by John L. Monk
“He’s … uh … just testing your strength,” Steve said. “Means he likes you. Go on and get some rest.”
Don guardedly watched Jack while flexing his hand open and closed. “That really hurt.”
“Just go,” Steve said and shoved him out the door.
33
“So, you like cutting up kids and eating them?” Jack said to a big, shaggy-headed older boy.
They were in the manager’s office of a fast food restaurant. The rest of the group they’d captured were gathered in the dining area under armed guard. When asked why they’d been looting the place, they said they were looking for cooking oil.
“Eating people? No way!” the boy said. His eyes darted from Jack to Larry, who scowled menacingly with his shotgun propped over a shoulder. “I just say stuff like that. Just trying to scare ’em is all.”
Jack frowned. “So, you get off scaring kids?”
The boy, whose name was Terrance, shook his head frantically, emphasizing to one and all that no, he most certainly did not get off on scaring kids.
“Ah,” Jack said. “I see. You hate scaring kids. So you go around doing things you hate? Is that what you get off on?”
For the first time since the capture of their band of ten teenagers—not twenty, like Don had said—Terrance’s eyes grew sullen. “Why do you keep asking if I get off on stuff? I didn’t mean nothing by it, and I said I’m sorry like a hundred times already. Now you’re scaring me.”
Jack smiled. “Ah, but unlike you, I do get off on it. Anyone who threatens my people needs to be scared.” He paused for about ten seconds, staring at the kid thoughtfully. Then he sighed as if coming to a conclusion. “But I’m feeling generous today. So I’m not going to cut you up and eat you.”
Terrance gasped and sort of shrank back in his seat. Larry snorted.
“Jeez, man, I’m joking,” Jack said, laughing to prove it … but also to freak the kid out that little bit extra so he’d be more willing to cooperate. “What are you using the cooking oil for?”
He was genuinely curious. He’d once used cooking oil to seal cloth for a smoker, and recently to delouse a flock of chickens.
Terrance licked his lips and swallowed uncertainly. “I dunno. Less stuff to clean if you plop it in oil. Everyone loves the taste.”
Jack nodded. Oddly, he’d never considered using cooking oil for cooking.
“What do you hunt?”
“Deer, mostly. Squirrels too. Sometimes rabbits. Anything, really. Uh, you know, except kids.” He smiled weakly at his joke.
“Lucky for us,” Jack said drily. “So, here’s the deal. We have a good thing going with our group. We—”
“The Rippers,” Larry said, eyes dancing.
Jack threw him a disgusted look and continued. “That’s under discussion. Anyway, we—”
“You mean like Jack the Ripper? Ooooh … man, that’s so cool! Did you know there’s comic books about him? I was never allowed to read it, though.”
Jack shook his head and silently cursed Greg for making Rippers go viral. “We’re working on another name. For now, Jack’s Group will do.”
Terrance nodded solemnly.
“The point is, we protect each other—from people like you. Got it?”
Terrance nodded again.
“If you want to join, you’ll answer to me and my officers. If you don’t want to, or can’t for some reason, you need to clear out and don’t come back. Keep going and hope we never run into you again.”
Terrance’s eyes widened in surprise. “Seriously? Would you kill us?”
“Not unless you taste good fried,” Jack said.
The boy covered his mouth and laughed. “Holy cow. Wow. Yeah—I’ll join. I mean we’ll join. Those others will come too, trust me.”
“That’s great,” Jack said. “Good to have you.”
Jack held out his hand, and they shook.
“That’s awesome,” Terrance said. “So … uh … what do we do?”
What do we do?
It always came back to that. Jack wondered if he’d spend the rest of his life, however long that was, answering that question. But before he could answer it, he first had to know what they—his people—could do.
The discovery of Priscilla’s group had yielded a guitar player, a kid who knew how to make leather wallets and bags, a girl who could sew her own clothes, and a girl whose mom had been into herbs and natural remedies.
Jack interviewed each member of Terrance’s group personally. He was surprised when he met a girl named Wendy, who used to fly airplanes with her dad.
Skeptical at first, Jack quizzed her. “Can airplanes use any kind of gas?”
“It’s gotta be high octane,” she said. “Oh, unless it’s a turbo prop. Then it’s gotta be jet fuel, basically. I never flew one of those.”
Jack wondered how long high octane fuel would last if all the normal gas would go bad in a year or two. Still, it was pretty cool the kid had flown planes before.
A fifteen-year-old named Barry said he used to work construction sites with his dad all the time. An encouraging discovery, even though the boy quickly downplayed the work he’d done—cleanup, digging holes, carrying lumber, stuff like that. To Jack, it didn’t matter, because Barry had a sorely needed work ethic. What’s more, he’d seen nothing turned into something. In Jack’s experience, the biggest hurdle he’d ever had was overcoming the feeling he couldn’t do something. Like the knife sharpening business. Like reading a book in Spanish with nothing but a Spanish/English dictionary to guide him, or field dressing a deer while his dad stood by watching. And a bunch of other things, each requiring no more than a willingness to try. If he could find a hundred kids like Barry, there wasn’t much he couldn’t do.
He needed more people, that was clear. And in that realization, he finally had the answer to his most hated question. He finally knew what to do.
The kids at Winchester Base and Warrenton Base were both aware of other groups in the area. Some were large, though not as big as Jack’s, and some were fewer than a handful of kids living in a house somewhere. With Larry’s help, Jack organized the Dragsters to find these groups, one by one, with the goal of taking them over.
“For their own good,” he told everyone during an outdoor meeting at Big Timber. “And ours too.”
Convincing the boys wasn’t as hard as he thought it would be. They finally had something cool to do besides reading and cutting barbed wire. But the girls, for the most part, turned their noses up at the opportunity. Raiding other groups, they felt, was much too unladylike.
Of all the Dragsters, it was the girls who gave Jack the most trouble. Like the boys, they grudgingly did what chores they were tasked with. But they never spent time at the range or carried weapons. This was offset to some degree by their willingness to help with the little kids staying in the Saskatchewan. They also did most of the cooking, and even a little scavenging.
Over the next week, the Rippers raided several groups using the same tactics that took Warrenton and Winchester: burst through the doors at night shouting, yelling, and scaring everyone into submission. After that, there were interviews with each member, and a quick speech by Jack where he laid out his vision of not just survival, but recovery of their “stolen legacy,” as he put it. The kids in each group stood a little taller when he used that word, “legacy.” Emboldened, Jack tried different words as they went along. Glory, grandeur, triumph, ascension, and birthright were all big hits. Their enthusiasm made him feel a little bit guilty, because deep down he knew it was all crap.
Well … mostly crap. He meant the stuff about reclaiming their legacy. Grandeur and triumph? Not so much. They were scared, though—had been for a long time—and he seemed to have a plan.
At one point Lisa, who was still upset about her missing brother, confronted him before another raid. “Why are you doing this? You’re turning into a little Hitler.”
Jack laughed. “I’m not little.”
“And
you can’t grow a mustache,” she said. “But you’re crossing a line. And trust me: I know a thing or two about lines.” With that, she’d grabbed her rifle, a few spare mags, and left for the gun range out back.
To Jack’s relief, she hadn’t asked to go on any raids, even though she was now healthy enough to do so. He wanted to protect her—from herself, if he were being honest. That stuff about lines … it spooked him. They still hadn’t talked about the bodies hanging in that barn at the chicken farm, and he wondered if they ever would.
Hitler …
After Warrenton, he’d stopped offering survivors the option of not joining. Which was pretty fascist, granted. But in his eyes, the alternative was worse: constantly bumping into groups who could cause them harm.
The phrase breathing room ghosted through his thoughts—a memory from a WWII documentary his parents had made him watch.
He couldn’t let Lisa get to him.
Though there had been a few accidental shootings, his raiders hadn’t experienced any significant resistance. Gainesville, Culpepper, Haymarket, Staunton—all of them had groups, and each joined quite willingly. As word got out, there were even volunteers. The Pyros of Centreville sent a messenger saying they’d kicked out Miguel and wanted to join. For now, Jack held off bringing them in for fear of the culture of treachery their old leader, Blaze, had fostered.
Scavenging runs were more important now than ever. Many of the groups had little more than pistols and single shot rifles. He wanted them all standardized on 5.56 ammo, which meant AR-15s and certain other high capacity models. Jack’s need to standardize extended to the bases themselves. Each base was required to stockpile fuel cars. Furthermore, their tanks had to be mixed with a fuel stabilizer—something Sammy the gear head recommended, and said was sold in almost every Walmart and auto parts store. He also said they should stockpile tires and keep them dry and out of the sun.
Radio setups were also standardized. Every base had to have one and monitor it at specific hours of the day, listening on pre-arranged sideband channels.
His main concern was their animal stock, which had doubled in size after a raid in Berryville. The group there had milk cows and an actual, healthy bull. And sheep. And more goats. And a herd of horses that weren’t wild at all. The survivors there had that particular work ethic Jack was looking for. Which was probably why, of all the groups, they were the most reluctant to join. Simply put, they didn’t think they needed Jack or his group. Jack said they did, and he had enough armed Dragsters with him that they quickly changed their minds, at least publicly.
To ease the transition, he set them up with a brand-new generator and personally assisted in stockpiling fuel for it. With the other groups, his first order of business had been gun training, hygiene, education, and getting people used to following orders. In Berryville, it was all about the animals, starting with the sheep. They were hugely overgrown, and wouldn’t last the summer’s heat.
“I need them sheered as soon as you can,” Jack told Berryville’s leader—a kid named Charlie.
“We were gonna do it by hand,” Charlie said. “It’ll be easier now with electricity. But do we really have to read every day? I hate reading.”
It was always the boys.
“Worry about the animals first. That’s more important.”
Jack left an even larger contingent of guards than at the other bases. The fact that they’d been so easily captured was troubling. The other reason for more guards was simple: he didn’t want Charlie kicking his people out and claiming independence.
One drawback of pulling in all these groups, and one he took seriously, was the plight of the little kids—because he most definitely wasn’t Hitler, whatever Lisa thought. Each group, especially Berryville, was outnumbered as much as five to one with children under ten. Jack tasked Molly and Steve with providing a steady supply of scavenged vitamins and dental supplies to all the bases, and every base leader was required to make sure the children passed a weekly health inspection.
A week went by without any raids, and Jack officially called an end to them. They had to train the people they had, and he didn’t want his more reliable members stretched too thinly. Almost every boy and willing girl in the original Dragsters was stationed somewhere or helping set up the new bases.
Meanwhile, Lisa’s agitation with him had turned downright poisonous. With good reason. It had been a little over a month since Greg left.
34
The sewer drain went on seemingly forever through absolute darkness. After about ten minutes spent waddling along in a stoop, their echoing footsteps became gradually more echoey, and Greg—who was leading—yelped in fear as he fell about two feet into a bigger tunnel bisecting their original tunnel.
“What happened?” Tony shouted.
“I fell,” Greg said. “Be careful. It’s another tunnel going sideways. A bigger one.”
“You okay?”
Greg’s side was scraped up and he’d banged his elbow good, but he didn’t think anything was broken. Also, he was wet. “I think so. I’m gonna try to stand.”
Cautiously, he shifted his weight to his knees and got a foot under him, then reached out for the wall and found nothing but air. He probed overhead and still felt nothing. He lifted on tiptoes and barely touched the ceiling.
“You can stand in here,” Greg said. “Just feel around with your foot so you don’t fall.”
“I ain’t dumb like you,” Tony said.
It soon became apparent they were in a larger tunnel with little tunnels leading off from it like the one they’d escaped through. Down the middle was a trough filled with cold, slimy water, and a lip ran along each side barely wide enough to stand on.
They picked a direction and started walking while feeling ahead for obstacles.
“It’s getting brighter,” Greg said. “I can see my hand if I hold it real close.”
“Thank goodness,” Tony said. “I don’t wanna die down here.”
“You’re not gonna die.”
“Man, what are we gonna do now? You hear that gun they were shooting?”
Remembering what happened to Sarah, Greg didn’t answer. He wondered if Tony knew, but didn’t press him. He’d find out eventually, but telling him now wouldn’t help anyone.
“What if those kids are waiting for us?” Tony said.
“I don’t think so. They didn’t know about the tunnel till we found it. How are they supposed to know where it goes? We don’t even know.”
“Still,” Tony said.
“If they are waiting,” Greg said, “they’ll hear us talking wherever it empties out.”
Tony grunted his assent, and they continued in silence.
For Greg, every moment underground was a battle against hopelessness. Poor Sarah. She didn’t deserve what happened. No one did. He couldn’t help it—he started to cry. Quietly, so as not to upset Tony.
“You laughing or something?” Tony said suspiciously.
“Nope,” Greg said tightly. “Just clearing my throat. It’s pretty musty.”
A few minutes later, Tony said, “There’s a light down there.”
Greg could barely make out Tony against the far wall now. Another five minutes and the sewer walls were well defined.
“There, see?” Tony said, pointing at a faint light way, way down the tunnel.
They picked up speed and soon arrived at a stack of metal rungs sunk into the concrete leading to a manhole cover.
“Probably weighs a ton,” Greg said.
“Out of my way,” Tony said, shoving him aside and grabbing the first rung.
“If it does open,” Greg said, “make sure you peek out first.”
“Oh, it’ll open,” Tony said.
Grunting from above and the scraping of metal on concrete, and suddenly the light grew much, much brighter—blinding, even.
“Got it!” Tony said.
“What’s up there?”
“Shush, man,” Tony said. “I’m trying to see.”
“Want me to look?”
“I said shush.” A minute passed like that with Tony poking his head outside. “Think we’re safe. Come on.”
Greg followed Tony outside and blinked in surprise—they weren’t in the middle of a street, but in a grassy triangle between a highway overpass and two exits. Off to the left was a truly massive building which Greg recognized from TV, even though he could only see one side.
“Jesus, Tony,” he said. “We’re at the Pentagon.”
“Seriously? Man …”
They started toward it. Much like the National Mall, there were tanks and barricades here, too, as well as a great many white tents with red crosses on them, but those were all off to the left. The closest destination was the entrance to the Pentagon Metro, and they headed there without discussion. Greg wasn’t surprised to find the way underground blocked by metal plates welded over and around the escalator. And of course the elevator wouldn’t work with the power out.
“We can’t stay here,” Greg said.
“Don’t plan to,” Tony said.
“You got some plan I don’t know about?”
“Yep. Going back home. To the cabins.”
Before he could reply, Tony started walking in the direction of the exit ramps near the sewer entrance. Something was up. Even Tony wasn’t the type to go off on his own like that. Had he seen what happened to Sarah after all?
“Dude!” Greg shouted. “What’s the matter?”
Tony kept walking, not slowing. If anything, he increased his pace.
“You okay?” Greg said, rushing to keep up.
“Said I’m going home!”
Greg grabbed Tony’s shoulder, hoping to get him to talk. Just barely, he managed to avoid a wild swing at his head. Tony had committed so much to the punch that he unbalanced and fell over. Struggling to get up, he slipped in grass still damp from the snowy winter. When he looked up, Greg saw tears in his friend’s eyes.
“Dude, are you crying?” Greg said. More than the punch, this shook him deeply. Tony was a known hitter, having punched another kid back when they’d first arrived at the cabins. He definitely wasn’t a crier.