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

by Boyd Craven III

  “Who gave you those orders?” Michael asked, knowing King was using a lot more words than he usually did and was getting cranky.

  “And who do you think you’re answering to, if not the federal government?” King added.

  The man spilled his guts. He had no choice. He truly believed he was about to lose his own, or King would go through with the castration as promised. The DHS had been buying guns and ammunition for years, stockpiling supplies all around the country. Billions and billions of rounds of ammunition. The DHS was there to fight terrorism and help keep order within the country. When TSHTF, they were suddenly the only agency with a working command structure and were given very broad powers to enforce martial law. They could work as judge, jury, and executioner. They could round up citizens and force them into the work camps.

  They could requisition supplies from citizens and yes, atrocities and the ugly side of human nature did rear its head from those who were supposed to protect it. It wasn’t everybody, but after a while, government agents who used to be treated slightly better than clerks were now holding a shiny black gun, a badge, and a mandate. The power went to many of their heads. Food for sex? Supplies for information? Filling the work camps fast and getting bonus time off? The lists were endless.

  After a while, the captured agent didn’t even have the knife held to him, as he sat in the dirt next to Michael and recounted what he knew.

  “So why is it you think your people went off the reservation?” King asked.

  “A lot of this is a rumor, but we were told Hassan Nadir, head of the DHS, disappeared right before the EMP went off, along with half of the top DHS echelons. I don’t know for sure if they knew it was coming or were forewarned, but most of them showed back up, but not Nadir. Nobody would talk about Hassan, nobody in the top levels.”

  “Did he die in the aftermath of the rioting and burning cities?” Michael asked, remembering what it had been like going through Anniston.

  “No, because orders come down the pipeline sometimes. The don’t always have his signature on the faxes.”

  “How do you clowns have faxes when we got hit with an EMP?” Michael asked.

  “Because we were prepared for an EMP. We have entire football field worth of underground bunkers full of gear, ammo, electronics, vehicles.”

  “How do you know all of that?” King asked, getting close to him, knowing his presence was intimidating the agent.

  “Because I worked in supply until this month. I had to take an outside rotation.”

  “And you thought it strangely okay to meet up with Muslim men from ISIS as equals?”

  The agent was silent for a long moment. “I was following orders.”

  “I wonder… no, I don’t care. Where is the closest supply base, bunker thingy?” Michael asked, standing up so both King and he were looming over the agent.

  “No way. Telling you this much can get me killed. I give up that location, I’m a dead man.”

  “Oh, you’re already a dead man,” Michael said coldly, pulling one of the Gold Cups from his holster, “But there are worse things than death.”

  “Oh yeah?” The agent said, a sneer crossing his face, the first sign of defiance in a long while.

  The bark of his gun and the suddenness of Michael’s actions almost startled King. Instead, though, he watched as the agent rolled backward as the heavy .45 round made the ground in front of his crotch erupt. The agent came to on his side, where he rolled back to his legs, facing the two men, not wanting to show them his back.

  “The big man there likes knives,” Michael said, a maniacal look coming into his eyes. “Me? I like guns, and small targets are something I like to practice with,” he said, raising the pistol deliberately and taking aim.

  “That’s cold,” King said. “Shooting it off? I haven’t seen you this angry since we jumped those ISIS cretins in Oklahoma.”

  Horror stories were told of what had happened in Oklahoma. Ninety five percent of it was fabricated, and, every time the story was told, it was embellished. The agent had heard the whispers of the resistance group, and how some crazy team in the south was blowing up and killing terrorists in small lots. Never a lot at a time, but one such story was that when the DHS rolled up, the terrorists were riddled with bullets. They could tell that most of them had been done before death because they had all bled. Ankles to thighs were shattered with gunfire, then the victims were put down with a bullet to the head.

  Michael hadn’t done it, but they had both heard about it and wondered who it was. As it was, the look of sheer horror on the agent’s face let them know he had heard the stories too.

  “You wouldn’t. You guys took an oath,” the agent said in a whisper, still a hint of defiance in his voice.

  Michael adjusted his aim slightly and pulled the trigger. The agent howled and jerked his head side to side, trying to staunch the flow of blood from the missing chunk of earlobe and probably popped eardrum.

  “I’m not in the military,” Michael said.

  “I was convicted of murder,” King told him, pulling the knife back out.

  “Do you have a map?”

  “You leaving him?” King asked, nodding to the agent who was ziptied at the wrists and ankles.

  “Yeah, I’m going to take his boots, though. If he can walk back to where we ambushed him, more power to him, but I want him to go slow. Give us a couple of days to get ahead of him.”

  “Good thinking. Why not kill him?” King asked, curious.

  “I mean, we can I guess… but he’s really kind of pathetic. I don’t believe the “following orders” bit; they could have quit… but I don’t know if he’s truly evil.”

  “Didn’t have no problem making him think you were, though.”

  “I know, thanks for the Oklahoma dig. That scared the crap out of him.”

  “Wonder if it’s true?”

  “Yeah, me too. So you don’t think leaving him alive is a screw-up?”

  “What you think?” King asked, his voice making it sound like ‘whatcha tink?”

  “I… this is a teaching moment, isn’t it?” Michael asked suddenly, realizing why King was letting him take the lead on both the questioning and decision making.

  “Yup,” King said, flashing him a big smile.

  “Well, I think now that we’ve talked to him, it’s… if he was holding a gun and shooting at me, it wouldn’t even be a question.”

  “And this man hasn’t done nothing we know of that makes him need a noose or a firing squad?”

  “Yeah, you know, that’s it. He’s the enemy, but now that he’s been disarmed and owned… He’s going to have hell to pay if he makes it back to the DHS.”

  “He talked,” King said.

  “So, as soon as he gets loose he’s probably going to go find a hole, jump in and pull it in after him?”

  “Think so,” King told him. “Let’s get while the getting’s good.”

  Michael walked over, a large bowie in his hands. The prisoner begged and pleaded, but the young warrior sliced the shoelaces of the man’s black boots and pulled them off. Then he sliced through the waistline and belt of the agent, taking the boots with him. The blubbering stopped as the agent realized the knife wasn’t meant for his flesh and stared at Michael with red-rimmed, wet eyes.

  “What now?” He asked quietly.

  “When we’re gone, find a sharp rock. Cut the zip ties off. Don’t follow us. And a piece of advice? Don’t follow orders you know to be wrong. Otherwise, the next time you run across someone like us, we’ll stick you in a hole.”

  “I can’t go back, they’ll kill me.”

  “Make sure we never see you again,” Michael said, standing and walking towards King and the APC.

  He really was pathetic, Michael mused. If they could get some firsthand intel, something they could give to Sandra to pass up the line, maybe the USA citizens could get ahead of the curve for once. He just hoped John’s group would hurry up and get here before all hell broke loose. Las
t communication had them two days out.

  9

  Khalid, Nebraska

  Endless fields of corn. So much food standing, ready for harvest, that it hurt Khalid’s eyes. There was so much starvation in the world, yet right here in the heart of the USA there was enough corn to feed two continents worth of people. Instead, the farmers were paid to grow certain crops, some of which were turned into a biofuel to use instead of oil.

  Even though Khalid wasn’t religious, that secret still hidden, he marveled at the raw beauty of the land. Only in his travels through Texas and the rest of the American Southwest did he feel somewhat at home. Now that they were slowly traveling north, their numbers swelling, he felt out of place.

  “Cousin, Sir…” Khalid said, sliding into the Hummer that they had acquired a state back.

  “Hassan, please; join me,” Hassan said from the passenger seat. “Sit, refresh yourself. We’re at a refueling point, but soon we’ll be moving again.”

  “It’s about Norton. He hasn’t come up anywhere yet. They are going to start looking.”

  “You’re worried he’ll attack us here? Where our numbers are the greatest?”

  “No, but he’s the biggest threat at this point. Most of the US military forces are concentrated near coastal cities. Only groups like Norton’s, and militia groups out of Kentucky have the chance to strike at us.”

  “This is why we’ve been disabling airports as we go north. I am sure some planes will get through, and long-range bombers can fly from anywhere, but without men to support them with intelligence, they have to rely on less-than-accurate information. Hence the reason we are striking air force assets in the center of the country.”

  Hassan hadn’t been clear, but Khalid had suspected as much. He nodded. It made sense to him, and soon they would be coming into the areas that the crazy preppers and survivalists called the bunker states of America. The federal government owned vast tracts of land and NORAD was one of the more notable bunkers that the average person could think of. Without eyes and ears, they had to rely on coastal assets. Soon they would, and they would start harrying their columns of trucks, APCs and looted vehicles with gunships and helicopters, but they had planned for that as well.

  Every truck had somebody trained to use a portable rocket launcher. The old Stingers had been almost thrown away by the USA in Afghanistan and Iraq, too costly to upkeep and maintain. But for people who were making guns out of sheet metal, the rockets and launchers were valuable, quickly hidden and maintained until needed. Until now.

  “Praise be to Allah,” Hassan told his cousin, “but why are our forces heading to Colorado, of all places?”

  “There’s a command bunker there. It is believed that the American President is there. You have said you have access codes to nearly every complex in the country—”

  “If we do that, they may very well nuke us,” Hassan said quietly.

  “It is like a game of chess, yes? You start your opening moves. You force your opponents to react to your plays. Soon, you can make your aggressions known, and start removing pieces off the game board. When the time comes, you force their king to move, to react, to hide or to lose. Maybe this will be a grand bluff. Maybe the president is not there after all. And maybe, they will ‘nuke’ us, as you say, though that is highly unlikely.”

  “Not literally,” Hassan said, “but I can get you the codes to gain access. We may need to resupply in Nebraska. The trucks are going to need a couple days for repairs, and we need parts.”

  “Make it so. How long until we get there?” Khalid asked.

  “Two days.”

  10

  John Norton, Arkansas

  The town was in better shape than most that the team had gone through. There were attempts by the people to have a somewhat normal life, albeit one without power and convenience stores, alcohol and whatever junk food they wanted. Still, they had pulled together when the lights went out, and a local church had become the meeting place for the citizens who’d survived this long.

  “Without testing supplies,” the medic was telling John, “we won’t know for sure. We can pump these folks full of electrolytes, give them a broad spectrum antibiotic and make sure the water is treated. It’s all we can do.”

  “Make it happen,” John said.

  “Stu,” John yelled.

  “Yeah?”

  “Do you know how to make a big sand and charcoal filter?”

  “Yeah, how big you want?” Stu asked.

  “Big. Something’s in the water here, and until we send a scouting team north, upriver, I want to make sure this water is filtered, boiled and bleached.”

  “I can get on making the charcoal. We here for a while?” Stu asked.

  “Twenty four hours, tops. Then a day’s worth of travel to meet up with King and Michael and get resupplied. I’m due to check in with them and the Homestead soon.”

  “Sure, can I snag some of the guys to help me?” Stu asked.

  “Get some locals if you can. I’m going to have our folks start scouting and make sure we’re not being double-crossed here. I’m not worried about these townsfolk too much. Nothing triggered my spidey senses yet… Also, we need support for our combat medics and medicine supplies. Some things are worth more than gold now. Worth killing for. You’ll be safe finding supplies and building a filter.”

  Stu nodded.

  The town was literally seven city-sized blocks. The center of the town had held the business district which, for the most part, was dark and the windows and doors boarded up to prevent looters. When the golden horde never emerged, the shopkeepers mostly kept things like that in case they were attacked, and to make their town less appealing to invaders, like what had already happened.

  “Hi, I’m Pastor Brown,” a holy man said walking up, one arm in a bandage.

  “Hi, I’m Stu. I heard you are having some problems with the water?”

  “Oh yes. Come sit a moment and I’ll tell you, and you tell me what it is you need.”

  Sitting was the last thing Stu wanted, but he’d learned quickly that nothing was done in this town without Pastor Brown. He sat.

  “We’re better off than a lot of folks here, but our water supplies have been sullied by the godless.”

  “What did they do?”

  “When they couldn’t take us by force, they threw the dead into the river, used it as a latrine, and I suspect poured some chemicals in, too.”

  “Well, my boss wants me to build a big filter for your town to use. I could use some help getting materials and labor. He wants to roll out of here in twenty four hours, so to get it done…”

  “You need the sweat of many to accomplish your goals. If you want to get any sleep.”

  “You got it,” Stu said, smiling.

  “First, what do you need?” The preacher asked. “With regards to materials.”

  Stu looked around the town and noticed a hardware store, a convenience store, a gas station, bakery, and movie theater. The theater looked a little out of place in such a small city, but he figured most of the population here had had to drive other places to work, there wouldn’t have been much of a local economy. So maybe the theater was the local draw for folks. Still, he thought the plumbing section of the hardware store may have what he needed.

  “Two large containers to hold water. Rather large ones if possible. Stackable would be great, in fact. Do you think the hardware store may have something like that?”

  “If they don’t, I know where to get some. One of our local residents passed away when her medication ran out. She kept rain barrels and those big plastic totes with a wire cage around them to catch water for her gardens.”

  “An IBC Tote?” Stu asked excitedly.

  “Yes, I believe that’s what it’s called. She’s only got the big one for storage, though. We’ve been using that water as it’s not from the river, but it went so fast, and we have so little rain…”

  Stu and the Pastor took a walk and found that the widow had everyth
ing he needed. The IBC would sit on the bottom of a storage tank, and a modified water barrel would sit on top, with the large IBC’s lid screwed off to accept the filtered water. Right away, Stu asked about charcoal making and started to explain it, but the Pastor spread the word. Every cook fire was dug through, and all the black chunks pulled out. They would have to make about a yard of charcoal still, but the Pastor got a couple of men to get a pile of hardwood pallets burning and then they would cover them in the dirt to let them smolder and turn into charcoal.

  The hardware store did have one portion that Stu needed, though. Sand. Big bags of mason sand. Suddenly he had more help than he knew what to do with, as the gaunt community came out to help. The IBC tote was dragged to the riverside, behind an old auto shop, and filled with river water. Half a gallon of bleach was dumped into it (overkill in Stu’s opinion) and allowed to sit for thirty minutes. The water was let out, and everything on the tote was left open to dry. Finding some dry clean burlap had also been easy, as one of the shopkeepers of “You Sew what you Sew” had a lot of it.

  While John had a patrol going upriver to look for contaminants, the medics worked with families hit hardest by diarrhea and vomiting, Stu and the pastor worked on the water filter project. Holes were drilled in the bottom of the rain barrel and metal straps from the plumbing department were screwed on for sides of the thick plastic drum near the top. The bottom of the straps was bolted to the cage of the IBC tote, making it almost impossible to tip off. The holes in the bottom of the tank lined up with the holes in the open tote lid, so the hardest part was done.

  Three layers of burlap were cut in a circle and fitted at the bottom of the barrel then the mason sand was poured in. Not 100% sure how much of what to use, Stu planned on using it all. Several hundred pounds of sand were placed in, and then the charcoal, once it was ground.