Home Port (A Deep State, Post-Apocalyptic Survival Thriller) (Long Haul Home Book 4)

by Dana Fraser

  He retrieved his rifle from the stairwell then went to the restroom located on the second floor, draining his bladder before double checking his appearance in the mirror.

  Seven men, executed in one night, up close, he thought as he erased a smear of blood on his wrist. That would be a personal record. Men had killed hundreds within minutes on his orders, each death part of the tally he would have to account for when he met his maker. But he had shared the burden of those indirect deaths. These were all his.

  He scratched at where the smear had been, a maddening itch suddenly infecting the skin. He ran his hands under hot water, built up a thick lather of soap then rinsed and dried.

  With the sensation refusing to fade, Thomas took the elevator to the top floor.

  EXCEPT FOR THE ELEVATOR SHAFT, adjacent stairwell and load bearing strips, the “walls” of the top floor were glass. There were no interior walls and no restroom, just support columns like the one the kid was cuffed to in the basement.

  That left Thomas exposed the second he stepped out of the elevator. It also meant that the lights in the room had been off since well before the sun had set. A quarter moon lit the space, but his uncovered eye was slow to adjust.

  “You should be asleep, Alzheimers,” Sparks taunted, his movement a slow slide of shadows as he sat up. He tapped his watch then immediately hit the power button to turn it off. “You’ve got duty in three hours.”

  “Yeah, well,” Thomas snorted, his gaze sweeping the room in search of Gentry. “Reverend went out. Didn’t come back alone.”

  “Boys will be boys,” Sparks said. “That’s not the kind of shit you need to wake me up for.”

  Thomas snorted again, trying to buy time to locate the sniper. There was a lump in the corner, possibly the size of Gentry if the man liked to curl up in a fetal position. It was cold enough up here. There wasn’t enough power to run the massive furnace that heated the building.

  “Repeat, after me, Alzheimers,” Sparks mocked. “I will not wake—”

  Thomas spun on one heel, returning to the elevator. “He insisted on taking his prisoner down into the basement. Guess that’s not the kind of shit I should wake you up for, either.”

  Sparks couldn’t scramble out of his sleeping bag fast enough. Thomas had hoped the revelation would light a fire under the team leader’s ass. Reverend Jay had been loose punching in the security code, not caring whether Thomas saw it. But Sparks had been guarded. That probably meant he didn’t want Jay turning the space into his personal playroom.

  “Wait,” he growled, stepping into his boots.

  Thomas pulled his finger back from summoning the elevator. Thirty minutes had passed since he left the basement. He had three dead bodies waiting to be discovered and the thought threatened to make him jumpy.

  Sparks twirled a loose circle, eyes scanning the shadows. “Where’s my rifle?”

  It was two feet to the man’s left but Thomas didn’t answer, just kept looking for Gentry.

  Sparks walked straight into the weapon, tipping the body so that the end of the barrel bounced against his crotch, eliciting a string of swear words about someone’s mother.

  “What happened to Gentry?” Thomas asked as Sparks joined him by the elevator.

  “He took his weed up to the roof after I yelled about the whole damn floor reeking. For all I know, he got so stoned he walked off the edge.”

  Hesitating to get on the elevator, Thomas glanced at the ceiling.

  “Don’t even think about it, old man, you’re coming with me.”

  With a sigh, Thomas stepped into the elevator and pressed the button for the basement level. He would have to come back up after taking care of Sparks. Then take care of the two guards, then search the gear Sparks and Reverend Jay had to see if he could learn the location of the other buildings, and about a dozen other things.

  “Damn, Alzheimers,” Sparks laughed as they reached the basement level. “You look worn out. All you’ve done is walk a few blocks and clear a few floors.”

  Thomas said nothing, just turned away so Sparks would enter the security key. He couldn’t exactly justify his exhaustion by explaining the constant surge of adrenaline from killing three men and then lying to lure a fourth to his death.

  Sparks pushed the last number on the keypad, disengaging the lock. He pulled the door open. Before either of them stepped into the room, the kid started calling out.

  Thomas had figured he knew English enough to follow what was being said around him, otherwise he wouldn’t have tried to bite off his tongue. But he hadn’t heard anything other than Arabic rolling off the kid’s tongue.

  Now, hearing him yelling for help, Thomas wished he’d stuck the glove insert back into the boy’s mouth.

  “Is that you, mister? Please uncuff me, please!”

  Sparks spun. He had his rifle off his shoulder, but Thomas was too close. The stock collided with Thomas’s arm. He already had the Maxim 9 out, his grip tightening as the M16 swung toward him.

  His first shot hit Sparks in the gut. Reaching across with his free hand, Thomas grabbed the M16 by its stock, depriving Sparks the chance of aiming at him. The weapon kicked as the injured man squeezed off a three-round burst, the sound absorbed by the thick cement. Thomas shot him again, aiming at the head. He missed, jerked the rifle free and brought the butt slamming down into Sparks’ face.

  The kid was screaming now, reverting to praying in his native language. Thomas smashed the rifle down again. Sparks fought to grab hold, to find the trigger, to pull it—

  Thomas threw the M16 over his shoulder, got down on his knees and wrapped one hand around Sparks’ throat. The man clawed. Thomas squeezed. He shoved the Maxim 9 in his opponent’s face, forced Sparks’ lips open then angled the tip until it dented the soft upper palate.

  He pulled the trigger.

  And then he puked.

  CHAPTER SIXTEEN

 

  “THIS,” Thomas said, taking his second drag on the joint Gentry had rolled, “is not that bad.”

  “Seriously?” the sniper giggled. “Never, ever, ever?”

  Thomas laughed. “I thought about it once. Confiscated a bag off my son’s friend…well, his former friend.”

  “Yeah?” Gentry asked, taking a long pull and holding it deep in his lungs as he passed the joint back to Thomas. A cough tried to knock its way out of the sniper’s lungs. He held it in a few more seconds then released a cloud of smoke that smelled like two skunks mating.

  “Didn’t figure you for someone’s dad.”

  Thomas released the smoke he’d been holding in then shoved both hands into the depths of his field jacket, teeth chattering and shoulders jerking to hide his actions as he untucked the Maxim 9 from his belt line.

  “Well, that was a lifetime ago.”

  Gentry giggled again. He was no use as a sniper at the moment. Any more puffs, and Thomas wouldn’t be very handy with a weapon either.

  “Back when you had both eyes?”

  “Sure,” Thomas laughed, one hand curled lightly around the pistol’s grip.

  A grin pushed up the corners of his mouth as he watched Gentry inhale.

  “You want to see what it looks like?” Thomas offered, his free hand leaving his field jacket to wave off another puff on the joint.

  “For real?”

  “Sure,” he answered. “Just be careful lifting the patch up and don’t snap it back down or I’ll have to shoot you.”

  Thomas tried to warn the man with a straight face but the grin couldn’t be erased.

  Wacky tobacky…they got that right.

  With the joint hanging between his lips, Gentry leaned forward. Using both hands, he took hold of the patch, his fingertips pressing at the sides while his thumbs pushed gently at the bottom edge.

  The material lifted upward, the top edge pushing at Thomas’ eyebrow. He kept the eye closed until the patch no longer covered the area then he slowly opened it.

  Mesmerized and stoned, G
entry stared for a few seconds. Then fear began a slow cascade down his face. His fingers twitched and his Adam’s apple bobbed, but he was too paralyzed to pull back.

  Thomas tapped him once in the chest and again under the chin.

  “Sorry about that, kid,” he said, finding the joint and bringing it to his lips as he headed toward the stairs.

  Gentry’s was the last death of the night. Thomas had diverged from his intended order after killing Sparks, taking out Dix and Slauson before heading up to the roof.

  He still had a lot of work to do, beginning with a thorough search of the belongings of Sparks and Reverend Jay.

  At some point, he would have to cut the kid free, too.

  TWO HOURS AFTER KILLING GENTRY, Thomas stood outside the door to the basement. On the floor next to him, he had his pack and a spare. Inside the second bag was the infrared scanner and information on other caches of equipment in the area.

  He stared at the keypad, his heart once again galloping in his chest. It was the moment of truth. He had seen Reverend Jay enter the code once and Sparks twice, once at the basement door and once at the exterior.

  Hand shaking, he slowly thumbed in the code as he remembered it, clueless as to what the security system’s response would be if he got it wrong.

  61*37#

  He drew his hand away.

  Was it two pound signs or double sevens?

  Well, too late on this try for it to be double sevens, he thought and continued.

  #833*52

  What came after the two?

  He closed his eyes, visualizing Sparks’ hand and its surreptitious movements. Then he visualized Jay’s—less cagey but trembling with the excitement of the boy’s impending torture.

  994

  He waited, fractions of seconds ticking in his head. Was that wrong? Shouldn’t the lock have disengaged?

  The kid was going to die inside and it was his fault for keeping him handcuffed—

  The lock clicked.

  His hand jerked out, twisting the handle and pulling the heavy door toward him. The kid didn’t shout, had been warned against doing so again.

  Bracing the door open with his foot, Thomas dragged both packs over the threshold then let the door slide shut.

  Carrying just the Maxim 9, he went to where the boy was still secured to the column. He got on his knees in front of him, head dipping to eye level, and lifted the patch. The kid didn’t look at first, studiously avoided looking until Thomas cleared his throat.

  Surprise blossomed across the young man’s face.

  Thomas lifted the patch completely off and stowed it in his pocket.

  “Look, kid—”

  “Idris,” the boy interrupted, trying once again to get Thomas to use his name.

  Thomas shook his head. “I killed the other men in this building. I rode in with them, but I wasn’t really with them, you understand?”

  The boy nodded and looked at the eye that had been covered with the patch. “Like a spy?”

  Thomas shrugged. “A spy, a saboteur, whatever floats your boat. What’s important is for you to understand that I don’t want to hurt you. But move on me when I uncuff you and I will kill you like all the others.”

  Exuberance draining from his face, Idris nodded again.

  “Good.” Thomas pocketed the pistol and pulled out the key to the handcuffs. “We’ve got about two hours before we have to haul ass from this place.”

  “My family—”

  “I don’t care about your family,” Thomas interrupted. “And I wasn’t offering to take you with me. That’s another thing you need to understand. I’m not here to play hero for a bunch of strangers. I have my own family to get home to.”

  He stood and hauled the boy onto his feet. After killing Sparks, Thomas had set Idris up with a filled water bladder. He nodded over the kid’s shoulder.

  “You gotta piss, find a corner because we don’t have time for you to take the grand tour.”

  Idris jogged off and Thomas heard the sound of his stream splashing against concrete a few seconds later. Thomas retrieved the partially filled pack he had left by the door and grabbed a second pack that he tossed at Idris when the boy returned.

  “Two hours,” Thomas repeated. “One of the men I killed has to check in every morning. After we leave, you can’t come back because the place will be crawling with more soldiers because he didn’t call in.”

  “Are they really soldiers?” Idris asked.

  “Soldiers aren’t good guys anymore, kid,” Thomas answered, inspecting the motorcycle he had undraped after killing Reverend Jay. “You know how to ride one of these?”

  Idris nodded, fresh excitement coloring his cheek until he opened his mouth. “My father…”

  “Yeah,” Thomas said as the kid fell silent. He knew the look. Whenever it had happened, the boy’s father was dead. “But your sister or someone’s still out there waiting for you.”

  Idris didn’t respond, his face shutting down with a hint of suspicion.

  Thomas chuckled. The response wasn’t that different from when he had first questioned Reynolds. Save someone’s ass and they still wouldn’t trust him.

  Not that they should. He had already told the kid he would drop him in a heartbeat and that he was abandoning him before daybreak.

  “You want to take a bike, take one,” Thomas said. “We’ll get it up in the elevator. Anything you want to take, take. But don’t come back for more, understand?”

  His tongue still immobile, Idris nodded as he walked over to the weapons rack where there was a row of 9mm handguns and ammo.

  Pausing, he shot Thomas a questioning look.

  “I said anything,” Thomas answered. “You know how to use one of those?”

  This time the boy shook his head. “My grandmother does. But my parents wouldn’t have one in the house.”

  Thomas lifted a brow. “Your grandmother close by?”

  More hesitation and then the boy whispered, “Yes. My sister and I were out scavenging for food.”

  “Good, then load up. If you’re any good on the bike, you can probably ride with two packs.”

  “I am very good,” Idris boasted. “I was getting my permit next month for my birthday present.”

  Thomas drew a deep breath. The kid really was close in age to his own son. He swallowed down the thought of Ellis being out there on his own and reached into the pack. Pulling out the thermal scanner, he turned it on and told Idris to look at the display while he went and hid behind a column.

  “Cool!”

  “Yeah,” Thomas agreed, returning to the kid and extracting the scanner from his hands. “Which is exactly why I’m taking it with me. I just wanted you to understand what kind of technology you’re up against. If your grandmother can walk, you have to get her and your sister out of the area. And, if she can’t—”

  “We won’t leave her,” Idris growled. Spinning away, the kid walked angrily to the other side of the basement, disappearing down a row and returning a few seconds later with a duplicate of the scanner. He turned it on, instantly familiar with the technology in a way that only kids could be.

  Thomas laughed before issuing a warning about the kid’s new toy. “There’s a chance that a GPS tracker is inside.”

  Idris flipped it over and examined the back of its casing, visually tracing the seam. “I’ll know it when I see it.”

  Thomas nodded and gave the boy a shoulder squeeze. “Then let’s grab some gear and get out of here. And remember, once we leave…”

  He trailed off, watching the boy’s gaze as he waited for him to fill in the missing words.

  With a firm nod, Idris answered.

  “We don’t come back.”

  CHAPTER SEVENTEEN

 

  MEAT FRESHLY SLICED from the side of a wild boar sizzled on a Coleman stove in the kitchen of a lakeside cabin. The power was out. The original owners were dead, their once costly furniture scarred by cigarette burns and the bo
red carvings of four co-dependent psychopaths.

  Genitalia, male and female, had been scored into the cherry veneer of the Lasalle coffee table. Long slashes marred the heavy cream fabric of the dining room chairs with their tidy pattern of small, stacked chevrons, exposing guts of white stuffing that had been pulled out and scattered around the floor.

  The constant rub of handcuffs carved deep lines in the slatted sleigh bed that took up the wall opposite the fireplace. Clothes littered the floor around the frame. The bedding on top was soiled and heaped in the middle, the slight form of a woman in her early fifties all but dissolving into the mattress.

  Unattended, the meat stopped sizzling and started smoking. On the edge of waking, the woman coughed, arms jerking on the cuffs as she reflexively sought to cover her mouth.

  She always woke in fire, dark smoke filtering into her lungs. The same thick-veined hands always pulled her out of the burning Mercedes she had owned since graduate school. Through the smoke and the throbbing pain along the side of her head, the face of her rescuer always swam into view.

  Her rescuers—not one, but many.

  Not rescuers at all.

  Trying to burrow into the black depths of nothing, Rebecca Sand shook her head and twisted in her sleep, arms twisting around one another as the handcuffs kept her wrists immobile. Numbers danced against the screen of her closed eyelids, her mathematician’s brain working to soothe and distract.

  A sharp series of pops and shouting clawed at her attention, attempting to drag her up into consciousness. She pushed deeper into the mattress, defying the reprimand to wake. She would let the smoke claim her this time, the fire it accompanied the only force capable of cleansing her skin of all that had happened since the power went out.

  A masculine voice screamed from somewhere outside the cabin. Others joined to form a makeshift quartet. Curses, pleas, admonitions.

  The homeowners had begged, too. Bound and gagged in a stolen SUV, she had been able to close her eyes but not her ears. There were no sharp pops, no merciful bullets. The elderly couple had been hacked up and then she had been carried past them as vomit filled her mouth and pushed against the filthy rag muffling her own desperate, hysterical screams.