Under a Tell-Tale Sky: Disruption - Book 1

by R. E. McDermott

  “Negative,” Levi said, “way too many big cities and people along the I-95 corridor. You’ll never make it through unharmed.”

  “I’m with Bill on this one, Levi,” Shyla Texeira said, “95 North’s the most direct route to both my folks’ place in New Jersey and Bill’s home in Maine. We can circle the cities.”

  Levi shook his head. “Even the suburbs have way too many people, and by now they’re all starving. I’m sure the interstates are all jammed with abandoned cars as well, because by all reports, folks are fleeing the cities, and maybe not thinking too clearly. If you’re running AWAY from a city on the interstate system, it means you’re running TOWARD another one. If they abandoned their cars on the interstate when they ran out of gas, or just realized their error and moved off onto nearby secondary roads, there’s likely a huge mass of desperate, hungry people not only in the cities, but spread out within corridors several miles wide along both sides of the interstate system. If you’re driving by, winding your way through stalled cars, you might as well be carrying a big sign reading ‘we got gas, we got food.’ Trust me, you’ll never make your destinations along major roads.”

  “How, then?” Wiggins asked, gesturing to the map. “The kind of roads you’re talking about don’t show up on a road map of the Eastern US, and we sure can’t be stopping to ask directions.”

  Levi smiled and reached down into a backpack on the floor at his feet and produced a small paperback book and a thick stack of maps bound with a rubber band. He laid both on the table.

  “The book’s a guide to the Appalachian Trail, and the bundle contains state and local maps from here to Canada,” he said.

  “But how did you …” Tex began, looking confused, and Levi laughed.

  “I’m one of those crazy preppers, remember,” he said, “and one who spent half of each year far from home, mostly traveling up and down the East Coast.” He nodded down at the backpack. “I kept my ‘getting home’ bag with me on the ship at all times, and I have a route home planned out in my head from every port between Corpus Christi, Texas and St. Johns, Newfoundland. You just reverse one of my planned routes.”

  “But the Appalachian Trail is a hiking trail. We can’t drive on it. Are you saying I have to walk all the way to Maine?” Wiggins asked.

  “Not unless you have to,” Levi said, “but yeah, that’s plan B. But let me explain; the AT runs within twenty or thirty miles of both of your destinations, and in most cases it’s paralleled by nearby roads. Sometimes they’re not much more than dirt or gravel tracks, but they’re drivable and they’ll keep you both close to the AT and more importantly, away from people and close to water sources. If for some reason, you have to abandon the vehicle, you can continue on foot along the trail. There are shelters every eight miles or so, and more importantly game and natural sources of safe drinking water, all marked in the guide. The guide also has information on the towns you’ll pass, how far off the trail, how big they are, or were anyway, and services they had before the blackout. If you’re afoot on the trail, that might give you the best idea about where it might be possible to pick up another vehicle, or at least a clue to what you might expect if you go into the town.” Levi shrugged. “It’s not perfect and it’s still going to be a hard trip, but I think you’ll have a much better chance sticking to the boonies than trying to transit the more populated areas.”

  Wiggins and Tex nodded, clearly impressed.

  “Again, I don’t know what to say, Levi,” Wiggins said. “This is terrific, thank you.”

  “Don’t thank me yet,” Levi said. “It’s gonna be harder than you’ve ever imagined, and I’m pretty sure you’ll be afoot before it’s all over. And remember, this is a plan and theoretical, so it’s not like I’ve made the trip.”

  “Still,” Tex said, “it’s far better than we could have done on our own, and it’s obvious you’ve given it a lot of thought.”

  “Speaking of which,” Singletary said, “did you have a plan for getting home from Baltimore I can use in the reverse direction, hopefully something that doesn’t involve walking through the woods, picking ticks off my ass?”

  “As a matter of fact, I did,” Levi said. “I figured if I was caught anywhere between Miami and Baltimore, I’d try to get a boat and head up or down the inland waterway to Wilmington, and up the river from here. It’s all very populated, but I figure most of the traffic will be on land and not water. Even if you have to row or paddle, it’s a helluva lot faster than walking with a pack on your back.”

  “Okay,” Singletary said, “but where am I gonna get a boat?”

  Levi looked at Butler. “This wasn’t the reason I asked you to attend, Chief Butler, but since Singletary brought it up, can you help us out here? There are several marinas upstream, and any boats still there belong to owners who aren’t likely to need them anymore.”

  Butler hesitated. “Yeah, okay,” he said at last, “I suppose I could send the guys up to have a look around. There ought to be something up there he could use, and we can load him up with gas cans to extend the range if need be.”

  “I’ll need a gun too,” Singletary said, but Butler was already shaking his head.

  “Sorry, but no way I’m giving up any of our weapons. We’ll probably need everything we have at some point,” Butler said.

  “I have a thirty-eight revolver and half a box of ammo I can let you have before I leave,” Levi said. “It’s a snub nose and not very accurate, but it’s better than being defenseless.”

  Singletary nodded, seemingly satisfied for once. Levi turned back to Butler.

  “Which brings me to my last request, Chief Butler,” Levi said. “We found some Jerry cans here in the container terminal, and there’s plenty of fuel in the product terminal next door. I want to send Bill and Tex off with fifty gallons of gas. Between that, the four of us, the extra food for their trip, and the extra food and fuel for our own use, we’ll have to make multiple trips in our boat unless you can help us out.”

  “No problem,” Butler said. “Is there less than four feet of water anywhere you want to go?”

  “No,” Levi said. “We’ve got that much even in our inlet.”

  Butler nodded. “Then we’ll use the forty-five. She can even carry extra if you need, and tow you up to your place if you want.” He leaned over the spread-out road map. “You said it was what, on the Black River? Can you show me the approximate location on the road map?”

  Levi hesitated for the slightest moment and glanced toward Singletary. “It’s easier to see on the actual river chart, and I don’t have it with me,” Levi said. “I’ll show you later.”

  Butler caught the hesitation and nodded. “What time do you want to get out of here?”

  Levi glanced at his watch. “It’s almost one. If we start packing up now, we can get out of here by five and make it home before dark.”

  Maximum Security Unit

  Federal Correctional Complex

  Knauth Road

  Beaumont, Texas

  Day 12, 3:00 p.m.

  “What we gonna do, Sarge?” asked Broussard, a note of accusation in his voice. “There’s only two of us left here in Max. The warden said when they released the inmates over on the low security unit, those COs would come over here and spell us. That was three days ago, and we haven’t seen a soul except the food service guy who came over with the crap they stripped out of the commissary.”

  “What do you want me to tell you?” Johnson asked. “I’ve been here with you, right from the time the warden showed up with the air mattresses and the ‘help is on the way’ pep talk. You think I got a friggin’ crystal ball?”

  Broussard sighed and settled back in his chair, and looked up to where the few security monitors still working displayed the unimaginable squalor of the various cell blocks. “Well, at least we’re away from the stink except when we have to feed ‘em.”

  Johnson grunted and nodded toward the dwindling stack of cardboard boxes full of snack food in the corner of the
cramped control room. “Yeah, well, I reckon we won’t have that problem much longer. Not that a daily ration of a package of snack crackers and a bottle of water is doing much but delaying the inevitable.”

  “Well, I suspect plenty of ordinary decent people are going hungry too,” Broussard said, “so the way I figure it, these assholes got it coming. Besides, the MREs they gave us suck too. I’d almost rather eat stale crackers out of the commissary.”

  “Let’s see how you feel when the MREs are gone in a—”

  “Shit,” Johnson said as he stared up at one working monitor showing the prison exterior. The camera was mounted over the main entrance and focused on the approach from the now mostly empty employee parking lot and the grassy circle in the center of the lot behind the entrance. On the ground in the grassy circle was a body, features indistinct, but definitely clad in a correction officer’s uniform with dark stains on it.

  “When the hell did he get there?” Broussard asked.

  Johnson shook his head. “I wasn’t watching, but he’s definitely a CO, and that looks like blood.”

  “We gotta get help. Are the inside phones still working?” Broussard asked.

  “They were this morning, but who knows?” Johnson said, reaching for the phone. He tried several presets before shaking his head.

  “Anything?” Broussard asked.

  “Negative,” Johnson replied, hanging up the phone, “I tried the main admin building, the medium-security unit, and the main gate. The phones ring, but no one answers.” He sighed. “I guess I need to go see if I can help him.”

  “Uhh … we’re supposed to keep two COs here at all times,” Broussard said.

  Johnson sneered, “Well, maybe you missed it, but things aren’t exactly normal, so I think maybe bending the rules a bit more is okay. Besides”—he nodded toward the monitors covering the cell blocks—”those bastards in there can hardly lift their heads, so I don’t think they’re planning a prison break.”

  “All right,” Broussard said, “but be careful.”

  “Yes, mother,” Johnson said, walking over to retrieve a shotgun leaning against the wall, one of a pair. Normally guns in this area of the prison were prohibited, but given the circumstances, the two officers had accessed the armory without asking permission, and armed themselves with both shotguns and sidearms.

  “Keep an eye on the monitor,” Johnson said as he moved toward the door.

  “Yeah,” Broussard replied, “I pretty much had that part figured out.” He paused and grew serious. “And try not to get in trouble, ‘cause it’s not like I have any reinforcements to call.”

  Johnson nodded and exited the control room to move through the now nonfunctioning double-door mantrap separating the secure area from the administrative side of the maximum-security unit, disabled because Johnson had no one to man the security checkpoint. He moved swiftly through the halls of the administration office area and exited the building to cross the open yard and enter the deserted receiving facility built into the stout prison wall. Here too, the mantrap was left open due to a lack of personnel—not that it mattered with the main entrance locked down. He crossed through the building, unlocked the heavy glass door, and pushed it open. There, across the perimeter road that circled the prison walls, lay the inert form of a corrections officer. The red smears in the bright sunlight confirming the stains he’d seen on the monochrome display were indeed blood.

  “Shit,” Johnson muttered, and looked around for any threat. Seeing none, he hurried across the road toward his fallen comrade.

  Darren McComb, aka federal inmate number 26852-278, aka ‘Spike,’ doing a triple life sentence and captain of the Aryan Brotherhood of Texas, lay sweating in the grass, with growing concerns the sweat running down his arms would wash away the dead badge’s blood he’d smeared over his tattoos. It was fate that had him in a holding cell in the medium-security unit when the power went out, awaiting transfer back to max security after extraction of an abscessed tooth. More good luck allowed him to take advantage of deteriorating security measures as fewer and fewer badges showed up for work. Feigning death and luring the inexperienced rookie into his cell had almost been child’s play. Freeing the others and killing the few remaining COs in medium security had been easy as well, and then they’d fallen on the central administration complex like a pack of wolves. He smiled into the grass; dealing with the warden had been particularly enjoyable, and informative as well. It was good to know there were only two badges left in the whole of max security; all he had to do was get the heavy security door open at the main entrance, and it was a done deal.

  McComb stiffened as he heard the sound of an opening door, and opened his eyes to thin slits to look down his body toward the badge rushing toward him from the building. He closed his eyes tight as the CO approached, the man’s breathing labored from the exertion of the short run. The man knelt beside him and McComb felt a hand on his shoulder begin to roll him face up.

  “Are you all righ—”

  The badge’s question died on his lips as McComb drove the concealed knife into his throat, spraying them both with bright arterial blood. The man collapsed on top of McComb, the shotgun in his free hand tumbling to the grass. McComb held the man close, savoring the kill as he waited for him to stop struggling. When the badge went limp, McComb rolled him to one side and grabbed the shotgun before standing and placing two fingers in his mouth to emit a long high-pitched whistle. Two dozen figures in convict khaki, armed with assorted weaponry from the looted armory of the medium-security unit, rose from behind cars scattered throughout the parking lot and began to converge on Spike’s position.

  Broussard sat sipping a bottle of tepid water as he watched the grainy monitor. Then Johnson collapsed over the fallen CO, and Broussard was momentarily confused as the man he’d thought dead or injured rose with Johnson’s shotgun. Confusion was replaced by near paralytic fear as armed convicts entered the picture from off screen and converged toward the main entrance of the max-security unit. The water bottle slipped from his trembling fingers and water gushed out around his feet as he stared at the monitor in disbelief.

  He knew he couldn’t beat them to the main entrance security door, so in a panic, he scooped up his shotgun and a box of shells and went in search of a defensible hiding place. He had no illusion he could stop them; his only hope for survival was to hide where they couldn’t find him or if they did find him, make it too costly to get to him. Faced with losses to dig him out of his hole, they might ignore him, free the others, and clear out.

  But time was not his friend, and by the time he made it through the nonfunctional mantrap into the administration area, he heard them slamming through doors on the opposite end of the building, howling like a pack of wolves. Out of options, he ducked into a large storage closet, reaching up with his shotgun to smash the bare light bulb as he entered, then pulled the door closed and backed himself into the far corner, shotgun positioned to blast any target silhouetted in the doorway if it opened.

  McComb was at the front of the pack, head on a swivel, alert for the presence of the last CO. The dying warden had told him the last two badges were in Central Control, but McComb figured the surviving CO had witnessed his partner’s death and might be anywhere. He led his men through the open mantrap and slowed as he neared the glass-enclosed control room. There was no one visible through the glass, but the badge might be crouched down behind the waist-high solid wall. McComb nodded to his two closest subordinates to follow him, then burst through the door of Central Control, bringing his shotgun to bear on the previously concealed portion of the wall. He heaved a sigh of relief when he found the control room empty and more of his followers crowded into the space.

  “Okay, the last badge ain’t here, and I want to take care of him before we get out of here. So far no one’s escaped to rat us out, and I want to keep it that way, so spread out and find him,” McComb said.

  The man closest to him gave a gap-toothed smile. “Shouldn’t be too toug
h,” he said, pointing to the overturned water bottle and the wet footprints on the floor.

  McComb grinned back and pushed through the crowd, backtracking and following the water trail. The footprints were obliterated by the cons’ own entrance, but the water was still there, pointing like an arrow to the closed door of the storage closet.

  “Anybody bring any of them flash bangs from the armory?” he asked quietly.

  Several men nodded.

  “Okay,” McComb said, still keeping his voice down and pointing at the men with the flash bangs, “you three get ready to chuck those in when the door is open. You,” he said, pointing to another man, “snatch the door open and jump out of the way, quick like so these three can toss in their packages. He’s probably in there laying for us, so all you knuckleheads stay out of the open door until the flash bangs go off, got it?”

  There were head nods all around, and McComb continued, looking around and spotting a couple of men armed with shotguns. “You two jump to the doorway as soon as the flash bangs go off and sweep the room with your shotguns. Don’t stop until you empty the magazines and cover every square inch of the room. It ain’t nothin’ but a closet and I want to make damn sure he don’t survive. Got it?”

  The pair grinned their understanding.

  “Shock and awe, baby!” McComb said. “Now everybody get ready.”

  The men moved into position quickly and executed the plan on McComb’s hand signals. Thirty violent seconds later, he stood in the half light of the storage closet, looking down at the bloody remains of the last CO. He gave a satisfied nod then returned to the hallway and gathered his men around him.

  “Okay,” he said, “same drill as in medium security. Let our guys out, and any other whites willing to pledge allegiance to the ABT, but make sure they understand what’ll happen to them if they try to punk out.”

  There were grunts of approval as he continued, “Leave the niggers and greasers,” he said. “No point in wastin’ ammo when we can just let ‘em starve to death.”