed to worship that she valued. It was the soldiers, her people. Men and women who’d step in front of one his silly machines if it meant protecting what she had built here, and by extension, her.

  She spoke over her shoulder. “I admit, the more I see, the more I like.”

  “We’ll get more, I guarantee it.”

  She heard him getting up from the couch. She knew what was coming. This was one of the things she didn’t like, even if at times she allowed herself to enjoy it, to a point. She still needed him, and manipulating his infatuation had been easy. In her mind, what was about to happen was her burden, her sacrifice for the movement. A leader unwilling to share the burdens of her people wasn’t worthy of the title.

  His hands slowly crept up her back, onto her shoulders.

  “When are you going to let me use them?” His voice almost purred in her ear. General Steven Marks was her ace in the hole, her most important convert, and her biggest ongoing challenge. She kept her gaze out the window, looking past the tools of his trade in the field below. Her eyes fell on the dorm buildings in the distance. Her tools lived, breathed, and worked. They were the foundation of the world she was building.

  She let her head roll back against his for a moment before turning around and leading him away from the window. “It’s still too soon.” There were tools, she thought; and then there were tools. Even the ones on two legs needed to be kept sharp.

  *

  Chapter 5

  The Hole

  “Today, the day? Gunnery Sergeant?” Nathans’s voice startled him but he was too numb to let it show. He’d thought the canteen was empty. The pla
ce had been dark until the moment he walked in and the motion sensors closed the circuits and the fluorescent lights flickered to life. Which meant Nathans had been sitting in here, without moving, for some time. Trey Nathans was the top sniper in the company; disappearing was his stock in trade. Maybe the man had just been practicing.

  There was no surprise and very little expectation of good news in the question. Nathans had greeted him with the same query every morning for months. In the week since Lt. Benoit had removed himself from the chain of command, the daily question had taken on an added edge.

  “Not unless you know something I don’t, Corporal.” He pulled a clean mug from the dishwasher and popped a plastic cartridge into the coffee machine before he turned to look at the man behind him. From the look on Nathans’s face, he’d fallen asleep at the table atop his own arms and hadn’t been lying in wait for him.

  “You sleep in here?” He almost asked how that worked. He was willing to try anything at this point.

  Nathans rubbed at his face and nodded. “I guess I did.”

  “You want a cup?”

  Nathans grunted an affirmative. “The hiss of the vent in my room was driving me nuts. It’s quieter in here.”

  He knew exactly what Nathans was talking about; he’d tried the gym, he’d tried switching rooms, he’d even buttoned himself up in one of the Bradleys parked two stories below for a night. Nothing had worked. He was beginning to think he had a minor case of claustrophobia or something similar. Minor; no one with a bad case would have lasted a week in the massive underground facility.

  He handed Nathans his cup of coffee and sat down. “Does it sound like bees buzzing to you? Like there’s a wasp nest behind the wall?”

  Nathans gave his head a slow shake. “For me, it’s that sad-ass wind you hear out in the middle of the desert. The one that makes you feel like you’re alone, the last person in the world.”

  “Oh.”

  Nathans cracked a grin. “Don’t worry about me, Gunny. I’m just pissed off; I’m not losing it.”

  “Glad to hear that. Pissed off . . . I get.”

  Nathans sipped at his coffee. “So, not today?”

  “No.” He shook his head. “How’s the betting going?”

  “Farmer and I are holding out for the one-year mark. Poy has eighteen months, but I swear, unless the PlayStation, Xbox, or one of the training simulators breaks, I don’t think he really minds it down here. Tommy has the end of the week, every week.”

  “Elliot?”

  “PFC Elliot doesn’t play, Gunny. He’s gung ho. He thinks you’d be right to let us die down here, waiting for someone to show up and pop the lid.”

  “That isn’t going to happen. I just figure the longer we wait, the better our chances to survive.”

  “But not today.” Nathans accepted.

  “Not today.”

  “Uwasi loses again.”

  “He had today?”

  “He has today, every day. The guy’s a glutton for punishment.”

  Nothing seemed to bother PFC Uwasi. The newest Marine in the detachment was the third in a line of brothers native to Nigeria to join the Marines. Uwasi had been able to maintain e-mail contact with one of his brothers stationed out in Pendleton for a good bit into the suck. At some point, the comms had cut out. But Uwasi had gone on believing that he and his brother might just be the only two family members left alive, anywhere.

  It was a nice story and something to believe in. If it helped keep one of his guys stable, he was all for it. He wished they all had something similar to hang on to. The rest of them had managed to get a notification or had just accepted their loved ones were gone. They’d all had e-mail, dutifully censored by Lt. Benoit, until whomever they’d been writing just stopped. They’d had television until the broadcasters topside had died and quit going to work. They’d watched and listened in, as their world died. Then they’d started offing themselves.

  He was fairly certain he wasn’t going to lose any more of the guys before his self-imposed one-year mark came around. Up until a few moments ago, Nathans had been his biggest worry. Having an actual one-on-one conversation had helped, and he knew it was something he needed to do more of. He kicked himself for dropping that particular ball inside the self-imposed shell he’d built around himself. He was suffering right along with the rest of them.

  “I think we all need a little punishment today.” He felt himself grin.

  “Come on, Gunny, I thought we were having a moment here. Why you gotta go all Marine on us?”

  “Sump Run, full loadout.” The facility was basically living quarters on the top floor, armory and technical spaces on the two floors below that, and acres of parked equipment and gear for the next six floors below. A matching pair of spiral roadways cut out of the living rock of the place connected the parking decks at opposite ends. Beneath it all, way beneath, was the sump chamber. Down the roadway, across the length of each deck, down a roadway—rinse and repeat—all the way to the sump chamber and then back up was a 4.1-mile circuit. The hole was basically the world’s largest parking garage buried three hundred feet in solid rock as old as the world. Sump runs had always been two laps.

  “Go, let the guys know we’ll kick off in thirty.”

  “Why me?”

  “You still a Marine, Corporal?”

  “Not sure, Gunny. The Corp is no more, command authority is rotting, the country is gone.” He knew it was just Nathans being his typical caustic self. The man had a lot of ammunition in that regard.

  “The Corps is eternal, Corporal. Consider this professional development, and how good it’ll look on your next fit rep.”

  Nathans slammed the coffee back and stood. “Wow, threatening me with a bad fit rep. I thought you were better than that, Gunny.”

  “Nope.”

  Nathans gave him a firm nod. “I’m on it.”

  He was left alone for a few minutes before he heard the bitching start farther down the hall as the word spread. He’d been a Marine long enough to know it for the good sign it was. If they didn’t want to embrace the suck, any one of them could have joined the Peace Corps.

  The levels were labeled one through nine; the top level was one, the bottom equipment deck was nine. Below that, the Sump didn’t deserve a number, just the name. They were in full battle rattle, stacked up at the junction of level two and the green roadway. The spiral roadway at the opposite end was painted red.

  “OK, I’ve decided whoever finishes closest behind Farmer gets an extra mint on his pillow tonight.”

  Corporal Lucas “Farmer” Hanson was a freak of nature. Today’s run would be a rest day compared to the workouts he put himself through on a daily basis. They all, with the exception of Poy, worked out regularly; There was precious little else for them to do. They all knew it helped to keep them sane. His friend Lucas just took it to the next level.

  “Chocolate covered, Gunny?” Corporal Salguero asked. “Or those shitty chalk things they put in bowls at the ‘all you can eats’?”

  They were laughing. It was going to be a good day. No one was going to lose it today, and they could all recognize it.

  A rolling yellow light started up overhead. He stared at it for a moment in silence; they all did. He glanced back down the narrowing corridor of level two’s armory section. There was a string of similar lights stretching off into the distance—all rolling.

  “Park? You been playing with the exterior cameras again?”

  “No, Gunny.” Poy would ‘tinker’ with anything electronic he could get his hands on.

  “Proximity alert,” he breathed. Probably deer. The two times it had gone off before, there had been deer; but . . . did he dare to hope?

  All seven of them—as far as they knew, the only remaining Marines on the planet—just stared at him.

  “Probably deer.” He felt he needed to warn against the inevitable letdown. “Everyone, back up to one. We’re already dressed. Alert positions. Let’s move!”

  Norfo
lk, VA

  Captain Naylor shook his head at the empty armory. “I know I’m just a boat driver, but this isn’t good, is it?”

  The weapons lockers inside the warehouse had been raided, and the ammo bunker outside looked to have been professionally breached. The twelve feet of dirt piled atop the bunker had been scraped away by a bulldozer that still sat next to it, and the concrete walls had been taken apart by what he guessed was a combination of high explosives and jackhammers. Colonel Andrew “Drew” Skirjanek had expected looting, but this was something different. The small Army depot at Fort Eustis had been professionally picked clean.

  “Shows some level of organization,” he agreed.

  “That a good thing?” asked Chief Hoyt.

  He looked between Naylor and the acerbic naval chief. “That’s the question.”

  He checked his watch; it was almost the top of the hour. He turned his radio on for the planned check. They were down to their last set of rechargeable batteries on their radios, and unless they scrounged up some more solar panels or gasoline for their generator, they were soon going to be relying on smoke signals.

  “Pavel—Skirjanek.”

  “Yes, Colonel.” Pavel’s slow and measured English, accent included, was easier to understand on the radio than the speech of some of his other team members.

  “Any movement?” Pavel was atop the short, squat air traffic tower overlooking the acres of the base with a scoped .308 hunting rifle. Between what he’d managed to bring out of McMurdo and scavenge from Guantanamo and the Boise, they had assault rifles for the sixty-two people who had decided to stay with him. What they lacked was sufficient ammunition or any specialized equipment. He knew where there were literal tons of both, but he’d wanted to check Ft. Eustis for some walking-around firepower.