Hell's Encore: A Post-Apocalyptic Survival Thriller (This Dark Age Book 2)

by John L. Monk

  “Dammit,” she muttered quietly as she made her way to the gun rack by the front door. Built by Brad, it currently held two rifles: hers and Molly’s. The other officers were out training people, scavenging, or in Jack’s case, butchering and smoking steers to help feed the new people. Steers couldn’t reproduce, which made them useless for anything other than food, and maybe fertilizer, so it made good sense.

  “Where you off to, Leese?” Molly said from the couch. She was changing diapers on the coffee table again. Gross, but nobody had mustered the courage to call her out on it yet.

  “A little shooting,” Lisa said. “Can I borrow your jacket again?”

  “Oh … um, yeah. Have fun?”

  Lisa smiled her thanks and put on the jacket. From a box beside the door, she grabbed a set of earmuffs, a couple of pie plates, a stapler, and three full magazines. Then she shouldered her rifle and went outside.

  The first thing she noticed was a group of Dragsters, all girls, playing frisbee in the nearly empty parking lot. One of them glanced over and said something to her friends. The others laughed—loudly, so Lisa could hear it. None of them wore sidearms, let alone had rifles handy. Jack kept three guards on the dirt road in, but that was it. Since the murders of the two boys in Winchester, and the run-in with the new group in Warrenton, everyone older than eleven was supposed to carry a weapon at all times. These girls had ignored that order, considering self-defense too masculine.

  Lisa snorted, shook her head, and made her way to the range behind the cabins. She stapled a pie plate to a wall of planks, walked back, armed the rifle, and sighted. Today’s goal: hit it in the middle at a hundred feet.

  POW!

  Sighting downrange with a pair of binoculars, she smiled at the single black dot that had appeared on her plate.

  In her mind, killing an enemy remotely was far better than up close. Not that she’d had many opportunities lately. After botching her chicken-sitting mission, she’d stuck around so as to seem less bloodthirsty.

  They still hadn’t talked about the barn yet. She knew he’d seen inside it. Larry and Olivia, too. She could tell by the way they looked at her sometimes—as if she were a crazy person going through a smooth period, or a volcano that exploded a thousand years ago and was long overdue. In her own mind, she was pragmatic, logical, but ultimately willing to do what it took to—

  Even through the earmuffs, Lisa heard the sudden and booming sounds of war coming from beyond the cabins. Turning to look, she saw a convoy of six military vehicles with mounted antennas, winches, floodlights, and other utility devices—and terrifying machine guns spraying the cabins with bullets up, down, and sideways.

  Knowing she was overpowered, Lisa pulled off her muffs, ducked down in the tall grass, and waited while peering through her binoculars. There were definitely kids behind the wheels, and not adults … so at least that still made sense. They were also dressed in fatigues. Not unheard of. A lot of the Dragsters wore hunting cammo—hats, jackets, shirts, that sort of thing. But these guys took it to a whole new level. Some of them even had medals on their jackets.

  The roof-mounted guns were huge, and definitely would have shattered the big, bay windows by now. Lisa’s jaw clenched and unclenched. Molly had been sitting on the couch with Melody.

  As if hearing her name, the back door of the cabin burst open and Molly came running out with a bundle in her arms that could only be her baby. After a brief hesitation, Lisa stood up.

  “Over here!” she yelled.

  Molly seized up in fright, then ran toward her.

  The gunfire stopped abruptly and the door to one of the military vehicles flew open, spilling out several older boys and no girls. They’d definitely seen Molly’s escape through the gap between the cabins. One of them pointed at her and shouted something unintelligible. Another raised a military-style rifle, and that’s the one Lisa shot in the head from about two hundred feet. For Lisa, an amazing shot.

  When the boy dropped, the kids scattered.

  “Come on!” she shouted at Molly.

  Molly didn’t need encouragement—she booked it for the tree line with Lisa, who ducked and weaved as she ran so as to make a harder target. Carrying a baby, Molly couldn’t do that. Fortunately for them, whoever these kids were, they were terrible shots, and they both made it to safety.

  Lisa handed her pistol to Molly and pointed off into the trees. “Keep going straight until you get to some rocks. There’s a crack you can hide in where the kids play sometimes.”

  “What about you?” Molly said.

  “I’ll meet you there. If I don’t …” She stared pointedly at the pistol.

  New gunfire from the direction of the cabins caused them both to drop to a crouch.

  “Go!” Lisa yelled and ran for the protection of a large oak about ten feet away.

  As she watched, a large group of children and eight older Dragster girls bolted from the rear entrance of the Saskatchewan. The invaders fired, cutting down all but three of the older kids. They missed most of the little ones, who scattered in all directions like minnows from a shark. Lisa supported them by firing again and again into the invaders, taking down two, then three before they wised up and fled for the safety of their vehicles.

  One of the trucks crunched through the gravel parking lot and up onto the grass behind the cabins while a kid on top wearing earmuffs fired his huge gun into the trees. Gouts of red tracer fire zipped around her, and it was all she could to keep from running for her life.

  Instead of that, Lisa targeted him, firing repeatedly, but he was protected by both the gun and a protective shield on top. The way he was shooting—side to side in sectional sweeps—he clearly had an idea of where Lisa was. So devastating was the barrage that Lisa could do no more than cower behind her tree and hope nothing tore through it.

  When the shooting slowed, she dared to hope the worst had passed—and that’s when an explosion shook the clearing. It was so loud, she could feel the shockwave in her teeth, and a tower of flames roared from the fuel cars into the sky.

  “No!” she shouted.

  The cabin with the children was caught in the blast and was now on fire.

  Lines of tracer fire targeted each of the other cars, blowing them up one by one as their tanks ignited, scattering fire and wreckage across the clearing. A minute later, the truck in the clearing stopped shooting, turned around, and drove through the thick, black smoke, vanishing from sight.

  Lisa dashed past the makeshift firing range with its tacked-up paper plate and entered the back door of the Paul Bunyan. She quickly checked the living room, then the bedroom shared by Brad and his baby brother.

  She checked the crib and gasped. Empty! She looked around frantically for half a minute before collapsing against the wall, crying and shuddering with relief.

  Brad went with Jack. He took Tyler with him.

  A sudden noise in the main room jerked her back to the present and she raised her rifle, finger off the trigger. She peeked around the corner and gasped. Standing in the door was one of the girls who’d been playing frisbee. A real bitch, as far as Lisa was concerned … but that didn’t mean she deserved to have her intestines spilling around her knees like that.

  The girl looked from her entrails to Lisa with an expression of stunned horror. Lisa, always bad at finding the right words, offered nothing more than a perplexed shrug in reply. The girl was a goner.

  Clouds of oily, black smoke behind the girl hid the parking lot from view.

  “Are they still out there?” Lisa asked.

  “Th-th-they l-l-left,” the girl stammered tearfully.

  Lisa was pretty sure her name was Becky or Betty or something like that. In a show of mercy, Lisa fired a round through Becky/Betty’s head, freeing her from what would likely be a long, slow death. Then, after listening at the window for the sound of motors or voices and hearing nothing, she went outside to search for survivors.

  39

  Greg had spent three days looking for
a way into the airport, only to lose his nerve every time before committing to an entry. Three days of feeling like a coward had tired him out. Jangled his nerves. He’d thought of going back to the Pentagon for more food, but it was too far out of his way.

  “Who needs food?” he said in a light voice, trying to cheer himself.

  Abruptly, the hopelessness of the situation had him giggling, and he wondered if maybe he was going crazy. To test the hypothesis, he quickly ran through his objectives to see if any sounded overly bizarre:

  1) Get home.

  2) Return with Jack and the Dragsters and get his friends back.

  That doesn’t sound crazy, does it?

  “If I were crazy,” he answered, “I wouldn’t actually know it, now would I? Also, stop talking to yourself. That’s what crazy people do.”

  Sheepishly, Greg complied.

  Going by a map he’d found, Belle Haven Marina lay about six miles from Reagan National, and that’s where Greg went looking for a boat. Unlike the ride to D.C., he didn’t have a crew to help fend off marina obstacles like pilings and moored boats. And if he fell overboard, there wouldn’t be anyone around to pull him out of the frigid water.

  “Safety’s boring,” he said. “Remember?”

  The boat he chose was a twenty-five-footer with a small gas motor, same as the Banshee. This one, however, didn’t start, no matter what he did. And the other boats with outboard motors were too big. That said, he rather liked his new one—particularly the name: Mrs. Chippy.

  “A skippity chippity boat, if I say so myself,” he said so himself.

  The breeze was light and steady, blowing slantwise across the river, and he knew it’d be a chore getting out. His boat was docked deeper in. If he wasn’t quick getting out, he’d blow the wrong way down the channel and get stuck. The trick was to swoop around into the wind, completing a tack without losing momentum, then go back and forth like that until he could get farther out. After that, he’d let the wind carry him right down the Potomac.

  As soon as he pulled out, he drifted too far and bashed a boat tied to a mooring buoy. Mrs. Chippy slid up the smaller craft’s side a few feet and threatened to spill him out. Greg held onto the safety lines and waited for gravity to pull them apart. After losing his momentum, tacking was out of the question. So he took it around in a jibe, which sent him back up the short channel a little. The boat gained speed quickly, and he performed another jibe, bringing him back into the wind. Then a quick tack, then more speed, then another tack, and the next time he passed that little boat, he missed it by a mile.

  Five minutes later and he sailed an even keel in search of Occoquan and the cars waiting there. Or, more specifically, their batteries. If all he needed was a car, he’d have grabbed one by now and wormed his way back to Big Timber rather than risk the water alone.

  “Daring adventurer,” he said to himself. “That’s what I am. Possibly even heroic.”

  Several hours later, after more tacking than any adventurer his age should have to endure, Greg saw the Maryland-side marina they’d recently stayed at. He considered pushing on, getting home as soon as possible, but the sun was hanging pretty low in the sky now. Best to pull in for the night, maybe find a blanket to wrap up in while he could still see.

  Docking was a pain, because he had to pull the sails down at precisely the right time or risk smashing into the dock. He didn’t pull them down in time, but the boat was fine. A little jarring, a lot scary, and what he’d do in a heavy wind he had no idea. More than ever, he missed having a crew to help with the million things that had to happen at once. Also, he simply missed his crew.

  “Stop being lonely,” Greg said as he tied off the last line, securing Mrs. Chippy to the dock.

  The other boats yielded a number of sorely needed comforts: pillows, blankets, an awesome bed in a super expensive yacht, and a cache of canned food that brought a smile to his face. Baked beans—his favorite! And a bunch of different kinds of soups. The yacht also had an alcohol stove, pots and pans, and even utensils.

  Poring over a high-quality nautical chart, Greg fixed his position on the river and realized he had maybe another day of sailing ahead if the wind was super light. If he motored straight through, maybe a few hours. Which basically decided it. He’d already planned to leave Mrs. Chippy behind. Nice name, and it had gotten him out of a jam, but there were better boats here. At least one had to have a motor he could start.

  After a beautiful night’s sleep with some really great dreams, the next day turned into a seagoing nightmare. It wasn’t merely windy, it was howling. Gusty beyond belief. He decided to wait it out in the awesome yacht, eating more beans and even chili. Even if he kept the sails down and motored the whole way, he’d be fighting that awful wind. And docking? Yikes!

  By late afternoon, the wind finally died down. Too late—the afternoon had been wasted. He didn’t want to travel at night if he didn’t have to, and decided to wait until the next day.

  Feeling a bit bored, Greg climbed outside with a blanket wrapped around him, intent on checking out some of the other boats. Maybe they had even better food? Hard to top baked beans, unless they had even more baked beans.

  A casual glance at the marina parking lot froze him where he stood. Three kids stood next to a car that hadn’t been there earlier. A moment later, another kid got out, bringing the total to a boy and three girls … although it could have been two girls and a boy with really long hair. A lot of the Dragsters wore their hair long, but of course these weren’t Dragsters.

  Greg thought quickly. Should he run over and say hi? Should he hide and hope they go away? So far, almost every encounter he’d had with strangers had gone bad, and one time he’d actually been shot.

  So he waited. And he watched. They didn’t see him. They were too busy laughing and carrying on, and Greg distinctly heard the word “titties.” He knew it was “titties” because one of the definitely-a-girl girls tried to slap the definitely-a-boy boy, only to miss as he danced away laughing and pulling his shirt out suggestively. She didn’t keep after him. She pointed at him and swore. Greg wondered if she was really angry or faking it. A second later, he had his answer when she started laughing.

  They seem fun.

  He was about to run out and say, Hey guys, how y’all doin’? when one of them pulled a pistol, aimed at a marina sign, and fired. On cue, the others pulled pistols of their own and shot up the sign.

  Then again, maybe I’ll stay right here.

  As surprising as it was to see someone shooting wildly without warning for no apparent reason, what happened next was almost as surprising: they came out onto the pier. Okay, fine, no big deal, maybe they wanted to go sailing.

  But no … they didn’t want to go sailing—because they hopped into a speedboat.

  They started the boat with a vrooming sound, backed out of the slip, and then tore out of the marina with a skill and precision both enviable and humiliating. Until now, Greg had considered himself a real seagoing adventurer type—something like a pirate, but with both eyes and legs and no discernible parrot. But these kids? They were amazing! At no time did they seem afraid or overly cautious.

  “Now what?” Greg said, feeling a bit dejected.

  “I’ll tell you,” he replied a few seconds later. “Nothing’s changed at all. I still need to get home.”

  Briefly, he considered hot-wiring the boaters’ car and going home that way. But he was in Maryland, he’d need a new street map (having thrown the other away), and he’d have to deal with who knew how many roadblocks between here and Big Timber. And more kids, possibly. And if he broke down, he couldn’t simply radio someone for help. But sailing was usually pretty easy, and he knew the way home. He just needed to get moving.

  After a few minutes wait—enough time, he figured, for those kids to disappear—Greg braved the approaching evening and set sail. The wind wasn’t crazy anymore, but it was still heavy, and he made great time.

  Two hours later, the sun dipped below
the horizon and Occoquan Bay spread away on the right. His elation turned sour when he saw four speedboats heading right toward him.

  “Well that’s how smart you are,” Greg said. “They were meeting friends.”

  The boats closed the gap faster than he would have thought possible. At first, it seemed like the two lead boats were planning to ram him. Then, at the last moment, the one on the left swept past his port side. A second later, the other one did the same on his starboard side. This created a trough that rocked the little sailboat violently, sloshing frigid water over the side and soaking him to his armpits.

  The other two boats did the same thing. One was a little ahead of the other. When it swept past he rocked heavily to port, followed by a banging flip to starboard when the other one zipped by. With nothing to hold onto but the tiller, Greg flew several yards through the air and into the water.

  The Potomac was numbingly cold. Water ran up his nose, down his throat, and into his lungs, causing him to gasp for air. Instead of air, he breathed in even more water. Kicking mightily, he managed to keep his head above the swells long enough for a few coughing breaths before the next shockwave sent him back under. There he stayed, hoping those seagoing maniacs would think he’d drowned. Twenty seconds later, his burning lungs forced him to the surface.

  The waves were high enough that he couldn’t see very far in the fading light, but he could still hear engines. Did they sound farther away? Not roaring anymore … A good omen? He heard a voice and ducked back down, then stayed there for perhaps forty seconds this time. When the burning grew too much, he popped up again for more air. The sweetness of the oxygen quickly soured at the sight of four speedboats loaded with teenagers, who stared at him like they wanted to shoot him with those guns they had out.

  Greg smiled his least threatening smile and said, “Hey guys, how y’all doin’?”