by A. R. Shaw
Frank nodded. “Looks that way.”
Roman paced the floor back and forth. “Highways shut down, no food deliveries, no communication, and no end in sight. They’ll all die. Your family…my men. No, this isn’t going to happen. Frank, you have boys, right? You’ve got that team? We’ve used them before.”
“Yeah, sure. There’s a network of preppers who are on the radios too. They keep a lot of stuff. They had encouraged everyone else to horde stuff before it was too late.”
“Before it was too late?” Roman repeated the statement. “It was too late a few days ago. But that’s not how things are going down.” Roman continued pacing. “Starting tonight. Hit these hoarders and take everything they have. Any resistance, and they die. Bring everything here. We’ll put it in storage. They want to eat, we will feed them. I’m not going to have hoarders in my town.”
Frank was already up and headed for the door, nearly giddy with anticipation. “Yes, sir.”
Chapter 32
Shots rang out that night as three trucks left the scene filled with the bounty of several nearby homes. If the residents didn’t comply with Frank’s order to hand over their stocked food, he took what meager rations they did have by force. With a bullhorn in one hand, he held onto the back of the truck with the other as he continued to announce, “Turn over your supplies so that we can all survive together. If your neighbor has hidden rations, let us know and we’ll be happy to send over a few folks to help them get the items into the community store. No hoarders are allowed. We all must survive.”
Having neighbors rat on neighbors was the easiest way to find all the hidden supplies. They carted supplies by the truckload into the hotel basement, where everything was sorted and inventoried. Those who resisted were summarily dragged out of their houses and shot in the streets for everyone to witness. There was no better motivator than fear.
Frank’s boys were used to violence. They were those who thrived on the seedier side of life by providing ladies to the more unscrupulous of the resort vacationers. Or for those who wanted more than a little alcohol to soothe their needs. Roman needed Frank because his boss, Geller, refused to see the other side. He was too good for that way of life, and someone had to provide for the wants and needs of rich men beyond Geller’s comprehension.
Roman was to Frank as Geller was to Roman; only one was in the observed world, and the other was invisible. Or, more likely, Frank’s world was what Geller turned a blind eye to. Whether or not the man was aware of his talents, he didn’t know. That was up to Roman. For now, Frank did exactly what Roman wanted, and that was to control the town.
“Frank, the police are right around the corner. They want to know what’s going on,” one of his workers stated.
“Oh really?” Frank nearly laughed. “I’ll tell them what’s going on. I’m doing their job—that’s what’s going on.”
Frank walked around the snowmobiles where some of his men were relieving an owner of his supplies while he kept watch and made sure nothing went to hell. Then he went around the corner where a police snowmobile had pulled to the side of the street, hanging back in the shadows. Two officers were waiting for him.
“We have some questions, Frank.”
He recognized both of these men. You could say they’d worked together a time or two.
“Hey, fellas. A little brisk, wouldn’t you say?”
They both laughed as the snow continued to pile up around them.
“We’re getting calls, Frank,” said the older officer.
“They keep asking if this is legal,” a young officer said with a roll of the eyes. “You shot Mr. Henderson—”
“That was self-defense. He pulled the gun on one of my boys. We shot back.” Frank said, both of his hands up in a helpless gesture.
The first officer snorted. “Nice one. Look, martial law was issued two days ago, so as far as we’re concerned there isn’t a problem. But Sheriff Weston from the south side said his people are running out of food already in Rockford Bay, and he wants us to bring some of ours over the lake via snowmobile.”
“He wants some of the food?”
“Yeah. He said the residents there are getting really antsy.”
“That’s too damn bad. I know what Roman will say…hell no.”
The second officer agreed. “See, I told you,” he said to the first officer.
“We also have a few guys that are saying this is wrong.”
“What’s wrong?”
The first officer twirled his gloved finger in the air. “This, what we’re doing.”
“What, keeping people alive? Have him come talk to me then. If he has the balls…”
The first officer snorted again. “He might. I don’t know.”
Frank slapped the younger officer on the shoulder. “Don’t sweat it, Luke. Hey, tell my sister I’ll be by later with a few things.”
“I will, Uncle Frank,” he said, and as Frank turned around, the officers mounted their snowmobiles and drove away.
Chapter 33
Bishop left camp this time with a heavy heart, not knowing when he might return. He made sure everything was locked in tight, but that was no guarantee that his supplies would be there when he came back. He couldn’t bring all the MREs he wanted and had to make do with the space available.
The other thing was that the little girl was improving every day, which meant she was asking more questions. Questions they couldn’t answer for her. He hoped they could find relatives to take her in—as long as she would be safe with them—once they made it safely into town. And now that Ben could shoot, he felt a little relieved while being worried at the same time. Had Bishop come a second later when the three men were attacking Maeve, they would have killed her and the children. He had no doubt about that.
He also had doubts about keeping them in the storage unit. No place was safe enough. They wouldn’t survive in these conditions. He had to get into town and take out the man that was killing so many. If he didn’t turn things around in Coeur d’Alene, they’d all die, and soon. The temperatures were plummeting even faster than his predictions, and if that were possible, conditions would deteriorate even faster. They needed more resources to survive the cold. Thick insulated walls and running water would be a nice start.
Once they’d left the mountain, he could feel Maeve’s increased tension. She sat even more erect, watching everything he could not see. “Just tell me if you see any movement whatsoever,” he’d told her. Once they met the frozen ice of the lake, Bishop noted the footprint traffic had increased since the time he’d come before.
Most of the tracks were leaving town, probably in the dead of night and for good reason, but these people were walking into their own deaths and that Bishop was sure of. Anyone exposed out in the open in another week would surely freeze to death, their bodies never to be discovered. No one would ever know what had happened to them—as if they’d vanished. Clouds of steam rose off Jake and Bishop in great puffs the closer they came to town. Bishop, too, was on alert. It was one thing when he was alone—it was another having Maeve and the children with him, which was a vulnerability he had not anticipated. As soon as he neared the maze of storage units, he stopped at the end of one of the long rows and had Maeve step down from the horse. Her legs buckled when she first landed on the ground, so much so that he had to steady her for a long moment until he was sure she wouldn’t topple over.
“I’m OK,” she whispered.
Then he led Jake inside the storage unit, pulling the sled inside with him. After detaching the sled, they brushed the snow off of the children and lifted the heavy blankets from them. They were toasty with the shared heating units.
Maeve made a pallet near a stack of storage boxes for the kids and covered them up again in hopes of keeping their warmth intact.
“You can still see your breath in here,” Bishop said. “I doubt there’s power in town anymore.” Having first rented the unit when he’d returned from war, it was where he’d kept belong
ings that he didn’t readily need up on the mountain.
Also inside the garage was his snowmobile—of the latest design, before the war made purchasing them forbidden. This one was battery operated, like the old Prius, and it was quiet and stealthy. Only the snow crunching under the cleats announced its presence from afar. The only issue was recharging the battery, but going fifty miles on one charge was sufficient for his needs when he’d purchased it. Luckily, he kept backup batteries for this purpose. Every fall he did the maintenance on the machine in the garage and took it out in the winter on the back hills for days at a time, traveling the deep woods. Though he’d always used it for recreation, this was a job that would require speed and the element of surprise. Lifting the tarp, Bishop’s adrenaline began to rush slightly; this machine had a new mission, and he could finally use it for more than traversing the mountains.
He’d kept various items in the storage unit, and the snowmobile was one of them. These were things he didn’t need up in the mountains most of the year and only played with them in the few months that winter allowed in most years.
Opening another locker in the storage unit, he took out several rounds of ammunition and two other rifles. One was semiautomatic and as illegal as they came. If Bishop were ever caught, he’d spend a lot of time in prison just for having the thing in his possession…and for a few prize items like smoke grenades and flash bombs. Explosives were something he’d taken the liberty of when he’d had the chance. He and Roger took turns bringing things home secretly, and now was the time to use them. If he’d ever thought of a scenario to use them for, this was it.
Then there were the warming units. Pulling a few more out, he handed them to Maeve. She activated one and stuffed it under the blankets between the kids. He would bring a few with him as well. All of these items had sat dormant for years. Except for engine maintenance, Bishop rarely even came there.
After packing up, he needed only to wait a few minutes for darkness to completely descend. He’d planned to hit up the first person he knew who would know exactly what was going on. Although…he wouldn’t be surprised if that man was running the show himself. He’d heard of the guy before, and now that he’d heard his name again from the guys who’d gunned down the police officer, he figured he knew exactly where to find him.
The known drug area of Coeur d’Alene—every town had them—was where the teens went to get high and where they returned until their lives were so screwed up that they kept coming back. Frank ran that part of town. Bishop had never had a reason to engage him before but now was the time.
Once it was pitch dark, Bishop pulled Maeve to the doorway. “Stay absolutely quiet here, no matter what you hear. If someone breaks in, start shooting. You have no other choice. I’ll be back as soon as I can.”
“Please hurry,” she said.
Feeling a strange new sensation, Bishop had the urge to hug her and hold her in his arms. Instead, he squeezed her shoulder. Standing in front of him, she was so frail and terrified, and he’d do anything to change that about her. Without saying another word, he pushed her gently from the doorway, closed and locked the unit, and then covered the tracks they’d made in the snow. Flurries were coming down anyway, but he wanted to ensure he didn’t lead anyone to their position.
Maeve and the kids sharing the unit with his horse was less than ideal, but they were at least out of harm’s way for the moment. Bishop mounted the snowmobile and drove out the gate, covered his tracks again, and locked the gate behind him. There was no guarantee of safety, but it was the best he could do until he could get the main job done.
Staying to the outer snow-covered streets—only by memory did he even know where they were—he skirted the edges of town in the quietest gear. The engine hardly made a noise, unlike the older models. Gust after gust of frigid air buffeted the snowmobile so much that he could barely hold it in a straight line. The town was so eerily dark, it reminded him of the tension he felt before a battle for a reason he could not explain. Luckily, Bishop wore a specialized helmet that lit up inside, played music, told him the temperature and wind speed, and gave directions. An additional feature of the helmet turned night into day with a built-in night vision option that turned off when there was any hint of artificial light so that the owner wouldn’t be blinded.
As he rode through town, a white plastic grocery bag zipped through the air like a tiny parachute on a zip-line along with the snow that clouded his view. Once a dog skittered quickly past, its legs descending into the snow, and Bishop stopped to see where it went. But when he looked, the dog was gone; only his faint tracks remained.
Then his helmet switched off the night vision, alerting him of a vehicle approaching from the west. He turned quickly to a street on the right, and when he came to the next intersection, he took a left and switched a few more streets until he could view the vehicle from behind.
Two men drove a ski tractor and towed a trailer behind them piled high with boxes. Some of them were clear totes. He couldn’t really tell from so far back what was in those totes, but he could guess. He followed at a distance until the truck pulled up in front of an old house. The tracks crunched on the top layer of snow. Bishop released the pressure on the throttle and watched from afar.
One driver stepped off the vehicle. His breath vapored behind him as he made his way through the snow and approached the front door of the house with his rifle at the ready. He pounded on the door with his gloved fist. He yelled, his voice cutting through the peace and quiet of the evening. “We know you’re in there, Mr. Anderson.” Bam, bam, bam. His fist pounded against the door as ice crystals, loosened by the vibration, fell from the roof and cascaded down around him, turning his snowsuit from gray to white.
“You’re on the list, sir. Open the door.” No one came. He flipped his wrist at the trailer, and another man hopped out of the back of the bed and sneaked around the back of the house. They’d obviously had a system to performing what looked to Bishop like nothing more than a raid.
In a second, Bishop saw a light flash up the inside of the house, and the front door opened soon afterward.
“Guy was hiding in the kitchen with a knife,” said the man who’d sneaked around the back. He laughed.
“Hurry up,” said the driver. “This is the last one for the night. It’s too damn cold out here.”
Soon, two other men jumped out of the truck, and three people were pulling items out of the house and tossing them into the back of the trailer with practiced ease while the lead guy kept watch outside. They’d been through this routine a few times before, it seemed.
Then a little old woman in a long, white, flowing nightgown came barreling out of the house screaming. She ran right up to the leader keeping watch and shouted in his face. “You might as well shoot us now! You killers!” He took the verbal onslaught for a while, and Bishop thought that would be it. It wasn’t. The driver simply lifted his rifle and shot her once in the chest. She dropped down dead in front of him in a pile on the ice. The long fabric from her gown flapped in the wind. It was the callousness of the kill that shocked Bishop.
The driver then lit a cigarette and dropped the matchstick onto the woman’s body. “Hurry up!” he yelled to the guys inside, who were running in and out of the house with armloads of food, clothing, blankets and gasoline.
Bishop had seen enough.
He put the snowmobile in gear, and driving with one arm he levered the other with his AR-15, and drove by slowly when he timed the other guys would be outside. He gunned them down. The three men never had a chance to raise their weapons before they were stitched with bullets across the chest and head.
Unfortunately, there was one person left in the house. He’d dropped a large bag of rice onto the snow before he fled back inside. The heavy bag sunk a foot into the snow on impact while he ran to take cover from Bishop’s onslaught. Bishop stopped and waited in the silence for the man to come out again but only heard him make a radio call from within the house.
“F
rank, we have a vigilante. Three down. Over…”
Aiming through a window, Bishop easily cut the man down where he hid inside.
“Done.”
***
Bishop sped through the quiet streets. Every now and then he saw candlelight and a shadow behind it with a curtain draping back down into place quickly. There were people hidden in fear everywhere. Not only from the ice, but from this menace who had to go.
The police would be no help. If what he saw days ago was any indication, this group had already gained control of the town. He knew the best way to gain control himself was to cut off the head of the snake—and Frank Morton, he suspected, was the snake.
After Bishop had turned another corner, two sets of headlights turned on behind him. Finally they’d come out to play, and he was ready for them. He picked up speed and aimed to draw them farther out of town where he could deal with them more efficiently. The problem was the streets. The snow tractors couldn’t keep up with his snowmobile. They were getting bogged down in the snow with increased speed, which forced Bishop to slow down. And they began firing on him in the street. Bishop didn’t want to endanger the area residents, but they apparently didn’t have any qualms about stray bullets taking out innocents.
Instead, Bishop turned a quick right behind another residential block, and in between houses he fired upon the first of his assailants. The driver veered, and the two guys standing in the back fell out onto the road along with several boxes of food. Bishop aimed and fired again, taking out two runners who’d taken off through the side yards of the houses. The second truck veered around the first and was coming up behind Bishop.
He threw a flash grenade and took off to distract them. Suddenly everything turned from night into day in a brief half second and then back again.
While the driver of the first snow tractor threw his arms over his head, the first truck recovered and backed up on the street, aiming to block Bishop on the road.