The Mechanics: A Post-Apocalyptic Fiction Series

by Bobby Akart

  “I think we can give the all clear, Donald,” he said as the two men stood on the front porch in silence. “They seemed to have shot their wad.”

  “No doubt.” Donald laughed.

  Brad continued. “They came at us with a pretty good, three-pronged plan of attack. The problem is their execution sucked, and their men didn’t appear to have their hearts in it.”

  “Your men scared the crap out of them.”

  “Nothing beats the training of a Marine, Donald. I suppose their leaders, whoever they were, didn’t let them know that someone would be over here prepared to shoot back.”

  J.J. joined them on the porch with a beer.

  “Happy hour already?” asked Donald, pointing at the adult beverage.

  J.J. provided a faux toast and took another sip. “My day is done. I’ve stitched up Corporal Morrell and the other soldiers from the front gate. A couple of guys had minor wounds from the Battle of Midway out there.” He gestured toward the Quabbin Reservoir.

  “That’s good news,” replied Donald. “Did you treat any of their men?”

  “Not yet,” replied J.J. Then he laughed, hesitated, and added, “Not yet, anyway. I don’t know what Steven and Katie are doing to that kid in there, but I keep hearing a mixture of laughter and hysterical crying. Those two are clearly enjoying themselves too much.”

  Sarge and Julia now joined the group, each with a can of Beanee Weenee and a plastic spoon.

  “Diggin’ into the C rations, I see.” Brad laughed.

  “This shit is good,” replied Sarge with a mouthful of Beanee, but short on Weenee.

  “Yeah,” added Julia. “These are highly recommended by the Quinn sisters.”

  “I added some Tabasco to mine,” said Sarge.

  Steven and Katie walked out of the entrance to 1PP, having overheard the conversation. Steven was wiping sweat off his face with a towel. “Great, you’ll be firing off nuclear gas out of that ass later!”

  The group erupted into laughter as Sarge’s face turned beet red.

  “You’ve got a way with words, brother.” Sarge laughed. Steven patted Sarge on the back and the group made their way down the front steps to the picnic tables.

  Julia took Sarge’s empty can and started to walked inside. “I’ll let the others know that we’re all clear.”

  Sarge pecked her on the cheek before she left, and then took a seat across from Steven. Brad was anxious to find out what Steven and Katie had learned from their prisoner.

  “Guys, is our prisoner still alive?” Brad chuckled. “Did we violate the Geneva convention?”

  “Geneva who?” jokingly replied Steven. Brad knew that in Steven’s line of work, rules regarding the treatment of prisoners were different from accepted practices.

  “He’s still alive—the little prick,” said Katie dryly. “He was a tough guy at first, but eventually peed his pants for the second time today.”

  “Before spilling his guts,” added Steven.

  “What?” asked Sarge, clearly alarmed that his brother was speaking literally.

  “No, Sarge, not like a fish,” replied Steven, looking over at Katie. “But I do believe we got everything out of him.”

  Katie nodded. “He’s barely able to drive, but he had access to all of the planning and inner workings of Belchertown. His dad is in charge over there—Ronald Archibald.”

  “He’s the guy you spoke with when you were hunting for Pearson, right?” asked Brad.

  “One and the same,” replied Steven. “It gets better. Guess who else was intricately involved in this little soirée?”

  “Pearson?”

  “BINGO, Brad. Your old pal Pearson has guided Archibald every step of the way. The kid said his father suspected you and I were somehow involved in all of this.” Steven stood and waved from north to south.

  “I’ll be damned,” said Brad. “I’ve hated that guy from the moment he stepped into my office last spring. Well, the idiots only succeeded in getting a bunch of their friends killed.”

  “And a couple of ours,” added Sarge.

  “Trust me, I don’t take that lightly,” said Brad. He turned his attention back to Steven. “Did he say what prompted them to come after us?”

  “They’re hungry,” replied Katie. “It’s as simple as that.”

  “So they decided to come kill us and take our food,” interjected Julia as she rejoined the group. More of the Boston Brahmin were filing out into the beautiful fall afternoon.

  “Let’s keep our voices down so the others don’t hear us,” said Sarge in a whisper.

  The group huddled together without trying to be obvious. Most of the Boston Brahmin appeared apprehensive, and several hastily walked toward the comfort of their bungalows.

  “They won’t interrupt us,” said Julia. “I gave everybody a quick briefing before they came out. In the bunker, they weren’t able to hear the gun battles all around us. I think it’s best that we don’t scare them.”

  “I agree, Julia,” said Sarge. He drew her close to him and put his arm around her. “You did the right thing, and I’m sure Mr. Morgan would approve. How’s he doin’?”

  “He’s doing fine, but he didn’t buy me sugarcoating it, however. He’s already asked to speak with you.” Katie looked down and shook her head.

  “Okay,” said Sarge. “Well, let me get all of the facts before I face the inquisition. Steven, what else did you learn?”

  “Really, that’s about it,” he replied. “These people grew desperate when our friend Governor O’Brien cut off their Citizen Corps food supplies. From what we gathered, the boy’s father whipped the townspeople into a frenzy over the shooting of the guy who killed Sabs. Obviously, he used the man’s death as a false flag to convince the locals to attack us. That, coupled with the fact they’re in dire straits, was what prompted the attack.”

  “Did the governor intentionally cut them off?” asked Brad.

  “I don’t think so,” replied Steven. “I think it’s consistent with what we learned earlier. The governor is hoarding the food and supplies for himself. He’s playing God with it all.”

  “What do we do with the kid?” asked Brad.

  “Do we have any indication that he fired on our people?” asked Sarge.

  “No.”

  “And the dead bodies?” said Julia inquisitively.

  “I’ll have them bagged and taken to the front gate with the others,” replied Brad.

  “All right,” said Sarge. “Let’s hold the boy and see how things develop. Perhaps his father will come around looking for his son. Let’s make the piece of shit unzip the body bags one by one, looking into the faces of the men he sentenced to death. I want him to wonder if his teenage son is one of them.”

  “Do you plan on meeting with Archibald?” asked Brad.

  “Clearly, this needs to be addressed sooner rather than later,” said Sarge. “Thanks, everyone. Let me go meet with the Big Guy.”

  Brad heard it, but no one else did. Katie said, under her breath, There goes the new boss, same as the old boss.

  Chapter 10

  Monday, October 3, 2016

  9:40 a.m.

  Citizen Corps Region I, Office of the Governor

  99 High Street

  Boston, Massachusetts

  Citizen Corps Governor James O’Brien believed in first impressions. The commander of the United Nations forces arrived during the night and was scheduled to meet with him at noon. He donned his best three-piece suit, intending to convey his importance to the man who would lead his army. Every army had a commander in chief, and that was his job. He was going to make that abundantly clear to this UN general, or whatever his rank was.

  He paced the floor while waiting for Pearson and Marion La Rue to arrive. The Seaport District was bustling with activity as the UN troops continued to unload equipment and personnel. Two additional Watson-class ships had arrived, containing a variety of troop carriers, supplies, and soldiers. They had confiscated the Boston Convention
and Exhibition Center for temporary housing. A half million square feet of exhibition space now housed UN soldiers from fifty-three nations around the world.

  The parking lots around Seaport Boulevard and Summer Street were packed with Blue Helmets, the nickname given the variety of soldiers, police officers, and civilians that traditionally made up a UN Peacekeeping force. O’Brien knew little about their manpower, but he was told by Pearson that the UN had no problem finding willing new recruits for this mission. Everybody wants a piece of America’s ass.

  As he looked down upon the activity, he realized he hadn’t been told how many troops were available to him, nor had he been informed of when these fucks would be ready for his orders. He was presented a tremendous opportunity, and he intended to seize it.

  “Good morning, Governor,” announced Pearson as he entered the room. He was also dressed in a suit and tie. Obviously, Pearson intended to make a good impression on the UN commander. You gotta watch these government fucks. They’re always after someone else’s job.

  O’Brien slowly assessed Pearson’s appearance before responding, “Morning.”

  La Rue appeared in the doorway, paused and then entered. He had a frown on his face and O’Brien could tell he was troubled. He’d address it later.

  “Good morning, boss,” said La Rue, who quickly took a seat. Pearson followed his lead.

  “As you both know, I have a meeting with our new friends from the United Nations today,” started O’Brien, standing and looking directly at Pearson. “There will be a number of topics on the agenda, but I need to be brought up to speed on everything. We also need to establish our list of priorities.” O’Brien turned to stare out the window with his hands in his pockets. It was too early for a cigar, although he desperately wanted one.

  In the window’s reflection, he saw Pearson shift in his seat and look towards La Rue, who remained quiet. Nobody was speaking up, so O’Brien forced the issue.

  “Goddamit, I haven’t got all day!” he yelled.

  “Governor, the raid on Prescott Peninsula did not go well,” started Pearson. “Their assault plans were sound, based on a multipronged approach.”

  “What the hell happened?” asked O’Brien, who was beginning to feel his blood pressure rise. “I thought you said they had more than enough men to pull it off.”

  “Governor, they had hundreds of men involved, but they were unable to break through the defenses set up by the Marines.”

  “You confirmed that Prescott Peninsula is full of Marines?” asked La Rue.

  “From what I was told afterward, the men they encountered were not in uniform, but they were well trained and had advanced weaponry. Heavy-caliber automatic weapons, military-style vests, and specially outfitted boats mounted with machine guns.”

  “Did these Belchertown fools succeed in accomplishing anything?” asked O’Brien.

  “Not really, sir,” replied Pearson.

  O’Brien glared at Pearson for an awkward moment before collapsing into his chair in a heap. He rubbed his temples and shook his head.

  Finally, O’Brien spoke. “Did they learn anything Saturday besides how to get their asses handed to them?”

  “Nothing, sir,” replied Pearson. He hesitated and then added, “They lost several dozen men, and another dozen are missing. The townspeople are pretty pissed off at the whole thing.”

  “Pissed off!” exploded O’Brien. “Pissed off at what? That they’re a bunch of failures? A few hundred armed men can’t overrun an island full of fuckin’ widows and orphans? I don’t give a fuck how many Marines were at the gate or in some fancy boats. A few hundred of their own obviously aren’t hungry enough to get the job done.”

  “Abused mothers and their children,” said Pearson.

  “What?” asked O’Brien, glaring at Pearson.

  “Governor, they’re not widows and orphans. They’re abused mothers and children.”

  I’m gonna shoot this bastard. Right here, right now.

  Silence. O’Brien reached in his jacket pocket for his crutch—a cigar. There wasn’t one. He began to rifle through the drawers of his desk. Nothing. He was fuming now. He shouted for his nephew.

  “Peter, find me a goddamned cigar!” he screamed through the closed door. O’Brien shook his head and exhaled.

  Peter knocked hesitantly on the door and entered with a tin of Macanudo Petites and a butane lighter. He handed them to O’Brien, who looked at the four-inch-square tin of cigars, which were just slightly larger than a cigarette. His hands shook slightly before he slammed them on the table.

  “Peter, what the fuck are these?” he yelled, tapping his fingers on the tin.

  “Uncle, I mean, um, sir, this is all we have right now,” replied O’Brien’s nephew sheepishly.

  O’Brien rooted around in his pockets and slid his car keys to his nephew. “Go look in the console of my car. Hurry back.”

  Peter quickly exited while O’Brien pulled a notepad and pen out of his desk. He roughly pushed them at Pearson.

  “Make a list, Pearson. The first item is cigars.”

  Pearson dutifully began the list. “Got it.”

  “Next item, Prescott fuckin’ Peninsula,” added O’Brien. Pearson wrote down item two. “I want to send those gay-ass, blue-helmeted fucks out there to pay a visit to the widows and orphans. There is more going on at Prescott than meets the eye.”

  “Yes, sir,” said Pearson.

  That’s more like it—respect. “Let’s talk about getting our guys back,” said O’Brien. “Marion, have you learned anything else?”

  “A lot of heavy equipment was moved out of Fort Devens yesterday,” replied La Rue. “I didn’t have enough men available to follow them, but they headed west on the Stanton Highway towards the one-ninety.”

  “Towards Prescott Peninsula?” asked O’Brien. He was starting to put together a pretty clear picture.

  “Maybe,” replied La Rue. “It makes sense anyway. The base is pretty much abandoned from what we can tell.”

  “How many men are guarding the prison camp?” asked O’Brien.

  “A dozen or so, rotating through shifts. Most stay on base, but some come and go in their Humvees.”

  “Have our guys seen our friend Colonel Bradlee?” asked O’Brien. He held his hand up to pause the conversation as Peter returned with a cigar and a cutter. He nodded and smiled at his nephew and waved him out with his hand. O’Brien took a deep draw and let out an exhale full of smoke. It immediately relaxed him. Looking at Pearson, he thought, This cigar just saved your life, you fuck.

  “Continue.”

  “Bradlee tore out of the base early Saturday morning with two Humvees and a dozen men,” said La Rue.

  “What time?” asked Pearson.

  “It was around 5, 5:30,” replied La Rue. “What time did Archibald start the raid?”

  “About the same time.” La Rue and Pearson both turned their attention to their governor.

  “Well, there you have it, boys,” said O’Brien, taking another deep drag on his beloved cigar. “No doubt in my mind that there is a connection. Our Colonel Bradlee has been undermining us from day fuckin’ one.”

  “Agreed,” said La Rue.

  O’Brien pointed his cigar at Pearson. “Write that down, Pearson. Put it on the list. Hell, make it item numero fuckin’ uno. My cigars can wait. I want that traitor’s ass!”

  “Sir, would you like me to make some inquiries at the White House?” asked Pearson. “I can see if he can be recalled or something.”

  Pearson raised a good point. Why not let the President help us out? Then he thought against it. “You know what? Better the devil you know than the devil you don’t. Maybe we’ll have our friends out there take care of it for us.” O’Brien leaned back in his chair, contemplating what it would look like to hang that son of a bitch Bradlee right in the middle of Boston Common.

  La Rue interrupted the moment. “Jim, may I have a moment alone?”

  “Of course, Marion,” repl
ied O’Brien. He motioned for Pearson to leave while deciding to include him in the meeting with the UN. It might help his credibility to have the White House liaison present. “Pearson, we’re done for now. Come back at noon.”

  “Yes, sir,” said Pearson as he quickly left the room, leaving the notepad on the table.

  O’Brien turned his attention to his longtime friend. “What’s the matter, Marion? I could see it on your face when you walked in the door.”

  La Rue stood and walked to the window to observe the UN personnel. O’Brien stood and joined him. The men remained quiet as they observed the activities. The bright morning sun reflected off the UN helmets.

  O’Brien tried to lighten the mood. “They look like an army of Smurfs.” Both men erupted in laughter.

  “They sure do,” said La Rue. They watched for another moment and then La Rue added, “My concern is that we’re not getting what we hoped for.”

  O’Brien led them back to the desk, but this time he sat in the chair next to La Rue instead of assuming the power position behind the desk. He and Marion had worked side by side during all of their union activities. O’Brien trusted him more than any man on the planet.

  “Whadya mean?”

  “Jim, I don’t profess to be a military man, you know that. All I know about soldiers is what I’ve seen on TV.” La Rue paused again.

  “Go ahead. What’s on your mind?”

  “I do, however, know men. I have prepared and led men into battle, so to speak. It may not have been a battlefield in the military sense, but we have undertaken missions over the years that required the same type of planning and discipline.”

  O’Brien studied his friend. He took another drag on the cigar and exhaled over his shoulder. “We’ve orchestrated many union operations over the years,” he added.

  “These Smurfs are not military personnel. They are thieves, criminals, and thugs. I know these things, Jim. I’ve dealt with men like them all of my life.”

  “Why is that a bad thing?” asked O’Brien. “I’ve got no problem shaking things up around here. We got in bed with the gangs, remember?”