by JT Sawyer
“I call dibs on the Jacuzzi in the guest lounge,” said Porter, forcing out the words, his usual smirk absent as he walked past Reisner.
“A hot shower and some real food from the commissary is all I need,” said Connelly as she glanced down at her tan hands and dirt-encrusted fingernails.
Wexler and Gomez walked by, nodding at Reisner as they quietly passed through the portal into the corridor. Gomez, with his hulking muscular frame, had to angle his body to fit through the opening, while Wexler seemed to insinuate his rail-thin form into the next passageway.
Nash stopped beside Reisner, the two men sharing knowing glances at each other, as they often did after lengthy missions. Beyond their sheer exhaustion, they were still both driven by the same hunger to complete their objective, frustrated they had returned to the Lachesis without any leads after so much time in the field.
“Feels like the old days sometimes, doesn’t it?” said Nash, removing his tattered leather glove and rubbing the back of his neck. “Getting cut loose abroad on our own for weeks at a time to hunt down some fuckin’ terrorist before he strikes again.”
Reisner raised an eyebrow. “Yeah, only then we had more assets on the ground and could rely on locals that could be bribed.” He shook his head, removing his frayed ballcap. “Now, it’s just us and town after empty town, with hundreds of miles of open countryside in between.”
“He’s gotta be underground in some caves or in a network of sewers or something,” said Nash. “With only two UAVs and a handful of satellites at our disposal, it’s going to take time to zero in on any leads.”
Reisner frowned while looking over at Nash. “Tell me something I don’t know,” he said with an edge to his voice. He didn’t need the lecture on their capabilities and the limits of their resources.
Reisner took a step back, rubbing the side of his right temple, letting out a deep exhale. “Sorry, my friend. I know we’re all dragging our tails right now, trying to navigate in the dark with our hands tied.” He folded his arms, as if to emphasize the point. “You would think that with eleven strike teams in the field in four different states, we would have come up with something by now.”
Nash smirked. “Maybe he fled the country, like that toppled dictator we were after in West Africa.”
Reisner gave a faint nod. He knew Nash was joking, but the same thought had fleeted across his mind once or twice. Could such a creature, a super-alpha like Roland, pilot a boat or drive a vehicle? And if he could, could he then relay this ability to his other alphas throughout the world? Reisner’s mind was too weary to contemplate the scope of such implications, and he shook his head, standing upright.
Nash hit him on the arm with his glove. “Man, you ever wonder about what you’d be doing if you hadn’t joined the CIA all those years ago?”
Reisner welcomed the distraction, and he knew it was Nash’s means of giving himself a way out if things ever got really bad in his life.
“I would have been a rancher,” said Reisner.
“Yeah, right. What the hell do you know about ridin’ horses and ropin’ cows?”
“Ah, it’s not so much about that as just being out in the open in some vast prairie between the mountains. A hawk circling overhead as I meander through the tall grass that touches the horse’s belly, heading towards a cold trout stream. That’s a place I could relax and not always be looking over my shoulder.”
“And don’t forget about all the bugs and the snow while you’re at it.”
“Hey, shut up—no need to ruin the painting in my head.”
Reisner felt the tension in the air from the mission already beginning to melt away, and he remembered how much he enjoyed these informal talks with Nash. The man had always been a rock in his life, and his laid-back personality meshed well with Reisner’s high-strung mentality. “What about you—teacher at a clown college or a male stripper?”
Nash chuckled. “Nah, I can’t go back to doing those jobs anymore—I’d scare off the younger generation with my moves, and then there’d be no one to carry on the skills.” Nash leaned his frame against the side of the hatch. “Always thought I’d join the U.S. Marshals or become a sheriff—with the cool badge and a six-shooter. But a friend of mine told me about the Agency, so that’s where I headed after leaving the Rangers. Suits me better anyway; those law-enforcement agencies are too uptight.”
“And we were more relaxed?” said Reisner, suddenly aware that he was talking in the past tense about the CIA as a functioning branch of the government.
“Well, everyone but you, but I’ve learned to live with it.”
Reisner slugged him in the right bicep as he moved past him. “I’ll have Runa keep an eye out for any sheriff’s positions that open up. In the meantime, I can always bust you down to security.”
“And who will keep you in line on missions? I mean, you’ve got Selene to handle that when you’re back on board, but you’d get into a shitstorm of trouble without me at your six.”
“Selene—yes, she sounds like good company about now.” He glanced back at Nash, giving him a frown as they both moved through the narrow passage towards the next open hatch. “No offense, my friend.”
“None taken, Will. Enjoy the day.” Nash thrust his finger up towards an overhead pipe running the gamut of the hall. Reisner paused and saw a red-and-green ornament hanging from a piece of string above his head. Nash walked past him, patting him on the back. “One of the crew must have put that up there after we were last on board. Looks like you better do some Christmas shopping for Selene and Jody.”
Reisner’s eyes narrowed as the blur of endless missions flooded over his fatigued brain. “Christmas—how can it almost be Christmas? Is it really the end of December?”
Chapter 14
The First Day of the Pandemic
Jamestown, SC
Vern Schrade had finished filling his shopping cart with the last of the fifty-pound bags of rice. He already had a year’s worth of dried and canned goods in the downstairs bunker in his cabin, but recent news headlines about a deadly virus out of Asia had fueled his already inflated paranoia, requiring a trip to town. Turning the corner of the produce section, he spotted Nick staring at a local girl named Abby near the bread aisle. She was a blossoming adolescent whom he knew his son was taken with and whose parents owned a farm across the river from Vern’s property. In fact, he had seen to it that the small footbridge between the two banks was destroyed in a teachable moment, as he called it, where he instructed his son in the use of dynamite while also driving home the point that Abby was off limits.
“Nicholas, finish up getting those items I asked for and get over here.”
As he approached the checkout, Vern nodded at Walt, the silver-haired owner behind the counter of the small country store. Both men kept glancing up at the color TV screen on the wall by the front door as a frantic news reporter spoke about the riots and panic amidst a mysterious viral outbreak in Hong Kong.
“Those goddamned commie pinkos have it coming,” said Vern as he motioned for Nick to put a ten-pound box of oatmeal and two cases of Seagrams liquor on the counter. “Always meddling in world affairs and trying to screw with our economy. Hell, I heard they even bought up some small town in southern Idaho and plan to turn it into a slice of Asia.” He shook his head, unsure whether Walt kept flaring his eyebrows at him or the news report as he unloaded his shopping cart.
“I’ve been around a long time and ain’t heard of anything like this flu before,” said Walt. “We all might have to hunker down for a while in our homes if this goes full bore around the globe.”
“Well, that’s why they’re calling it a pandemic, Walt,” said Vern with a wry voice. “It’s already most likely global, but THEY don’t want us to know that. Gotta keep the peasants out of the information loop or feed them disinformation to maintain control.” He slammed a heavy can of beans on the counter. “Shit, that’s something our government’s got in common with the Chinks and Russkies—control of th
e media means control of all the dumb meat-puppets living under the government’s thumb.”
“I don’t think it’s to anyone’s advantage to allow this virus to spread, Vern—that’ll affect everyone and their economies, ultimately.”
“That’s what they’d like you to believe—and by ‘they’ I mean the five families who hold the reins of power in this country. Doesn’t matter who the President is or whether he’s Democrat or Republican—those five families pull the strings and they run the media. For all we know, that anchorman and those people running through the streets could be actors. The news stations get everyone to panic and then the power brokers in our country can justify jackin’ up food and gas prices and closin’ down travel to certain regions to suit their politics—while making a shitload of cash off of our fear.”
Vern saw Walt roll his eyes, and he was growing irritated that the man was taking so long to ring up all his items. Old bastard—he probably hasn’t left this fucking town ever. “I’ve travelled every stretch of the Atlantic coastline over the years as a commercial fisherman, meeting folks from all walks of life, Walt, and I can tell you, without a doubt, that the only real freedom left in this country is the one a man makes for himself on his own forty acres, away from the greedy hands of the government.”
Walt let out a long exhale, biting his lower lip as he turned away from Vern and back to the TV. Both men watched a throng of panicked workers bolting from a hospital as others chased after them, while the cameraman screamed in horror before the screen went dark.
Walt chuckled. “Those don’t look like ‘actors’ to me.”
Vern turned towards his son, who stood clutching a jar of peaches while his right eye twitched. “Father, what’s happening?”
“A commie cleansing is all—nothing to fret about, boy.” He flung open his wallet and began removing several hundred-dollar bills, then Vern gave his son a clumsy pat on the head, as if he was a dog. “Some scientist in some government lab deep underground is probably already making the rounds to inoculate our leaders over here and any other willing kingpins around the world who will play ball with our policies.”
“Two hundred and sixty-eight dollars and thirty-nine cents,” said Walt, who glanced at Nick with pity. He pointed to a rack of used DVDs near the candy aisle. “Why don’t you go pick out a comedy there for yourself—on me?”
Vern placed his hand firmly on his son’s shoulder. “That’s mighty kind of Mr. Walt, isn’t it, but we don’t watch any of those left-wing Hollywood crap-sack films at our place. There’s enough to laugh at each day just reading the damn headlines.”
Vern paid the man and told him to keep the five dollars change that was due, then he gruffly pushed the heavy cart towards the front doors.
“Be safe out there and take care of that boy of yours,” yelled Walt as he grabbed the remote and flipped to another channel.
Vern’s lips formed a faint leer. “There’s no better hands for him to be in right now if the world all goes to hell—and I’d say it’s already circling the drain.”
Vern could see the old man shaking his head in the reflection of the glass window. Out of shape fella like him won’t last a week without donuts with all them sprinkles on ’em while he sits on his cushy recliner in front of the TV—just like most of the human race.
***
The drive back home along the bumpy dirt road made Nick feel like his teeth were going to fall out. He knew his father preferred the road this way and had refused to have it graded over the years since it kept out the curious. The humidity and heat caused his t-shirt to stick to the back of the seat. He thought of how good the air-conditioning felt inside the small grocery store but knew his father only saw such things as luxuries that make a person go limp over time.
As they passed by a large swamp on the right, he looked with envy at a cluster of red-eared turtles basking lazily on a partially submerged log. Despite the terror of what he had briefly witnessed on the TV, he kept thinking about the red-haired girl at the store. Abby Strachan was her name, and Nick was sure that even the birds paused in flight when she walked by. He used to sneak over to their property when his dad had passed out from too much drinking, but since the footbridge was demolished, his interactions with Abby consisted of small talk from opposite shores when he was fishing.
His father’s homeschooling routine, which involved little in the way of academics, was designed to produce a well-rounded woodsman, hunter, and fighter. Socializing with other kids, playing sports, or going on fieldtrips weren’t included, and Abby was one of the few teenagers that Nick interacted with. There were also two boys he was allowed to play with, but they were sons of the other militia members, and Nick thought they weren’t much smarter than the rusty manure shovels in the barn.
“When we get home, you pack these goods behind the walls in the house just like the others. Any surplus can go down in the bunker,” said Vern, who gripped the steering wheel of the mottled green Bronco with both hands as he maneuvered around familiar potholes. “Then we’re heading down to the river to take the boat out and go fishin’ for a while.”
Nick ran through a mental map of the open spots remaining between the walls in the living room. Every interior wall was free of the usual pink fiberglass insulation filling most normal homes and instead was lined from floor to ceiling with canned beans, corn, pineapple, salsa, mushrooms, green beans, tuna, ham, and soup. These formed the foundation of the goods, which were stacked six high. On top of that were sacks of rice, sugar, oats, flour, cornmeal, lentils, wheat, chickpeas, and parched corn.
Occasionally, Father bought him some powdered chocolate milk, and he had accumulated his own secret stashes around the house. In the twenty-by-twenty cement bunker under the main cabin was more food, along with a vault containing pistols, rifles, shotguns, gas masks, grenades, and, as his father said, “enough ammo to get plenty more of whatever else we might need.” Stowed at the back of the canned goods in the family room wall were a bunch of medical supplies, over-the-counter drugs, gauze, and extra bottles of Nick’s prescription pills for keeping his blood cancer in check. His father, either through coercion or bribing, had convinced Nick’s physician to provide additional pills because his father hated the long drive to Columbia. Though his symptoms were very mild with the latent disease, Nick pondered what would happen when the six-month resupply mark approached if there was a real threat of some deadly global virus.
Nick wondered, if things got really bad in the world, whether some of the locals would find their way to his house and ask for help. He hoped one of them would be Abby, and he’d had more than a few fantasies about him rescuing her from danger. Nick was even certain that he would give her some of his precious powdered chocolate, which was hidden in a round tin in the downstairs bunker.
The last bump in the road caught him by surprise, and it jolted Nick back to the present. He felt like town was a thousand miles away, and he looked back longingly in the sideview mirror, thinking of Abby’s peach-scented red hair resting on her shoulders.
“Are people going to be OK with this virus?”
“Some people—like us, who saw this coming and were ready. The rest, well…” Vern leaned out the window and spit a stream of tobacco onto some orange wildflowers. “The rest will be weeded out like the shitbirds they are. That’s the way it’s always been, at least until all of our technology corrupted us.”
“But what if folks from town are hungry or in trouble—won’t we help them?”
“Nature favors the prepared—if they ain’t prepared then to hell with ’em.” He came to an abrupt halt at the eight-foot-high entrance gate to their property. Putting the Bronco into park, he leaned over towards his son. “This ain’t me just makin’ all this up, son—it’s always been the rule of law in the wilds. You don’t see the deer or the fox goin’ up to others of their kind when they’re hungry, askin’ for handouts.” He squeezed Nick’s left hand until the boy felt like his bones were snapping, his father’s whisky br
eath burning Nick’s nose. “Real strength comes from having the skills to wield a sword and slay your enemies—not from sitting back, waiting for someone to rescue you.”
Chapter 15
Reisner was standing in the galley of the Lachesis drinking a steaming cup of coffee as a steady bombardment of rain pelted the portholes on either side. The storm had raged on a day longer than expected, and he was eager to resume the hunt.
He glanced down at the folded map on the table, staring at the red highlighted areas of the Southeastern U.S. He heard the hatch door open behind him as Selene and Runa entered. They hung up their rain jackets on the pegs, then Selene placed her blue shoulder bag with her laptop on the desk. Runa beelined for the coffee dispenser and obtained a cup of straight black coffee before making his way over to Reisner.
“You know there’s a thing called a computer that can be used for displaying maps,” said the burly African-American as he patted his fist lightly on Reisner’s left shoulder.
“Yeah, and there’s no substitute for a crumpled paper map that you can draw on with a Sharpie while you plot out your moves on something larger than a sixteen-inch screen.”
Selene nudged him in the ribs with her elbow. “A computer would require electricity, and Will prefers being a caveman at times.”
He leaned over to whisper in her ear. “So, that’s a no-go on the candles again in our room tonight?”
She pulled back with a wolfish smile. “Now, I never said that.”
Reisner winked at her then regained his stolid expression as he turned to face Runa.
“I’ve been poring over the different plots on the map where we’ve had eyes on the ground these past three weeks.” He tapped his finger upon a red line in North Carolina, tracing it down the map to the left. “From Raleigh-Durham down through Macon, Georgia and into the Florida panhandle—and we’ve got nothing on this super-alpha.”