Pablo looked down at his watch and saw the time was nearing.
“General Pasqual! Come here!” he called out to his second in command.
“Yes, sir.” General Pasqual ran up to his tank and saluted.
“Is everything ready for the barrage?”
“Yes, sir. All artillery and mortar units are in place with coordinates.”
“Good. Let me know when—I want to give the order to begin fire,” Pablo said, waving General Pasqual away.
As he sat back against the turret of the tank he thought to himself about how everything in his plan so far had worked out almost too easily. He knew that eventually he’d be put to the test against a real American military unit. His visions of conquest saw the Pan-American Empire stretching from the southern tip of Panama to the southern borders of Oregon and east toward Oklahoma and Texas. He was a realist, though, and knew that would take a huge army and a great deal of time. His primary goals now were to take the American Southwest, then march on Mexico and liberate his people with the promise of a new era.
Before he knew it, Pasqual was back. “Emperor, it is time, sir.”
Pablo sat up and stretched. He again took in the view before ordering, “Radio!”
General Pasqual stepped up on the tank and held out a handheld radio.
Without saying a word, Pablo snatched the radio. He reflected for a brief moment about what he was about to do. This was to be his first full-scale attack on a city, a turning point for him. He smiled. He was about to order the attack on the capital of California.
“Who would have thought that I’d be sitting here six months ago?” Pablo asked smugly.
General Pasqual just smiled and nodded.
“Here, take my picture, I want to remember this moment,” Pablo said, handing General Pasqual a small camera.
Pablo posed with the radio and pointed toward the skyline of Sacramento.
“How does it look? Let me see.” Pablo examined the photo. “Good picture! Okay, let’s begin,” he said, pressing the button on the radio. “All units, this is your Emperor. Begin the attack.”
Klamath Falls, Oregon
“Sir, drop the weapon!” one of the Marines ordered.
Gordon didn’t know what to do. Being surrounded by a Marine unit in the middle of Oregon was not something he expected to happen.
“Goddamn it, son, put down the gun or we’ll put you down!” an older Marine hollered as he exited the Humvee.
For a second, he thought he recognized this older man. He blinked fast and squinted to see if the Marine’s face would focus in the swirling snow.
“Put the gun down so that we can help with the injured woman!” the older Marine yelled.
Gordon looked down at Brittany, who was curled up at his feet in a bloody ball. He knew he couldn’t win this gunfight, but his distrust for all people made it hard to comply.
“Are you really going to make us shoot your dumb ass? Because we will, it’s fucking cold out here,” the older Marine yelled sarcastically.
It clicked. Gordon knew that voice.
The older Marine stepped out from the shadows and his face finally came into clear view.
“Smitty?” Gordon asked.
The old man walked up to within ten feet of Gordon and stopped. “Who are you?”
“Smitty!” Gordon said again, this time expressing happy surprise at this strange coincidence.
“Well, you seem to know my name. Now, who the hell are you?”
“Van Zandt. Sergeant Van Zandt,” Gordon answered as he lowered his pistol.
“Van Zandt? What the hell! You’re the last person I’d expect to see out here.”
The snowstorm had increased in severity. The large thick flakes were now covering Brittany as she lay motionless on the ground. Tyler was at her side, holding her head. “Momma, Momma. Stay awake,” he pleaded.
Gordon was jolted back to reality. “Smitty, she needs help. She’s been hit in the shoulder with a shotgun.”
“Marines! Get her in the back of my vehicle and take her back to town,” Gunny barked. Several Marines came immediately to her side and picked her up. She moaned loudly when they lifted her limp body.
“Momma!” Tyler said, holding her hand as the Marines carried her back to Gunny’s vehicle. He followed them into the Humvee.
Gunny could see the concern in Gordon’s eyes. “She’ll be fine, we’ll take good care of her,” he said.
Gordon nodded.
“This is all so surreal. What are you doing in Oregon?”
“I could ask the same of you. How about we discuss all of this over a drink back in town?”
When Gunny turned around he saw the Humvee turn around and speed off without him.
“Well . . . looks like I need a ride,” Gunny said with a grin.
“Let’s take my chariot,” Gordon cracked.
“We have a lot of catching up to do,” Gunny said, patting Gordon on his shoulder.
FEBRUARY 23, 2015
• • •
“True genius resides in the capacity of evaluation of uncertain, hazardous, and conflicting information.”
—Winston Churchill
Klamath Falls, Oregon
Gordon woke abruptly. He had been sleeping on and off, watching over Brittany. His neck was cramping and his body was chilled. He rubbed his arms in an attempt to warm them. He looked at his watch. Five a.m.—he had only been asleep for a few hours. He heard someone rustle opposite him and looked over to discover Tyler lying on the floor next to his mother’s bed.
Encountering Gunny was a bittersweet reunion. They hadn’t seen each other since Iraq. Gunny was a corporal then, and to Gordon he was known as Smitty. Their chance meeting on that war-torn street in Fallujah was similar to their chance meeting in Klamath Falls, but this time Gunny was coming to Gordon’s aid. It was good to see a familiar face, but Gordon could tell from Gunny’s expression when they sat down over a drink that the news about Sebastian wasn’t good. Gunny carefully told Gordon the events that culminated in Sebastian being left in California. He said he wasn’t sure if Sebastian was dead or alive, as the chopper that took him had reported mechanical issues, then disappeared. When Gordon first heard this, he was shocked. The thought of Sebastian dead couldn’t have come at a worse time. After losing Hunter, the thought of losing Sebastian too was too much for him to process. He questioned Gunny vigorously to see if there was any clue at all. A deep emptiness filled him with each answer Gunny gave. Gordon’s desire for certainty couldn’t be satisfied. Sitting there in the darkness, he thought of his brother. If he was somehow alive, had Sebastian made it to his home and found the note? Was he already heading to Idaho? And, if he wasn’t alive . . . Gordon pushed that thought from his mind.
He watched Brittany’s chest slowly rise and fall. He was thankful that Gunny and the Marines had shown up when they did. Gordon had some confidence in his abilities to perform triage, but he didn’t have the necessary antibiotics if the wound festered and became infected. Gunny’s appearance was by coincidence; the Marines were running a patrol of the surrounding area and, ironically enough, they received a report that the man and woman that Gordon had killed were wanted in town for the murder of an elderly gentleman. The last report stated that they were heading out of town, hence why they were checking the highway.
A tinge of a mild headache struck Gordon. He rubbed his head and figured it was a combination of dehydration, alcohol, and lack of caffeine. The lack of caffeine in this new world had more than once proven to be a problem for him. He never had thought much of the addictive qualities of caffeine before, but when he didn’t get his fix the headaches were awful and sometimes distracting. Not wanting to spend his day feeling like crap, he left the room in search of water, then a cup of coffee if one could be had.
He carefully and quietly walked down the hall to the
kitchen. Each step produced slight creaks as his feet touched the old wooden floors. The last thing he wanted to do was wake anyone up. He also wasn’t in a social mood and just wanted to get his water, coffee, and to relax. When he turned the corner he saw a light emanating from the bottom of the kitchen door.
“Aw, Van Zandt,” Gunny said. He was sitting at the table in the middle of the room. The flickering light from a kerosene lamp bounced dark shadows off of the white cabinets and floral-wallpapered room.
“Looks like I’m not the only one who can’t sleep,” Gordon quipped as he stepped into the room.
The aroma of fresh-brewed coffee filled his nostrils as he walked in.
“Just what I was looking for,” Gordon said, excited.
“Pour yourself a cup and give me another shot of the ol’ life juice,” Gunny said, holding up his mug.
Gordon and Gunny shared old war stories and a few laughs before more sensitive topics emerged in their conversation.
“Van Zandt, you never told me what you’re doing here. Who are the two you’re running with?”
“To say that it’s a long story would be an understatement. Where do I begin?”
“Listen, Van Zandt, you don’t have to pour out your soul to me. I’m not a therapist, but if you do have something to say, I won’t judge. By the condition I found you in and by the looks of your face I can tell you’ve had a rough go.”
“I’m looking for the man who killed my son,” Gordon said bluntly.
“Sorry to hear about your son.”
Gordon nodded. “I think he’s here in Oregon, but I’m not sure. Have you run across a man named Rahab?”
Gunny’s eyes widened when he heard the name. “No, we haven’t encountered him . . . but you’re not the only person looking for him.”
“What?”
“Yeah, we picked up this girl a week ago outside of a tiny logging town. She mentioned the same name.”
“Where, what town was it?” Gordon asked urgently.
“Shit, calm down. Let me think,” Gunny said, pausing. “Crescent. That’s it. A little shithole a few hours from here.”
With this new information, Gordon brightened. He could possibly have an opportunity to find Rahab. Plus, he could leave Brittany and Tyler here in good conscience.
“Gunny, can you do me a favor?”
“How is it that I’m always doing favors for you Van Zandts?” Gunny joked, taking a long sip of his coffee.
“Can you spare fuel, ammo, and food?”
“I’m assuming you want this to continue your hunt for this . . . Rahab guy?” Gunny asked.
“I simply can’t rest knowing this guy’s out there. I need to find him and—”
Gunny interrupted by finishing what Gordon was about to say. “And kill him.”
“Yes!”
Gunny smiled and said, “I can do better than just giving you some ammo and food. I think you’ll like what I can offer.”
“I’m all ears,” Gordon said, leaning in.
“How about all of that plus some muscle to get the job done right? I’ll give you a team of Marines to go with you.”
Gordon liked what he heard.
“When do you want to go?” Gunny asked.
“Yesterday! How soon can your team be ready?” Gordon asked.
“I can get a group assembled once everyone’s awake,” Gunny said. “What about your lady friend and the boy?”
“Could—”
Gunny raised his hand, gesturing Gordon to stop talking. “We’ll take care of them.”
“Thanks.”
“Wait a minute.” Gunny unbuckled his belt and handed Gordon a knife, a Randall Model 1.
“I can’t take that,” Gordon exclaimed when he looked at it.
“First thing, it’s not a gift. I expect to get it back when you come back. You do plan on coming back?”
Gordon took the knife and removed it from its weathered leather sheath. He gripped it and admired the weight and grip. “Your dad gave this to you when you joined the Corps, right?”
“Yeah, my old man was a jarhead too. He said every man needs a great fighting knife. He gave it to me right after I graduated boot camp.” Gunny smiled as he reminisced.
“I can’t take this,” Gordon said, starting to hand the knife back.
“What happened to your boy is tragic, it’s fucking downright horrible. I want you to take that knife and carve out that fucker’s eyes with it.”
Gordon thought for a moment, then accepted the gift. “Thank you.”
“Just bring it back. My old man would roll in his grave if I lost that,” Gunny joked.
“Smitty, my intentions are to come back, I’m not into the suicide-type thing. But I can’t guarantee anything anymore.”
Eagle, Idaho
Sleep had become impossible for Samantha. Nightmares greeted her every time she closed her eyes. The horror show that had become her life occupied her mind day and night, but in her dreams she couldn’t control it. Her nightmares were so disturbing that she resisted the urge to fall asleep when it came. The toll from a lack of proper rest was wearing on her health, both physically and mentally.
When they had first arrived in Idaho she attempted to find purpose in her daily tasks. She had found a friend in Scott’s wife, Lucy. Lucy would invite her and Haley over to their house often. There she taught Samantha, Haley, Beth Holloway, Melissa, and the other women in the community numerous homesteading skills. At first, Samantha was engaged, but eventually the dark shadow of depression overcame her and she stopped coming by altogether. She didn’t want to be around anyone, or make small talk, or pretend to be okay.
She knew the other women talked about how none of them could understand the pain she was feeling. How could any of them know how it felt to lose a child? She would not be lectured by anyone on the fact that she needed to be “strong.”
It was the stinging pain of hunger that forced her out of her room and down to the kitchen. The sun was already making its presence known outside. Samantha glanced outside and noticed a fresh layer of powdery snow on the porch.
“God, how I miss San Diego,” she murmured out loud.
As she rummaged through the pantry she heard the sliding door open behind her. Assuming it was Nelson, she kept looking for a bite to eat.
She grabbed a can of sardines and turned around to find a strange man looking at her from the other side of the kitchen island. He was tall with long brown hair pulled back and tucked under a badly stained ball cap. His face was covered with a thick, graying beard. An intense smell of alcohol came from him. Acting on instincts, she hurled the can of sardines at the man, hitting him in the face, then ran for the stairs. Nelson slept downstairs but she wasn’t sure if he was in the house. What she knew was Haley was upstairs in her room.
The man brushed off the hit and ran after her.
“Nelson! Nelson!” she screamed as she ran out of the kitchen.
The man was faster than her and tackled her at the base of the stairs.
She attempted to scramble up the stairs but he dragged her back down. She kicked and elbowed him in the face. This angered him; he drew back and punched her in the back of the head. The force of the punch drove her head into the wood stairs. She could taste blood in her mouth.
“Nelson!” she cried out.
The man began to pummel her with punches to the back of her head. She tried to crawl up the stairs but the force of his blows were too much to take.
“Nelson, help!” she again cried out. Where was he? Fear of dying was now coming into her thoughts as she kept getting clobbered with one punch after another. She looked up and saw Haley standing at the top of the stairs. The sight of her daughter prompted her to resist even more. The man turned her around and drew back to deliver another punch to her face when she kicked him in the crotch.
He flinched and buckled over in pain at the kick. She kicked him again but this time in his stomach, forcing him to lose his balance and fall backward. Seizing the opportunity of not having his weight on top of her, she turned around and began to run up the stairs. As she climbed the stairs she didn’t see Haley anymore. She assumed she had gone back to her room. When she reached the top of the stairs, she hesitated for a split second. If she went left, she’d be able to go back to her room and get a gun. If she went right, she’d go to Haley’s room, where she’d be able to bunker down with her, but without any weapon to defend them. Time was running out for her, as the man had gotten back up and was barreling up the stairs after her. Samantha decided on turning left, hoping he’d follow after her. She ran into her room, where she encountered Haley, holding a pistol.
“Haley, give me the gun, hurry!”
Haley was shaking, her eyes wide. She held the pistol with a white-knuckled grip.
“Haley, give me the gun, now!” Samantha yelled.
The man’s heavy footsteps were coming down the hall toward them.
The door was still open and the man was coming down the hall fast. She turned and slammed and locked the door.
Haley still stood frozen in fear with the pistol in her hand.
Samantha snatched the pistol from Haley’s trembling hands just as the door burst open.
The man tumbled inside and ran right into Samantha, knocking the gun from her grip. They both fell to the ground with a loud thud. Samantha quickly scrambled from underneath him and looked for the gun. It was gone; it had seemingly disappeared.
The man reached for her but she resisted and kicked him in the face.
Thinking on her feet, Samantha eyed her basket of yarn and a crochet needle next to her bed. She crawled over to it and grabbed the needle.
The man lunged for her again, but this time his aggression was matched when she plunged the needle into his throat.
The man clutched his throat. Blood began to gush out from between his fingers and under his hands.
Sanctuary: A Postapocalyptic Novel (The New World Series) Page 5