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

by John L. Monk

  A chant swept through his raiders and he felt sick, knowing what was to come and hating that he hadn’t been smart enough or brave enough to prevent it.

  Kill! Kill! Kill!

  43

  Greg’s orders were simple: get his group of ten marksmen, as Jack called them, to the top of the office building he’d busted into shortly after Tony was captured. Each kid was equipped with a pistol and a rifle, but their rifles were different than the standard 5.56 carbines everyone else had. These were scoped .30-30 hunting rifles.

  Other than Brad, who’d insisted on coming along to help, only Greg still carried an AR. This worked out great for him, because he had absolutely no intention of shooting anyone, ever. Not because he was a coward and a moron, as Lisa had screeched at Jack when she learned Greg was taking a squad. The way he saw it, shooting guns at people was a Jack and Lisa thing. A Larry thing. Not a Greg thing, as such. Just not his style. He was more of a cavalier wanderer, brightening lives and inspiring the world through virtuous example.

  Would he fight if he absolutely, positively had to? The answer was simple. So simple, it could be summed up in a single word, and that word was—

  “How much farther is it?” one of the marksmen further back said, interrupting his thoughts.

  “It’s really, really far, like I told you,” Greg said, wincing at the dull pain in his bad leg. After jumping from that overpass, it had started hurting again.

  “Can I see the map again?” the kid said.

  “No, you can’t,” Greg said. “We have to be there by seven. It’s almost five.”

  “Why couldn’t we ride bikes or something?”

  Greg bit back an angry retort. Why, indeed? Brilliant idea, now that he thought of it. Of course, they’d need tires that weren’t rotten, chains that weren’t rusted, and brakes that still worked. Probably could have gotten a few if Jack had planned better.

  “The main problem with bikes,” Greg said, falling in beside the troublemaker, “is you might accidentally crash and ruin your gun. Even worse, the gun could hit the ground and go off, and someone could get shot, like in the movies. You remember movies, right? Only been a year. Anyway, how’s your little brother going to feel, you accidentally killing the people whose job it is to avenge him?”

  The boy muttered something under his breath, and Greg pretended not to hear it.

  Half the squad came from the grieving brothers and sisters of the slain at Big Timber. He felt bad for them. In their shoes, if Lisa had died, would he take up arms and seek revenge? Hard to say.

  After a deep examination of his character, Greg was forced to conclude the answer was a resounding—

  “You all right, man?” the kid said.

  “Hmm? Yeah. Why?”

  “You made a face.”

  “My leg hurts.”

  “Ah, okay.”

  The truth was, he really could have used a bicycle or a skateboard or something, because his leg was driving him nuts. He pulled some pills from his pocket and swallowed one with water from his canteen. A pretty strong painkiller. He technically wasn’t supposed to have any on account of how addictive they were. But for this mission, Jack had relented and slipped him the bottle of only four pills. He also said if he caught Greg taking any after today, he’d shoot him in his other leg.

  “What’s that you’re taking?” the kid said.

  “Vitamins,” Greg said.

  “Can I have one?”

  “No. Just march.”

  Lisa’s squad was considerably less enthusiastic than Greg’s. They whined a lot, and she had to march behind them to keep the cowards from slipping away. Unlike Greg, with his bad leg, they at least had a shorter journey.

  She pulled out her walkie-talkie and radioed Olivia, way up front, whose job was to keep the pace until they reached the outskirts of the airport. Once there, they’d wait out of sight until dawn.

  “How you doing up there, Liv? Over.”

  “Still good,” Olivia said. “Uh … over.”

  Belatedly, Lisa wished they’d thought to bring bicycles. Then they could zoom to the airport and rest. It’d even be fun. She and Jack had discussed lugging along car batteries. But that would mean finding cars, pumping up tires, and finding keys or cars old enough to easily hotwire. And clearing roadblocks (they’d been through two tonight already). Lots of issues. But what sealed the decision was Jack’s last comment.

  “If you put them in cars,” he’d said, “you’ll never catch them if they decide to run off.”

  Two hours later, Lisa and her raiders arrived at Columbia Marina, where they dropped their packs and rifles and collapsed wherever there was free space.

  “We’re here,” she radioed tiredly. “Over.”

  “Roger that. Over,” Jack said, sounding fainter than before.

  A few seconds later, Greg’s even fainter voice chimed in: “We’re here too. Having trouble with a door. Gonna be a while. Over.”

  Before attempting to sail home, Greg had tried going to the roof for a look at the airport—only to find the way blocked by a steel cage with a sign saying, “ROOF ACCESS STRICTLY PROHIBITED.” Which made no sense. Why have a door and not let people use it?

  To get through, Brad had carted in a small selection of tools. Staring at the big, steel cage, Greg wished they’d brought a blow torch.

  “Can you take off those bolts?” he said while the marksmen waited in the lobby.

  “You can’t take them off,” Brad said, fingering the strange bolts, which could only be tightened and not loosened. “but I might be able to saw through the cage here, then reach through and unlock it from the other side.”

  “You have a saw?” Greg said.

  Brad quirked an eyebrow. “Of course I have a saw. And a hammer, and screwdrivers, and a crowbar. The basics. Wish I had a blowtorch …”

  “I was just thinking that.”

  Brad grunted and began rooting through his tools. “Maybe next time.”

  Greg tried to focus on the work Brad was doing and not his sore leg. He took a second pill, and a half hour later his head felt like it was filled with helium, and he kept smiling widely for no particular reason.

  “You okay, man?” Brad said, eyeing him suspiciously.

  “Yep, that’s why I’m smiling,” Greg said. “How long you think it’ll take?”

  Brad scratched his chin. “Another hour, tops. You gonna tell Jack?”

  “If I don’t, he’ll whine. I’ll call him downstairs. Thanks, man.”

  Brad nodded and kept working.

  Thirty boats passed beneath the Woodrow Wilson Bridge shortly before dawn and stacked up as close to a grassy outcrop called Hains Point as they could get without drifting into the rocky shallows. It was a dark night, and they were far enough away from the airport that no one should have been able to see them.

  Jack and Larry’s ride was a forty-foot yacht, new and expensive looking, with a depth finder and radar and lots of cool gadgets he’d wanted to examine but hadn’t for fear of looking like a hick. The idling motor was blessedly quiet, as were the others in the small fleet. He’d convinced Trevor to have them each painted black from the waterline up. It wouldn’t last a season, but all they needed was the night.

  Beside him, Larry retied his high-top shoes for the third time in an hour.

  “Would you quit fidgeting?” Jack said.

  He didn’t want anyone thinking they were less than completely confident in the plan. There were fifteen others on the boat, including Trevor. Most of them were down below, trying and failing to sleep, but Trevor watched constantly.

  “I hate waiting,” Larry said, “and I can’t sleep. Can’t wait to pay them back for what they did.”

  “So long as they don’t have an armband,” Jack said, “do what you have to.”

  “What about little kids?” Larry said.

  Jack glanced sideways at him. “No one’s shooting little kids. You shouldn’t have to ask.”

  “Not asking ’cause of me, and
you know that,” Larry said. Then he lowered his voice. “These boat dudes are real assholes.”

  “Yep.”

  Trevor had outfitted a special group of about twenty little kids in a smaller boat, each armed with pistols. He privately called them his “suicide squad.” They’d shown up with him one day looking starved and scared and willing to do anything if it meant they could eat something. Their job was to hit the beach and scatter in all directions, drawing enemy fire away from the older kids. If they made it safely to the terminal, their instructions were to cause as much mayhem as possible, forcing the enemy to waste ammo.

  In a purely tactical sense, Jack thought it was a good plan. And it had taken all the convincing he could muster to keep Lisa from decking Trevor and ruining the alliance.

  Rather than punching his lights out, nice as that sounded, Jack insisted the children be left home. Trevor, unsurprisingly, said no. He was afraid of the machine guns—didn’t believe Greg would keep them pinned down. What if they moved the trucks? What if they had more in the parking garage? In his mind, the more targets running around after the boats landed, the better.

  The next few hours passed with painful slowness. Jack spent the time analyzing every visible inch of the airport through his binoculars. The patrol he’d seen with the drone came by every hour. That kind of discipline from a bunch of so-called “cabbages” bothered him.

  A lot.

  44

  At dawn, Greg called to say the kids in the booth were being relieved.

  Jack spoke into the walkie-talkie. “How many do you see? Over.”

  “Two coming and two going, looks like,” Greg said. “Same five trucks. Everyone’s standing around talking. Where’s the other one? Over.”

  “That one patrols on this side. Let’s wait a bit. Give everyone time to fall asleep on the job. Over.”

  A moment later, Jack got back on. “Lisa? How close are you? Over.”

  “Just finished marching in. But yeah, we’re good.”

  “She didn’t say over,” Greg said, bringing a tired smile from Jack at his friend’s favorite joke.

  The timing was critical now. Since about three, that lone truck had stopped patrolling the runways. Off sleeping, Jack hoped. But that could change with the advancing morning. If he waited—if it got too bright out—his fleet would be visible to anyone looking across the water.

  “Jack,” Greg said. “How long? Over.”

  “Ten more minutes,” Jack said. “Over.”

  Every boat’s captain was listening in, and each had started his or her motors a half hour ago in anticipation of the order.

  Jack hadn’t slept in over twenty-four hours. Too nervous. Now he was shaking, and he found it hard to breathe as he stared across the water. Every second brought him closer to rescuing his people, if they were alive, and ensuring the safety of his new community. Or possibly his death.

  Nine minutes passed and Jack pressed the button. “Marksmen! Pick your targets and fire! People first, tires second.” He wasn’t sure if the tires were puncture-proof, but figured it couldn’t hurt to try. “Lisa, bust in NOW! All boats—ATTACK! ATTACK! ATTACK!”

  Jack fell on his ass when the boat rocked forward, causing him to bang his elbow painfully on a low, tinted window. Stupid—he should have been holding onto something. He clambered to his knees and grabbed the safety lines. Around him, engines roared loudly as the other boats throttled up.

  The shore was too rocky to slide onto. The plan was to pull close and leap across, or jump in the water and run wet for a few terrifying minutes before reaching the main building.

  Jack swore under his breath. The truck from earlier was coming back around, and at a high rate of speed. When the vehicle stopped, Jack saw a form fall out, get up, and climb onto the roof. He swore again and instinctively looked for a place to hide, but there was nothing between him and the enemy gun but a lot of open water.

  Hellish red tracer fire streaked out over the water, lighting up the night. Blasts louder than any gun he’d ever heard slapped into him a second later, and he winced at a sudden crack from somewhere behind him. A quick glance back showed the shiny, tinted glass of the cockpit still intact, though the pilot was nowhere in sight. Wait … there he was, peeking over the wheel. How he could steer like that was a mystery.

  Screaming down below caused Larry to check on the boat kids. Thirty seconds later, he returned.

  “Everyone okay?” Jack said.

  “They’re fine,” Larry said with a sneer. “Bunch of crybabies.”

  Another round of shooting followed the first volley, shattering the night with mechanized terror. To the left and right of him, Jack saw some of the boats turn and flee toward the Woodrow Wilson Bridge.

  “Come back!” he shouted into his walkie-talkie.

  “Huh?” Greg said.

  “What’s wrong?” Lisa said.

  Too late, he realized everyone was listening, and not just the cowardly boat kids.

  What a mess. Without his larger force, the only ones left to take the place would be Lisa—armed with good weapons, sure, but at a disadvantage for not knowing the area. Confusion and overwhelming numbers—that was the plan. But with people running away …

  Trevor’s voice roared over the airwaves: “BACK ON COURSE NOW OR YOU’RE DEAD! YOU HEAR ME? YOU’RE DEAD!”

  Jack stared at the retreating boats and waited. Two of them turned back around, heading cautiously toward the airport. But ten or so of the original thirty were still running.

  Onward they pushed into the red onslaught. The gunner was a terrible shot. Instead of picking a target and sticking to it, he or she fired wildly, trying to get them all and wasting a lot of ammo in the process. Still, three boats foundered along the way, their cockpits shot up so badly they’d either lost the ability to navigate or their pilots were dead.

  Less than a minute later—contrary to their plans for a smooth approach—most of the boats hit the beach with an ear-splitting crash.

  At the last second, Jack realized what was about to happen to his boat, and then he was flying through the air. He jolted to a stop when the loop of his rifle caught the anchor and whipped him against the bow. Frigid water splashed up his legs, and he dared not let go for fear of falling in. All for nothing—the clasp snapped and in he went. White hot pain flared up his left leg as his shin bashed one of the big, gray rocks, and he slid to his chin before getting his feet under him.

  A minute later, thrashing and sputtering, Jack climbed out. He’d lost his radio, but still had his rifle.

  Larry, who’d been beside him on the boat, was nowhere to be seen.

  Up and down the shore, kids who hadn’t gone overboard tried leaping across. Most made it. The rest screamed when they hit the rocks. As much as he wanted to help them, he needed to take out that gunner first.

  Crouching low, Jack booked it through the tall, dry grass. He armed his rifle, aimed at the windshield, and fired twice. The glass whitened where he hit, but didn’t shatter. Two more shots and two more dimples, but no idea if the rounds had penetrated. These were Army trucks, after all.

  Absurdly, a group of five boat kids came running after him—making him an even better target.

  “Not here—there! The big building! Go, go!” he shouted frantically.

  The mass collisions had one benefit: the angle of fire from the truck to the boats was blocked by the rocky barrier, affording the attackers a measure of safety. As more kids made it, increased pistol-fire and the odd rifle added a rash of dimples to the truck’s windshield. The noise must have scared the gunner, because they stopped shooting.

  Off to the right, Jack saw Larry surrounded by about fifteen children from Trevor’s suicide squad who’d somehow made it ashore. Each of them clutched a pistol in two-fisted grips.

  Feeling less exposed for the added mayhem, Jack dashed as fast as he could straight at the no-longer firing vehicle, only to find it backing steadily away. He stopped and resumed his shooting, aiming for the glass again
, trying for a close grouping to pop through the previous holes. Even if he missed them, the sound of metal ricocheting around inside would freak them out.

  Jack smiled in satisfaction when the vehicle’s engine roared and it peeled away at top speed across the grass, then the runway, not bothering with the road. Jack fired a few more shots at it, this time at the now exposed kid on the roof. The bouncing truck kept the kid alive long enough for Jack to give up.

  “What do we do?” Trevor said, coming up behind him. His voice sounded muffled after all the shooting.

  “Like we planned,” Jack said, pointing at the terminal. “Gather your people and charge that building. Hold your fire until you’ll actually hit something, like we talked about.”

  Larry and the suicide squad, he saw, were already halfway there.

  “Come on!” Jack shouted over his shoulder, falling into a steady jog. “Let’s go!”

  45

  When the door to the police office closed, Tony shouted, “He killed my friend!” and attacked Dylan, landing a huge blow high on his cheek and dropping him to his knees.

  Chelsea screamed so loudly, the stars and blackness threatening to carry Dylan away receded enough for him to cover his head while the punches rained down. More screaming, more accusations, and questions about someone named Sarah.

  “I don’t know who you’re talking about!” he shouted, shock turning quickly to anger.

  “She was our friend, just like Andr—” Tony started, only to cut off abruptly in a pained ooph when Dylan launched himself up and tackled him.

  Though he had the urge to give as good as he’d gotten, Dylan held his punches and sat on Tony’s chest. Then he remembered what Shane had told him—about shooting a girl on the bridge after Tony and another kid jumped off.

  “I’m sorry about your friend,” Dylan said, “but I didn’t do anything. I was only gonna keep you a while and let you go. I’m here too, you know.”