“If something happens, fire three shots into the air and we’ll come running.”
“Oh, okay. Three shots. Got it,” she said, kneeing down next to Wyatt, who was still unconscious and lying on the sled. “But please hurry.”
CHAPTER TWENTY-NINE
Jeffery Hansen stood up from the deck in the cargo hold of the oil tanker when he heard a few clanking sounds coming from above, then a reverberating ping as if someone had just hit their head with a frying pan.
He peered into the darkness, waiting for more sound to find him while trapped deep in the belly of the massive ship. It did, sounding like metal was squeaking. Almost as if a giant metal screw was slowly being removed from wall of the ship.
“Hello? Is anyone up there?” he called out with chapped lips and a dry throat. His voice echoed off the empty walls of the ship and came back at him a second later. After another few seconds, his voice returned again, this time about half as loud.
His heartbeat was already thumping hard in his chest, but it shot up a level when the squeaking stopped and was replaced with a long eek sound and then a single clang. Light broke through the blackness above, beaming down from the now-open hatch sitting atop the retracted exit stairs.
“Hey! I’m down here! Hello?” he yelled, waiting for an answer. But a voice wasn’t what he heard. Instead, the sound of footsteps found his eardrums. Someone had just walked through the hatch and onto the metal catwalk. His eyes hadn’t adjusted to the sudden flood of light, leaving him to squint at the opening above.
Two flashlight beams shot out, hitting the nearest wall of the cargo hold, then tracking slowly down the wall.
“Over here!” Hansen screamed, hoping they’d hear him and turn their flashlights in his direction. The beams adjusted, sliding across the deck and coming toward him.
He put his arms up like football referee signaling a touchdown and waited for the flashlights to find his chest. They did, but they didn’t stop, passing over him like a searchlight sweeping a prison yard.
“No! No! No! Right here!” he told them, waving his arms and jumping up and down. The pain from his wounds was screaming at him to stop, otherwise the hasty movement might tear some of the stitches loose. But he was in panic mode now and wasn’t going to stop, not when this might be his only chance to get out of this hole.
“I’m over here,” he yelled again, thinking about running to the center where the beams were currently focused. But then they started moving again and not in any specific pattern he could anticipate. If he ran now, he’d be playing catch up, so he decided to keep his feet still and let them find him.
Almost as if on cue, one of the flashlight beams swung his way again, this time landing on him. The second one did the same, doubling down on the spotlight.
He waved his hands above his head, looking into the beams shining down from the catwalk above. “Help me, please!”
“Bonjour,” a male’s voice called out, his voice echoing with decreasing volume.
“Do you speak English?” he yelled back, recognizing the visitor’s language as French, a language he didn’t speak.
“Oui, Je parle anglais un petit montant.”
He didn’t understand what the man just said. But before he could ask, the voice spoke again, this time delivering words first in French, then in English. The accent was thick.
“Excusez-moi . . . Yes, I speak English. A small amount.”
“Oh, thank God. Can you please get me the hell out of here?”
“Oui, one moment,” the man said as one of the two flashlights broke away from him.
Hansen still couldn’t see much other than the remaining flashlight burning into his retinas, but he heard metal noises again, this time sounding like someone was lowering the stairs.
A few minutes later, two men landed at the bottom of the metal steps and walked toward him, but not together. The shorter of the two was advancing faster, while the taller man fell back a few steps.
When the lead man came closer with his heavy-duty flashlight, Hansen caught a glimpse of his blue polo shirt. The word Gendarmes was embroidered on it. He also saw a duty belt strapped around his waist, as well as a sidearm nestled in a holster.
Shit! Cops! French cops!
Wait a minute, French police?
How could that be?
The oil tanker couldn’t have sailed across the Atlantic to France—not enough time had passed. That meant he was somewhere in the Western Hemisphere. Somewhere near a large land mass where Trident had been deployed, and somewhere they spoke French and had French police.
Those facts ruled out the USA, Canada, and Mexico.
Then the answer hit him: French Guiana in South America.
He’d been there a few times, having traveled the world for business as well as leisure over the years.
The officer handed him a bottle of water. “What are you doing here?” he asked with his thick accent.
“Someone grabbed me off the street, started beating me, then just left me down here after the power went out,” Hansen said, deciding to play the victim.
He’d known his share of policemen over the years and most of them had one thing in common: they got off on helping victims of a crime. And given his current circumstances, playing the victim should be an easy sell, with his face bruised and body bandaged. Plus, it was true—well, sort of.
The water bottle was warm to the touch, but he didn’t care. His fingers twisted off the cap, then he put the container to his lips and took three long swigs. His throat downed the liquid quickly.
Hansen didn’t want to tell his rescuers too much; otherwise, his lies would start to take on too much gravity, becoming impossible to keep straight in his head. He went with simple.
“Thank God you guys came along. Otherwise, I was fucked.”
“American?”
“Yes, born and raised.”
“What is your name?”
“Jeffrey.”
“Last name?”
“Can you please get me out of here? I can’t take the smell. It’s been making me sick.”
“Last name?” the policeman said again, the friendly smile fading from his lips.
“Hubbs,” Hansen said, picking a name out of the air. When the cop’s eyes moved away from his for a moment, he snuck a peek at the cop’s gun hand and his holster—they were far apart. Plus, the snap on the holster was still secure.
“Do you have ID?”
Hansen shook his head. “No. The men who grabbed me took my wallet.”
The cop grabbed Hansen’s elbow and tugged him forward.
Hansen started to walk, taking another drink while he studied the officer with a series of quick glances.
The cop’s brown hair was trimmed neatly and combed from left to right with a perfectly defined part along the side. He looked to be in fabulous shape, his chest and arms bulging against the shirt he was wearing—a shirt with no ID tag or badge.
His face was thin with no facial hair, and he was a few inches shorter than Hansen—about five and a half feet tall. One of the man’s two front teeth was chipped, but otherwise he looked like a typical thirty-something French cop with keen eyes and an aura of confidence.
“Who did this?” the other man asked, as Hansen and his escort approached him. “Can you identify?”
“I don’t know who grabbed me and I really didn’t get a good look at them. They were wearing masks,” he said, deciding to stall until he was topside and on dry land.
He needed to keep them guessing until he was somewhere with multiple escape routes. Somewhere where the sun was shining, the air was clean, and the ground wasn’t rocking beneath his feet. Someplace where he could make his move and slip away into a crowd.
The second officer was a little older and had a belly just starting to sag over his beltline. His voice was much deeper than the other guy’s, and his tongue sharper. Hansen wasn’t sure if the man was angry or just suspicious. The line between the two was a blur.
Hanse
n knew the answer when the taller officer’s right hand moved to his hip, stopping only inches from his sidearm.
“How did you guys find me?” Hansen asked, wanting to change the subject before the firearm cleared leather.
“All ships in the harbor are being searched,” the taller officer said, keeping his hand on his hip.
“Which harbor?” Hansen asked, wanting to get his bearings and keep the conversation light and moving. There were only a handful of ports in French Guiana and he’d been to two of them.
“Port of St. Laurent du Maroni.”
Hansen visualized the quaint seaport village in South America, having been there on vacation several times before with a lady friend he’d been drilling at the time. There were several docks for both large and small vessels, and plenty of tourists around thanks to its bustling street markets, monuments, and historical areas.
With Trident taking down the power grid and rendering electronics useless, local law enforcement must have their hands full. He imagined governments and local officials were scrambling, thinking some type of sweeping terrorist attack was at play. If Trident had done its job, communications were down and the streets were probably filled with chaos by now.
If all that were true, then the first order of business for law enforcement would’ve been to take to the streets and restore order, then close the borders and start looking for answers. To do that, searching suspicious ships in the harbor would be one of the steps on the list.
There were probably a dozen containment scenarios in progress across the country, including interrogating foreigners. All of it would aid in his plan to slip into the chaos and disappear for a while.
“Can you climb?” the first cop asked him.
Hansen nodded. “I’m pretty sore, but I think I can make it.”
The lead officer helped him onto the first step of the metal staircase. The taller cop stood to the right and used his flashlight to illuminate the steps ahead. The other man climbed the steps behind Hansen, keeping his hand on Hansen’s back.
CHAPTER THIRTY
Simon switched places with Slayer, letting the young stud take hold of the two rails of the pull-behind travois after they’d crossed Big Bug Creek using a rickety old bridge they’d found a quarter mile upstream.
Simon was careful to make sure the triangle-shaped structure didn’t tip during the exchange, otherwise the unconscious body of Wyatt would fall from the canvas. Wicks was already beside herself and the last thing Simon wanted was to toss fuel on her emotional fire by adding to her brother’s injuries.
“Careful!” she snapped, with her hands under Slayer’s while the handoff was made.
“Relax, I got it,” Slayer said after nudging her out of the way. His backside was in position—the same position where a horse would be, with the grab poles on either side of his waist. His back was facing Wyatt’s head.
In front of them was a stand of thick forest and brush. Much denser than what they’d just traversed on Wyatt’s side of the creek.
They were now on Amish land, heading deeper into uncharted territory where the Rules of a Godly Life reigned without exception.
Simon had never met a member of the Amish before and was looking forward to it. Their simple lifestyle and old world teachings had a certain charm and grace, something he relished right about now.
Actually, it was something the entire world should learn and study, now that power and machinery was useless—probably across the planet. Everyone would be forced to turn old school.
Just then, a phrase popped into his head: Blessed are the meek, for they shall inherit the Earth.
“Simon, can you move that log up there? I don’t think I can get past it,” Slayer said, snapping Simon out of his mental retreat.
“Sure, hang on,” he answered, quickening his pace to clear the deadfall from the path. He bent over, lifted, and drug the soggy tree to the right, then waited for Slayer to catch up. “I’ll walk ahead and keep the path clear.”
“Good idea. I’d like to maintain an even pace so I don’t have keep starting and stopping. This thing is heavy.”
“Wicks, you stay behind and keep an eye on your brother. Let me know if he wakes up,” Simon said.
“Already on it, Red,” she said, walking alongside the inclined travois, keeping her left hand on Wyatt’s shoulder as his head and body moved in concert with every bump in terrain.
“How’s he doing?” Simon asked her.
“About the same, but we really need to pick up the pace. He’s still losing blood.”
“I’m trying, Wicks,” Slayer grunted, “but this ain’t exactly the expressway. These poles keep sinking in mud. I still think this would’ve worked better with wheels.”
About a mile later, they worked their way around a small lake, then passed a stand of moss-covered trees with a heavy blanket of red leaves smothering the ground. Everything around them carried a mist of decay and fungus, filling Simon’s nose with the scent of both.
“You have any idea where we are?” Slayer asked Simon.
“No, but we should be getting close.”
“What if we’ve already cruised past their farm?”
Simon stopped walking a moment later, then held up a closed fist. “Uh . . . I don’t think we need to worry about that.”
“Why?”
Before Simon could answer, leaves cracked and branches snapped. The sounds were coming at him from a myriad of directions.
The dense brush parted and out stepped at least a dozen men wearing mostly black attire. They closed in a few more steps, stopping about thirty feet away to form a circle around Simon and his friends.
Some of them had beards while others didn’t, but all of them wore long coats—probably wool—with white dress shirts underneath. Their distinctive wide-brim black hats, suspenders, and numb faces told him who they were—the Amish.
However, their appearance wasn’t what he was focused on at the moment. It was their hands. Four of them held pitchforks, while the rest carried other kinds of hand tools: axe, sling blade, reaping hook, hay knife.
Slayer whispered to Simon, “I thought they didn’t believe in violence?”
Simon held up a flat palm to keep Slayer quiet, then turned his focus to the men ahead, each with deadpan eyes burning a hole into his.
He waited for one of them to speak, but none of them did, each standing erect and motionless. Simon studied their eyes but couldn’t get a read on them. It was as if they were living statues, taking in oxygen but failing to show a glint of emotion.
The silent confrontation reminded him of an eerie scene from some low budget horror flick, where the good guys suddenly find themselves surrounded by a pack of silent, flesh-eating hill people. All that was missing was the theatrical, heart-pounding background music to set the mood.
But of course, he knew who these people were—the Fishers, and they were no flesh-eaters.
Simon moved forward with hands raised, figuring the religious isolationists needed assurance. He stopped after a beam of sunlight passed over his body and landed behind him. There were four such beams in his vicinity, each piercing the thick canopy of treetops like a spotlight from above.
He took a deep breath and let it out, wanting his words to sound calm and reassuring. “We mean you no harm . . . We’re only here because we have an injured man and need your help.”
A slender older man stepped forward, pushing through two of the younger men on the right. His gray beard was the longest of the group and his wrinkles more prominent. He carried a book with a gold cross embossed on its cover and was holding it flat against his chest with both hands.
“Outsiders are forbidden here. Turn around and go back the way you came,” the old Amish man said.
“I’m sorry but we can’t do that. Our friend is losing a lot of blood and won’t survive much longer. I understand you have a doctor who might be able to help?”
“Please, you must leave. There is nothing for you here,” the man said, neve
r moving the book from his chest.
Wicks raced forward, crunching leaves with heavy feet. She stopped next to Simon. “Hey, you people owe my brother!”
None of the Amish answered.
Wicks continued, this time throwing up her arms. “Come on, you can’t just let him die. Doesn’t your religion require you to help all those who need it?”
Again, nobody answered.
“Jesus Christ! What kind of people are you?” Wicks snapped at the Fishers.
The old man’s lips finally moved, looking as though he was about to respond. Then he closed them, turning his head to the side when a hand landed on his shoulder.
A round, middle-aged woman appeared from the brush, taking her hand from the man as she passed. She was wearing all black with her head covered in a bonnet that looked to be tied under the chin with cloth straps. Her dress was full-length and plain, stopping just short of her ankles. It was laced together from her bosom to her neck, looking uncomfortable and restrictive.
“I’m Sister Hannah,” the woman said in a soft voice, her eyes as dark as coal. She pointed to the right. “This is Brother Joshua. We are saddened by what has happened in your world but it doesn’t concern us. Here, no one raises a hand against another, ever. Strangers only bring sin and violence and we cannot allow that on our land.”
Wicks went to say something, but Simon stopped her by grabbing the crux of her elbow. She swung her head at him, allowing him to shoot her a firm look.
“Let me handle this,” he said in a low voice, nodding at her gently.
She hesitated, then flared her eyes and exhaled. Her shoulders dropped as she backed away.
Simon brought his eyes to Sister Hannah, searching for Amish-like words that would soothe her suspicions and make an impression.
“The man who is injured is no stranger to you. He is a friend. In the past, he helped you find one of your children after she wandered off. We ask that you return the kindness by showing him compassion in his hour of need. Let me assure you, no one here intends to bring violence to your land. We come unarmed with honest hearts.”
Redfall: Freedom Fighters (American Prepper Series Book 2) Page 16