The Journal (Book 5): Fault Line

by Deborah D. Moore

  “Marty, I need you here at Janis’ place right away. I just found her on the couch, dead, with a broken neck,” Doc Adams said. While Doc sat in his car waiting for Marty, Max came out the front door and sat calmly on one of the rockers, a hunting rifle across his knees.

  ***

  “Th-there’s a problem at Janis’,” Marty sputtered. “Doc says she’s dead: a broken neck.”

  Marion gasped, her hand flying to her mouth.

  “What?” Trevor said in disbelief. “Janis is… dead?”

  Christine let out a sob.

  “Stay here. I’ll be back when I can.” Marty pulled his mask up and was out the door in a matter of seconds.

  “I’m going too,” Trevor announced, grabbing his mask off the table.

  “Marion, lock the doors behind us and don’t answer it for anyone! We all have keys!” John said to the frightened woman.

  Christine slid into the front seat beside Trevor before he could complain, and John climbed in the back. Trevor sped away only moments behind the chief.

  ***

  Trevor parked the car behind a tree, one house down from where Marty was now stopped at the curb. The three of them emerged silently, leaving the car doors open.

  “Stay here, please,” Trevor whispered to Christine as they neared the house, and she stopped. John stood behind her.

  “Max,” Marty called out to the boy. “Where’d you get that rifle?”

  “Oh, I got it from my daddy, before he left us. He taught me to shoot when I was real young and I’ve been hunting most of my life, Chief,” Max said, his voice turning into a snarl. “You want to see it? Up. Close?” He stood and began raising the rifle in Marty’s direction.

  Trevor had slowly inched his way toward the porch and now lunged at Max from ten feet away, hoping to save his friend.

  Max saw the movement from the corner of his now bloodshot eyes and turned.

  Christine, with years of gun knowledge, saw the slight turn of the barrel and sprinted to push Trevor out of the way, putting herself between them. John ran after his daughter, shoving her to the ground as Max pulled the trigger.

  The pain was intense and John’s arm burned as the 308 passed through the soft muscle tissue. Missing all the bones in his forearm, the high power bullet continued its path and struck Christine.

  Without hesitation, Marty pulled the trigger on his service weapon, permanently stopping Max.

  John was momentarily stunned, and then he exploded in rage. He reached Max’s body before Marty and wrapped his strong hands around the boy’s neck, choking the already dead shooter.

  “John! John!” Marty yelled. “He’s dead already. Go take care of Christine,” he said with a sob. John dropped the body and turned toward his daughter.

  He sank to his knees and lifted her body, cradling it to his own. “Oh, my baby girl,” he sobbed, holding her tight and rocking her in his arms, ignoring his own blood that now dripped onto Christine’s shirt.

  Her eyes fluttered open. “Daddy, stop, you’re hurting me!” John pulled back and stared into her pain filled blue eyes and blood streaked face.

  “Oh, baby, I thought I had lost you!”

  “Where’s Trevor?” she asked, struggling to sit up.

  John looked behind his daughter to see the crumpled form of her husband and Doc Adams hovering over him.

  ***

  “That was a nasty blow to Trevor’s head, but he’ll be fine. It’s only a slight concussion from hitting that damn lawn ornament. Who knew pink flamingos were that solid?” Doc Adams shook his head. “And you two were damn lucky! That bullet passed through your arm and struck Christine in the thigh; neither wound is critical.”

  “What was all the blood I saw on Christine?” John asked, still confused.

  “That was your blood, John, not hers,” Doc informed him. “As the two of you went down, you were still shielding her and she was splattered.”

  ***

  John sat at the kitchen table with a water glass of bourbon. The coroner’s wagon had taken away Janis and Seth first, then returned for Max and Dot.

  “How much of that have you had to drink, John?” Doc Adams asked.

  “Not enough.”

  “Well, I can’t give you any painkillers if you keep drinking.”

  “I don’t want any.” John was still wracked with guilt over the seriousness of Christine’s injury and he felt he deserved the pain. The bullet wound itself wasn’t severe, although the lingering injury might be.

  ***

  Two weeks later, John returned to the house after visiting his mother and sister in Kentucky. The ash cloud was drifting over the Atlantic, although the sky remained a muddy gray, much like John’s thoughts and mood. It was time to think about leaving.

  ***

  “I’m quite serious, Marty,” John said. “I think you and Marion should stay here if you want to. From what Marion said, she can’t have a garden at your place and this one is half hers anyway. Gardens are more important now than ever and Christine still can’t get around with that bullet hole in her thigh. Besides, this house is bigger than yours and someone needs to take care of Holly.” The dog rested her chin on John’s knee, feeling his fluctuating emotions of guilt and anger.

  “Thank you, John,” Marty said. “That’s very generous of you. We can continue to stay in the basement, which is really nice by the way, at least until Trevor and Christine are on their feet again.” He paused, watching the warring emotions on John’s face. “Where are you going?”

  “I’m going home, back to Moose Creek.”

  CHAPTER FORTY-FIVE

  John parked the little green Subaru in the attached garage of his house in Ft. Wayne. A moving company had already dropped off his bigger SUV and it sat in the third berth of the over-sized garage.

  He dropped his duffle bag on the floor in his bedroom and silently wandered through the house. When he came to the room that had once been Christine’s, he reached out for the doorknob and pulled the door closed. His jaw clenched and his eyes burned with tears. The anger inside of him threatened to explode and he couldn’t let that happen. Control. He had to maintain control. He knew logically that he had saved her, yet he was also responsible for her serious injuries. The torn muscles in her leg may leave her with a permanent limp, and that was his fault.

  John went back into the garage and took the box of mixed canned goods out of the hatch. Marion had insisted he take some of the food Trevor had stored, and he understood her reasoning: it might be days before he could get to a grocery store, and he still had to eat, even if he didn’t feel like it. They also insisted he take the liquor, of that he was inwardly grateful.

  During the three hour drive from Greenwood to Ft. Wayne, he had time to think, too much time. He felt adrift. Wherever Christine lived was always his home, although he was rarely there. She was his anchor, even when he was living with Allexa in Moose Creek. Now she truly belonged to someone else and he had to face that. He’d made the decision he would stay in Ft. Wayne for a week while the turmoil settled down. His personal turmoil, and the country’s, and then he would head back to Allexa. He had disappointed her so many times in the past year he didn’t know if she would take him back yet again, but he had to try, just not yet. He couldn’t go to her in the state he was in.

  Like with the house in Greenwood, the cozy ranch-style house in Ft. Wayne was on auto-pay for everything. With everything shut off or turned down, the electric bill was minimal, as were the gas and water bills. The cable was still on, without all the pay channels he usually enjoyed, and the silent fifty-inch flat screen TV had a coating of dust on it.

  The next few hours he occupied himself with dusting and vacuuming. He put clean sheets on his bed and put his few clothes in the closet, and then he took a long, hot shower, followed by a nap.

  When he woke, it was late afternoon. John fixed himself a strong drink and thought about calling the cable company to have his channels reinstated. If he was going to stay for a week,
he would need some mindless entertainment. With a large bowl of macaroni and cheese, he settled on the loveseat to watch the news. His new programming could wait.

  “The ash fall from Mt. Yellowstone has barely subsided and the actual toll is just coming to light. It would appear that in areas, the losses are heavy, upwards of eighty percent. This is just unbelievable,” the newscaster read from the teleprompter. “And now with the quakes a few days ago along the Continental Divide causing massive rifts and instability, the exodus of the population is overwhelming the local resources on this side. The government is urging the population to stay where they are, and someone will be along to help them soon.”

  John sat there, stunned. He’d missed a great deal of news during his withdrawal while he nursed his guilt. The world was shaking apart.

  ***

  The morning sky was still a dirty gray, filled with high clouds heavy with ash. The only redeeming part was masks were no longer needed.

  John backed his SUV out of the garage to do some shopping. Of the massive amount of cash he still had, he left most of it in his hidden safe in the house. He split the rest of the cash in half, putting some in the glove box of the Subaru, and the rest in his pockets. How much food would cost now, he had no idea. He tucked the Beretta into the back of his worn jeans as usual, covered by his heavy jacket. The weather had taken a major drop in temperature once he got to Ft. Wayne.

  ***

  Outside of the multiplex shopping center, John saw several canvas covered military transport trucks. He passed by those parking spaces and found a spot near the grocery outlet. As soon as he stepped out of the SUV, a Humvee pulled in front of him and two soldiers jumped out.

  “Identification, please,” the first one said, holding out his hand. When John reached for his wallet, the other soldier saw his gun and spun him around.

  “Hands on the car where we can see them!” John complied while they frisked him. They quickly found the Beretta. “We are in a state of Martial Law, mister, and that means the public are not allowed to have firearms,” he said, removing the gun from John’s jeans, handing it to the other soldier. He continued to search John’s pockets. “And what do we have here? Looks to be about two thousand dollars. Where did you get this much money?”

  “I withdrew it from my savings account while I still could,” John replied. “I just came to buy groceries, that’s all. I had the gun because it’s dangerous out here.”

  “Well, you won’t have to worry about danger now. We’re relocating you to an internment camp, where you will be housed, fed, and kept safe.” The first soldier produced a modified zip-tie long enough to serve as handcuffs.

  ***

  With his hands cuffed in front of him, John was able to hoist himself into the back of the transport truck, where he saw it was half full of glum looking men and boys. John wasn’t glum, he was angry. He stood and, ignoring the constant pain in his forearm, brought his muscular arms down across his mid-section with enough force to break the plastic cuffs and then he turned and jumped back out of the truck.

  “I’m not going to no damn FEMA camp!” John shouted at the stunned soldiers. They had never seen anyone break the cuffs before and with the ease he did it made them question their reliability.

  One quick thinking corporal brought up his canister of pepper spray, and John rushed him. His anger was guilt fed and it was devouring him. They both went down as a Taser hit John in the back of his leg.

  ***

  John woke on the floor of the transport, his muscles still twitching from the electrical shock. He lay still for a few moments, getting his bearings. The truck was moving, bumping along a dirt and gravel road. He tried sitting up only to find he was now cuffed to the metal bench. The other men had moved away from him.

  “How did you do that?” one of the younger men asked. “Break those cuffs I mean.”

  John glared at him at first, and then realized this guy could be an ally. “I saw a YouTube on it once, a long time ago. Never had the need to try it before.” He straightened out his legs and flexed the cramps out. “Where are we going?”

  “I heard them say the camp is outside of Muncie,” the young man frowned. “We’re almost there.”

  “What did you do to get picked up?”

  “I was out after curfew, by only a few minutes! My wife has no idea where I am now. She’s going to be so worried,” the young man said. “By the way, I’m Austin.”

  “John.”

  “Andrew,” another voice said.

  “Frank.”

  “Carl.”

  The names kept coming. A total of ten men sat in the back of the truck, waiting for their destiny.

  ***

  The ten men were escorted from the truck to a processing room, where they gave their name and address and were given a single blanket and assigned a bunk. John had thought it prudent to not give his Ft. Wayne address. If they knew where he lived and knew he wasn’t there, what would stop someone from ransacking the place? Military or not, every organization had its bad apples. He gave them the Greenwood address. Once through the processing, their handcuffs were removed, all except for John’s.

  “Now that you’re here, there’s no getting out. All of the exits are well guarded… John. If you promise to behave yourself, I’ll take the cuffs off,” the sergeant in charge said. John gave the slightest nod of his head and crawled into the bunk above Austin. Although Austin, being younger, had offered John the lower bunk, John had declined. He preferred having a bird’s eye view of his surroundings. He closed his eyes and slept.

  ***

  Over the next few days, John wandered around the massive complex in which they were being held.

  “Austin, this looks like it used to be a store, like a Walstroms,” John said to his new friend.

  “It does, but no Walstroms I’ve been to had ten foot high chain linked fences topped with razor wire and guard dogs that look like they want to eat you!” Jake replied. “And no Walstroms has ever smelled this bad.”

  John chuckled. They had ventured out into the exercise yard after the meager lunch of watery soup and a slice of dry bread, mainly to get away from the stench of unwashed bodies and rotting food. “What else have you noticed?”

  “It seems like most of the area is for the prisoners. Almost equal areas for sleeping and the common room, with less for eating, but that’s logical since we’re eating in shifts.”

  “What else?”

  “The rest is for the guards and offices,” Jake answered.

  “Yes, but what else? What is missing?” John pushed.

  Austin shook his head, confused.

  “Women, Austin. There are no women ‘detainees’ here,” John stated. “This is a well-controlled, well thought out complex. By housing any women in a different location, they reduce any problems by a large margin. This place and likely all the other ones like it, have someone very smart at the top.”

  ***

  “Hey, pretty boy, I like your jacket. Give it to me!” a gruff voice sounded in the early morning light.

  John rolled slightly to see what was going on below him. Three men were addressing Austin and they each carried a rod or stick of some sort.

  “No, it’s mine and its cold in here,” Austin protested, and the men laughed. John swung his feet off the bunk and jumped down in one swift move, landing in front of the agitator.

  “Pick on someone your own size, bud.” John’s voice was cool and menacing, his anger at being confined boiling just below the surface.

  “Oh, is this your bitch?” the leader laughed and turned his head toward his followers to make sure they were laughing too. John’s fist met with one jaw and then another, the third guy backed away.

  “Thanks, John,” Austin said.

  “Hey, what’s going on here?” the guard asked, coming up on the scene. “Oh, it’s you. I’ve been warned you’re a troublemaker. Come with me.”

  “No!” Austin protested. “Those three were trying to steal my jacket
and John stopped them, that’s all. They started it.”

  The guard looked at all the participants and said, “Get back to your bunks, all of you. Breakfast is in forty-five minutes.” And he walked away.

  Jonas, the ringleader, looked at John and said with a sneer. “I like your jacket, too.” He walked away rubbing his jaw.

  ***

  “Austin, that Jonas is going to cause trouble and there’s only one way to stop a bully: hit them first and where it hurts the most,” John said to his new friend and bunk mate. “I want you to take the top bunk for a few nights, and wear my jacket. I’m a light sleeper and I’ll be ready for when he comes back.”

  “Won’t he be going after the guy in the top bunk?” Austin asked nervously.

  “Yes, but I’ll be able to surprise him and hit him where it will do the most damage,” John reassured Jake.

  The next night the attack came. As Jonas reached for the sleeper in the top bunk, John struck out at his vulnerable mid-section with a fist to the groin; the guy went down with a groan.

  While Austin stood on one of his hands and John knelt on the other, Jonas’ eyes fluttered open. John had taken the knife from his boot that had been missed during the initial search and held it to the attacker’s groin. When Jonas was fully conscious, John brought the knife up to his eyes so he knew what had been pressing on the most sensitive part of his anatomy.