Feral Nation Series: Books 1-3: A Post-Apocalyptic Thriller Series Boxed Set

by Scott B. Williams

  “I wish I could believe that, Eric, but I don’t know. The last time she was home she seemed more distant than ever. I’m worried that she got caught up in something bigger than she thought it was going to be, especially since I haven’t heard from her since the real bad stuff started happening. You know there were major riots in Denver, and that’s not far at all from Boulder. It was one of the first cities they cut the power to, and there were a lot of people shot. I just hope she wasn’t caught up in all that.”

  “Megan? She’s got better sense than to get in the middle of a riot, Shauna. She would know to go the other way if she saw something like that happening.”

  “She would have at one time, Eric, but now I’m not so sure. You don’t know how much influence some of her friends might have had on her. I’m worried that she might have been right in the middle of it!”

  “You mean with the anarchists? Why in the hell would Megan get involved with people like that?”

  “I don’t know, why does anyone? Because of the stuff they hear repeated so much by the media that they start to believe it, I guess. A lot of things have been changing here for years, Eric. I don’t have to tell you that. You’ve been dealing with it in Europe where it’s been worse for a whole lot longer. People have never been so divided, and never been so angry. And the longer it went on, the more things happened to fuel that anger and divisiveness. People have been taking sides, and it’s not always the side you’d think they’d take.”

  “So now you’re telling me you think our daughter has been running with the people trying to overthrow the government? I thought she was against violence? She might disagree with a lot of policies, and I do too, but she wouldn’t try to hurt anyone, would she?”

  “Not directly, no. But she could certainly be hurt just by her associations. She might even be locked up for all I know. They’ve got detainment centers all over the country where they’re holding dissidents. There’s no telling how many innocents like her that could be in those places simply because they were in the wrong place at the wrong time.”

  “Well I guess I really screwed up royally as a father then, didn’t I? Maybe if I’d been here to set an example, she wouldn’t have gone off on a tangent like that.”

  “Maybe, or maybe not. I don’t know if she would have listened to you if you had been here or not. I remember how it was to be a teenager, and you probably do too. You think you know it all, and that everyone else is an idiot. But none of that matters now anyway, because you can’t change the past, Eric, and I can’t either. All we can do is try and find her wherever she is and get her out. I’ve been going crazy with worry all summer, but there just wasn’t anything I could do alone. I couldn’t go out there looking for her and Daniel couldn’t help me, especial not with Andrew as his first responsibility. But when I first saw you here yesterday, I suddenly had hope again. I know if anyone can go and get our daughter back, it’s you, Eric.”

  “What I really should have done was put the two of you on a boat like Tropicbird fifteen years ago and gotten us the hell out of here. We should have sailed to the islands somewhere and raised Megan away from all this screwed up crap in the U.S. I knew this was coming, it was inevitable and just a matter of time. But the Navy owned me back then, and I let them change me into someone I don’t even recognize anymore. I lost myself and I lost you and Megan in the process. I’m sorry, Shauna.”

  He opened his arms and Shauna fell into his embrace, the tears running down her face and onto his shoulder as he held her tightly. “I’m going to find our little girl, Shauna, and I’ll bring her back. We’ll get across the Gulf first and regroup at Keith’s place, and then I’ll be on my way. I know I’ve let you down before, but you’ve just got to trust me on this one. Nothing matters more to me.”

  “I want to believe you, Eric. I really do, but you know what you’ve put us through. It’s hard to have that faith anymore.”

  The words stung because Eric knew his ex-wife was right. He’d let a lot of people down, but those days were over. He had a single-minded focus now, and it was no longer about him or a sense of duty to strangers. Once his father and Shauna and her family were all safely at Keith and Lynn’s place, he would no longer have to worry about any of them. It would all be about Megan. Getting them there was no small undertaking, but at least he had the means to accomplish it in the form of a seaworthy schooner waiting in Bart’s boatyard. The voyage was just a small step in the journey he was undertaking though, and south Louisiana was still a long way from Boulder in a world where using roads was no longer an option. Bart’s idea of working his way upriver on one of the fuel barges seemed as reasonable as any, and Eric would figure it out when he got there. The only thing he knew for sure was that all of this was going to take time, and time was something Megan may not have. Maybes and what ifs were just speculation though. Eric had work to do and he was ready to get started. He relaxed his embrace and kissed Shauna’s tear-streaked cheek as he pulled away, stepping into the skiff to start the outboard as she walked back to the house to tell Bart and Jonathan it was time to go to work.

  * * *

  Thank you for reading Feral Nation Infiltration. Please turn the page to see what happens next in Book 2: Feral Nation – Insurrection.

  FERAL NATION

  Insurrection

  Feral Nation Series

  Book 2

  One

  ERIC BRANSON MOVED THE shift lever from neutral into forward and opened the throttle of the 50-horse Yamaha outboard just enough to push the skiff downriver at about five knots. Slow and easy was the ticket. Anything else would likely get the two of them cut to pieces by rifle fire.

  “Are you sure we ought to do this? I don’t like the looks of this at all,” Jonathan said.

  “It’s a little too late to turn back now. I think we’re committed. If we try to back out it’s just going to look suspicious. We don’t really have another option anyway. Just be cool and keep your hands where they can see them and they probably won’t shoot you.”

  “Probably won’t? Yeah, that makes me feel better!”

  Eric Branson understood Jonathan’s anxiety. The two of them were approaching the channel blockade at the mouth of the Caloosahatchee River near Fort Myers, Florida, staring down the barrels of nearly a dozen rifles while sitting there in an 18-foot skiff in the wide open. If this meeting went sideways, it was doubtful either of them would survive it. But negotiating for their passage was a matter of survival as well. Eric’s father and his ex-wife and her family were just a few miles upriver, waiting aboard the 42-foot sailboat anchored mid-channel above the Interstate 75 bridge overpass. This blockade of steel barges moored across the mouth of the Caloosahatchee was the only thing standing between them and the Gulf of Mexico, and it represented the first of many obstacles Eric knew he must overcome in the next phase of his quest to find his daughter. Eric and Bart had deemed it far too risky to first approach the blockade in the schooner due to the potential risk of losing the boat and everything aboard, as well as compromising the safety of the crew. Eric and Jonathan would instead take that risk alone, so after getting an anchor down in a quiet stretch of the river with good visibility, the two of them went ahead in Bart’s skiff.

  Ever since he’d met the kid in his hidden camp in the mangroves near Jupiter Inlet, Eric found Jonathan game for most anything, even forays as dangerous as this one. He could have come here alone, but decided it might look better to those in charge of this operation if he was accompanied by a young man he could pass off as his son. Eric would tell them his own father was also aboard their bigger boat waiting, which was the truth. Shauna and her husband and stepson he would claim as his sister and her family, even though in reality she was his former wife. He thought it might make them all appear less threatening if they presented themselves as one extended family doing their best to survive hard times, now seeking to leave the dangers of Florida to set sail for someplace safer. And for the most part that was true, but whether or not it would mat
ter depended on the nature of this blockade and those who had set it up and now manned it. Eric didn’t know whether they were authorities of some sort, or just regular citizens that banded together to protect the water entrance to their city. He had to consider also that they might be among the bad element. Many of that ilk had taken advantage of the situation here in Florida in the aftermath of the hurricane, a natural disaster that finished a breakdown of law and order that had already begun months before it struck.

  Because of this uncertainty, Eric knew that anything could happen now that they were within rifle range of the blockade. He’d left his own rifles aboard the schooner, knowing that if this was an official checkpoint of some kind, the weapons could get him and Jonathan arrested at best or shot on the spot at worst. The only weapon he had on him was his Glock 19, tucked away in the appendix position inside the waistband of his shorts in a minimalist holster, the grip well covered by the bottom of his T-shirt. The handgun wouldn’t be spotted unless they were physically searched, and while that was always a possibility, but Eric couldn’t bring himself to come here completely unarmed. If he were indeed destined to die here today, he would have the means to take one or more of his killers with him.

  Eric had cut the outboard throttle to idle as soon as they rounded the final bend and came within sight of the blockade. As he and Jonathan sat there drifting, nearly a half mile away, he put out a call on Channel 16 on his handheld VHF radio to announce his intentions, and was directed to continue his slow approach by the man that answered. At that point it would have still been possible to turn around and leave, but not now. They were already in rifle range, and besides, Eric Branson wasn’t in the habit of waffling on decisions once they were made.

  “It’s gonna suck if we’re just running into a trap, dude.”

  “There’s no use worrying about something that hasn’t happened yet. Just chill, man. We’re just going to have a chat with these fellows, that’s all. It’s not like we’re sneaking up on them in the dark or something. I don’t think they’ll just kill us for no reason.”

  “I hope you’re right, man. I really do.”

  Eric said nothing else. His focus now was on the objective, and he steered with the outboard to the barge that one of the men was pointing to, directing him to pull alongside. There was a long line of them moored end to end across the river, secured against the gentle current by heavy chain rodes that disappeared into the dark waters to unseen anchors below. There was no room for any kind of sizable vessel to pass, although a skiff like the one they were in could probably slip between the barges in a couple of places with permission from the guards.

  Now that they were within speaking distance, Eric doubted seriously that the men manning this blockade were officials. Most of them looked more like local commercial fisherman or other local tradesmen, certainly not military or even civilian law enforcement. That could be either good or bad, and Eric knew he was about to find out which momentarily. He greeted the nearest man standing over him on the deck of one of the barges as they drifted closer. The man was watching him and Jonathan closely, the AR-15 in his hands at low ready, but not pointed directly at them as they were already well covered by his companions. This one seemed to be in charge though, and seeing the radio clipped to his belt, Eric assumed he was the one he’d spoken with already. Eric’s friendly greeting was ignored however, answered only with a sharp question:

  “What is it you want to talk about?”

  “Like I said on the VHF, my son and I are here to find out what this blockade is all about, and see if we might get permission to pass. We want to leave the river. We want access to the Gulf.”

  “In that? Where do the two of you plan to go exactly?”

  “No, it’s not just us. The rest of my family is upriver on our sailboat. We knew you had the river closed here, but we assume the purpose is to keep vessels out, rather than in. Is that right?”

  “The purpose is for us to decide. That’s what it’s for. We haven’t had anyone coming down the river lately wanting out. There’s not many honest people still around that are thinking about boats, other than a few local folks we know. But we’ve had more than our share of looters coming in here from other places. That’s why we closed the river. So where did you come from that your boat is upriver? And why are you just now wanting to leave?”

  “My father lives upriver not far from Lake Okeechobee. He owns a small boatyard there and the boat was on the hard there for refit since back before all the trouble started in the spring. My son Jonathan and I brought my sister and her family over to my father’s place to ride out the hurricane, and we’ve been holding out there while we worked on the boat to get it ready to relaunch. We’ve had problems with looters too, and we knew it was going to get too dangerous to stay. Now that the boat is ready, it’s time for us to go. We came this way because we didn’t think we’d be able to transit the waterway going east because of the locks and dams. And we needed to get to the Gulf coast anyway because we’re planning to sail across to get my brother.”

  “Across the Gulf? It had better be a seaworthy boat, then. Just how big is it?”

  “Forty-two feet, with a twelve-foot beam. She’s built for bluewater.”

  “Well, the only way you can get a boat that size through here is if we move one of these barges completely out of the way, and that’s a hell of a lot of trouble. How do we know this sailboat even belongs to you? How do we know that you and your son aren’t looters too, and that you didn’t steal it? Maybe you even killed the owners for it?”

  Eric and Bart had already discussed the issue of ownership of the schooner, and what they were going to do about documentation. In a way, they had essentially stolen the schooner. The true owners were a retired Canadian couple living in Ontario who’d contracted with Bart to store their vessel in his yard in the off season when they went home after their annual winter cruises. But now that south Florida had been laid to waste by a catastrophic hurricane and the rest of the country was paralyzed by violence and shortages of fuel and other goods, all the boats in Bart’s boatyard were abandoned indefinitely. He’d done his best to protect them from looters while he could, but now it was time to leave. Bart knew the owners of the vessel formerly known as Tropicbird would never return, and that he would never collect storage or service fees for it or any of the other vessels on his property. If they didn’t take the boat best suited to their purposes, someone else would, or it would be looted and stripped and left there on the hard indefinitely. In the end, all that mattered now was survival, and Bart had agreed with Eric that they had to look out for themselves from this point forward. It had taken some extra work, but they had gotten rid of all traces of the original name and documentation of the custom-built schooner, and created a new identity borrowed from a similar-sized Coast Guard documented sailing vessel in Bart’s yard named Dreamtime.

  Dreamtime was a steel-hulled ketch that was in a sad state of neglect. Her hull was rusting away and the vessel would likely never be launched again even if not for recent events. The owner was far in arrears on his storage fees and wasn’t coming back. No one else would miss her and no one would likely be comparing the fine details of design and hull materials in the current circumstances anyway. A casual inspection of the Canadian schooner’s metal hull wouldn’t reveal that it was built of aluminum, rather than steel, because every exposed surface was painted with two-part epoxy paint. The size and displacement were close enough for a match, and so it was that Tropicbird became Dreamtime. The Colvin schooner left Bart’s boatyard with the new name and the hailing port of Stuart, Florida painted on her stern, as well as borrowed documentation papers and a carved number plate bolted to her main bulkhead. Bart was certain that it was good enough to fool most people they might encounter, and he and Eric doubted they would be subject to serious scrutiny by U.S. Coast Guard or customs and immigration agents anytime soon. These guys guarding their river blockade were apparently civilians and were unlikely to notice any discrepancy. E
ric was confident of that when he replied to the man’s question:

  “It’s a Coast Guard documented vessel. The original owner kept it stored in my father’s boatyard, but when all the riots started happening he decided he wanted to sell it fast and get what he could out of it. All the paperwork is on board, showing that he signed it over to my father months before the hurricane hit. My father’s done a lot of work on it since, and with my son and I helping, we just recently got it ready to go. The boatyard and his house on the river are no longer safe and it’s only going to get worse. Like I said before, that’s why we’re all leaving.”

  “I don’t know where you expect to go that’s going to be much better. Things are not just bad in Florida, you know.”

  “So I’ve heard,” Eric said. “We still feel better about taking our chances out there though than staying here.”

  “It’s not up to me or any one of us to decide if we can open up this blockade. We do things here by committee decision. One thing I can tell you though, is that it’s going to cost you. Moving one of the barges out of the way and then putting it back in place is a lot of work.”

  “I kind of figured it wouldn’t be free,” Eric said. “We can pay, as long as the price is reasonable.”

  “The price will have to be determined. Committee, like I said. I can tell you this though, in case you don’t already know it: checks, plastic, folding money and all other such nonsense is off the table. You’re going to have to pay with something that is still of use in the present circumstances. I’m sure you understand why.”