Agony Of The World: A Post-Apocalyptic Story (The World Burns Book 9)

by Boyd Craven III

  The gravel of the shoulder crunched under his feet. He felt Michael’s eyes on his back and smiled. The kid had really grown into his role. Sandra had been his best student ever, even surpassing him in both skill and ability, but if given another year, Michael might be on par with even her. King felt weary, his life one war after another. Still, this was one worth fighting, one worth dying for if that was needed. If the Grim Reaper finally came to calling, he wouldn’t begrudge him one bit.

  His handset crackled, and King made sure the earwig was in. The gear was a mixed bag of captured gear, and they got a resupply drop once in a blue moon. Not much, usually ammunition and MREs. King mused that if they had even more ammunition they’d do more hunting instead of intel gathering, which was their primary mission anyway.

  “What you see, big guy?” Michael’s voice came in loud and clear.

  “I see dead people,” King replied in a mock whisper.

  There was a shocked silence and then a feminine laugh broke the airwaves. King smiled so big, the whites of his teeth shone out brightly, even though nobody was there to see.

  “Did you just make a joke?” Michael’s mother’s voice came in loud and clear.

  “He does that sometimes,” Sandra said from further away, “Usually it comes across as he’s going to eat all the little children, so run… run away…”

  “Monty Python? You’re funny,” King said back. “Yeah, I’m good. So far no survivors. Goons were meeting with DHS. DHS fired on us, so we took them out. Need you to pass this up the chain.”

  “Got some identification marks you can share?” Sandra asked, all business-like now.

  He read them off to her.

  “This isn’t the first time we’ve seen something like this,” Michael said after a pause.

  “It isn’t the first time I’ve heard of it either,” Michael’s mom agreed, from her outpost near St. Louis.

  “How you two sitting for supplies?” Sandra asked.

  “Got some MREs, half a case of toilet paper, and corn as far as we can see,” Michael said.

  King peered into the two burning wrecks of trucks that he walked up on. No survivors, perhaps some gear to scavenge if the fire from the HE round didn’t damage everything. He walked to the next one, a white Ford that had come to rest on its side. Nobody inside was moving either. He leaned in the side window and felt the neck of a dark skinned man who was buckled in. No pulse. No way the driver was alive. He started towards a Nova, one of the only cars he’d seen on the trip so far. He didn’t have to walk all the way up to see there were no survivors either. It was too gruesome to describe.

  “Okay, we’ll put in a care package for you then, but I need you to find a secure location for a big drop.”

  “Why?” King asked, suddenly suspicious and his back itched as if he could feel a target being painted on him.

  “You’re about to have company,” Sandra said sweetly.

  King had almost completed an about-face and was ready to jog when he realized her delivery and words didn’t seem to match up.

  “Come again?” Michael asked.

  “John Norton and the gang. They are pushing north, trying to get ahead of the Caliphate’s column. See if they can get some long guns to bear on their fearless leader.”

  “This area’s thick with feds,” King said.

  “I know, and John knows the risks as well. The government won’t resupply them, so we’ve rerouted some of our own stocks and captured materials to send to him. That’s why, when you find a good spot for a drop, I need you to use the cipher we agreed on.”

  “Roger,” Michael said.

  King could hear the twin diesels firing up before he saw the big vehicle moving his direction slowly.

  “What general area are you looking at?” Michael asked over the radio.

  “Head toward Lincoln Nebraska, we’ll sort out the details later,” Sandra said.

  “Sounds good. How’s my little buddy doing?” King asked, his voice sounding like two boulders rubbing together.

  “Chris is mostly good. He’s a challenge sometimes. With Blake gone so much, it’s harder than I thought it would be.”

  “He’ll be back soon,” King told her. “And the body snatcher?”

  King was the one who’d given the baby that nickname; not until it was born or they had a proper ultrasound could they start looking at names, let alone nicknames. Calling it ‘The Baby’ was too impersonal and, besides, Chris loved the nickname.

  “Getting impatient to get out. By the feel of it, he’s going to be competing in karate tournaments soon. Speaking of which, he’s kicking my bladder. You two stay safe. Sandra out.”

  “Take care of yourself,” he said and pulled the earwig out while Michael and his mother talked.

  It had been a while, and he knew that the young man needed to reassure his momma that he was healthy, happy, and fine. Following the somewhat recent death of her husband and Michael’s father, they were both healing by throwing themselves into their work. Whether the history books would remember this as a revolution, a civil war, or an invasion wasn’t for King to decide, but he knew however it would be, that the actions of Michael, his mother, the Jacksons and people like John would be recorded for the world to see and know. He knew it wasn’t in the cards for him, and he didn’t want it. He liked the non-notoriety.

  5

  Khalid

  “Sir, our rear column coming out of Texas was ambushed, and we have reports of militia groups taking pot shots at us up and down the country,” Hassan, an American-born Muslim and radicalized Jihadi told the leader of the New Caliphate.

  He’d been a veteran, retired. He’d taken to the DHS after 9/11 because he felt it was his ‘Patriotic Duty’, but knew that it was easier to slide into a position at a low level and work his way up slowly, feeling out his coworkers and seeing if any others felt as he did. He wasn’t surprised at how many did and secretly wanted to transform the USA.

  “Are we suffering massive losses?” Khalid asked.

  “No sir, just a dozen or so trucks in Texas. Very few causalities anywhere else.”

  “Good. I want every airport within one hundred miles of our advance shelled and rendered unusable. Has that been happening?”

  Khalid’s time in America, though short, had blunted his accent some. It was still noticeable, but he’d been spending a lot of time with his cousin Hassan since they’d had a chance to catch up face to face.

  “Yes, it has. I’ve also got another report here. Scouts in Nebraska had made contact with the local agents and were shelled by a Russian APC or tank. The men making the transmission were able to get away, but said that they were being fired upon from over the horizon.”

  “Do you think it’s our Texas friend John Norton?” Khalid asked.

  “I’m unsure. We’ve got two of their scrambled channels cracked and radio intercepts today show that if he isn’t in Nebraska already, he soon will be, with a group.”

  “A group,” Khalid said with a rare smile. “We’ll crush the infidels, no matter the size of the group, the militias or the armies. We will wipe the slate clean here in America and end thousands of years of Christian bigotry and hate. If we could, Israel would be gone too.”

  “I thought our North Korean friends were working on that?” Hassan asked with a raised eyebrow.

  “They are. Next to the Russians, they have the most capable military left in the world.”

  “And the Chinese?” Hassan asked, surprised.

  Khalid just smiled at his cousin.

  “Since the American President is no fan of John Norton’s, perhaps we should let these scum thin each other out. Can you get word to the DHS that this Norton will be in the area? If they cannot get the job done, we will be there soon enough, in force.”

  “Of course. Allah Akbar!” Hassan was already starting to move and back out of the command tent.

  “Allah Akbar,” Khalid said stiffly, watching his cousin leave.

  “Soon, it will be too
cold for tents,” Khalid said to the empty room, glowing from two computer sets and the blinking lights of radio equipment. “But we’ll overwinter someplace nice. Florida perhaps? Georgia?”

  Nobody was listening, and nobody answered.

  6

  John Norton, Arkansas

  “We done for the night?” Stu asked John.

  “Yeah, we go any faster and we’re going to start losing vehicles. Besides, it’s a good point to stop and refuel,” he said smiling and pointing at a chrome fuel tanker truck that had died on the side of the road.

  “Bet you it’s already been drained.”

  “We betting on desserts?” John asked, holding a hand out to shake on the deal.

  “Yeah, sure. I always get the nut loaf.”

  Caitlin snickered at that. The cake or brownies they got in the MREs were horrible, but about a thousand times better than the food itself. To bet for desserts was a favorite pastime for people who had little else to bet with. Things they could give up and not die because of it, that is. Still, the wording made more than couple of them grin.

  “Got it,” Tex said, sliding out of the back door of the crew cab and walking over.

  He pulled out his knife and jumped up on the rear step. He held onto the ladder with one hand and tapped with the knife. It rang out hollowly. Stu start to grin at John smugly when John motioned to Tex to get on with it. At the halfway mark, the hollow sound changed. John shot back a smile, and Stu tried to hold in a groan.

  When he’d wanted to report to duty, he’d been assured that it would count, working with John. He hadn’t had to travel far and, from the get-go, they had been in the thick of fighting… but he wasn’t sure that, without normal supply drops, their living on foraged and scavenged food and materials would hold out long… Unless they wanted to switch over to AK47s. Some of the men and women already had, even though their M4s were superior weapons to the AK. The ammunition was easier to find lately; the Jihadis brought it in by the truckload, apparently.

  “John, why don’t we go after the source, where they are landing?” Stu asked forlornly, already missing his dessert.

  John had thought of that himself, but the intel coming out of Mexico and Central and South America was slim to none.

  “We don’t have the resources to do that. The federal government is supposed to be working on a diplomatic solution. The cartels run a lot of that area, so I don’t know how effective that will be.”

  “I heard the Navy was fighting on the East Coast, to keep the North Koreans away from our coastal cities,” Caitlin said, “but it wouldn’t surprise me if we recalled some of our fast attack subs to start shooting some of the Caliphate’s boats out of the water.”

  “Who says they aren’t already?” Tex asked.

  “True,” John said., “Now, let’s get a quick camp setup after we refuel. I want to be ready to push on in the morning.”

  With the windows rolled down, the cool air kept them awake. None of the group stayed at camp long enough for breakfast. Instead, they ate cold rations as they drove northward. The fuel tanker had topped off everything they were driving, and every jerry can they held. It wasn’t the first one they’d encountered on the road, nor would it be the last.

  Stu drove the lead vehicle, an old Chevy one ton. its white paint flaking off to show the gray primer underneath. It had been outfitted with an old CB radio that had had the crystals changed to get more frequencies, as did all the vehicles in the small convoy. The highways were starting to get cleared, either by government workers, civilians or small townships, to make travel easier and faster. John mused that it was better now than it was two months ago, but coming through the major cities still had everyone on edge.

  “Swing north now,” John said, tracing their route on a fold up map.

  Stu grunted and was about to make the turn to the exit ramp when the top of the truck was tapped by one of the men in the back who was tasked with being a lookout. Stu slowed down enough to be heard, and slid open the rear central window.

  “Roadblock ahead, just past the curve of the ramp. If we take the exit, we’ll be exposed on the sides.”

  “Who are they?” John asked as the column came to a halt behind them.

  “Looks like townsfolk. No uniforms, ragtag weapons,” the man said, leaning down to talk through the window easier.

  “Want to do a sneak and peek with me?” John asked Stu who was already checking his vest.

  “Oh yeah.”

  “They saw us coming,” the lookout told them. “They have half a dozen guys walking in this direction. I counted a dozen at first glance, but it’s probably more like twenty. We parked in a low spot, so I lost sight of them.”

  “Okay. Go back and tell the rest of the column for me. No radios, these boys might have their ears on. Tell Caitlin to get the small mortar set up. If shooting starts, I want the roadblock and everyone staffed at it turned into a pink paste.”

  “Yes, sir,” he snapped off a quick salute and then hurried off, the truck rocking as the men in the back climbed out.

  Stu checked his handheld and put in his earwig. John did likewise, and once a quick check of their weapons was done, they walked along the side of the highway. This section had been cleared as well, but within thirty seconds they could see cars pushed into the middle, from the median to the far side of the road, where cars were lined up on either side.

  “Want to bet they’re going to ask for a toll?” Stu whispered as they took cover behind what was once a new Camaro.

  “No bet,” John said. “I got the luck going with me lately.”

  “Yeah, who scores two brownies in a row?” Stu grumbled as he broke cover and moved up.

  Leapfrogging their movements and covering each other, they made their way forward a quarter of a mile in no time. The flat, downward sloping land gave visibility farther than they had expected, which meant they had probably been spotted a long while back themselves.

  “Here we go,” John said and then held up a finger.

  Six men dressed in dirt-covered jeans and t-shirts and sweaters walked down the center of the highway. Of the six, five of them carried deer rifles of various makes and calibers, but the sixth had an old pump action Mossberg 12 gauge.

  “Think there’s any chance they have a doctor with them?”

  “All we can do is ask,” the man with the shotgun said, “unless it’s those Caliphate jackholes.”

  “Frank said they were Anglos,” another piped up.

  “Anglos can be Muslim too, ya racist.”

  “I ain’t no racist, I’m dating your momma, ain’t I?”

  “My momma? Why you lying sack of—”

  “Hey guys, for real,” Shotgun said, “We need to see if this group can help us. They’re gonna think we’re a bunch of dumb ass rednecks if we come up to them arguing and fighting.”

  “Too late,” John said, rising slowly so his head was barely over the top of the car they were taking cover behind.

  Below their sightline, John motioned for Stu to stay down, stay put. He nodded, even though John’s focus was on the group. They startled, but didn’t go for their guns.

  “Holy… Mister, you just about scared the life out of me,” Shotgun said.

  “Wow, you with that group that’s coming up the roadway?” One of the men asked, a lever action gun slung across his back.

  “Yeah, forward scout. Coming to see why you’ve got the road blocked and what your intentions are.”

  “Shoot, we’re not really blocking the road, more like making sure our town doesn’t get a ton of unwanted visitors. We’re letting just about everything through as long as they don’t take the exit through our town.”

  “Why you keeping people out of your town?” John asked, and motioned for Stu to circle around and come up.

  “Last time we had a group come through, they fouled up our water. Adults and kids got sick. Another one used it as a chance to scout us out, and we were attacked a day later.”

  “How
do you know they were scouting you?” Stu said standing up.

  “Holy JEEBUS!” Shotgun cried, holding a hand over his heart, his chest heaving. “You guys don’t have to do that.”

  “Sorry,” Stu said with a grin. “How did you know, though?”

  “Because we killed one of the attackers,” one of the six said, this one carrying a bolt action, “and it ended up being one of the folks who came through a few days before. Lately, we’ve been worried about that Caliphate, and we’re hearing a lot about a big roving band of cannibals. They file their teeth, ya know.”

  “File their teeth?” John asked, an eyebrow raised.

  “Yeah, to points. Like those old rock and rollers in the late 70s,” answered a man who hadn’t spoken before.

  “You hear about that, Stu?” John asked.

  “No, but I can ask the others. I’m Stu, this is John, we’re… militia. We overheard you saying you were looking to see if we had a doctor; how come?”

  They all introduced themselves and Shotgun, who turned out to be a Steve, answered. “Some of those who got sick with the bad water aren’t getting much better. Dehydrated, got the sick coming out both ends. We’re asking not forcing, to be clear, we can pay for services.”

  That alone put both men at ease. John turned his radio to the tactical frequency his team used and hit the PTT. “Caitlin, pack up and get the column up here. I need two medics in the front to deal with potential dysentery cases in the local town. So far, everyone is friendly.”

  “Got it,” Caitlin said back into his ear, and he nodded, pulling the earwig out.

  “What would’ve happened if we weren’t friendly?” Shotgun asked.

  “We had an 80mm mortar set up. The roadblock would have been cleared, and all people would have been vaporized,” Stu answered for John.

  “Who are you guys, really? No militia has mortars, not the ones we hear about on the radio.”