Under a Tell-Tale Sky: Disruption - Book 1

by R. E. McDermott

  He heard another man approaching to his right, some distance away, but the cover was thicker there, and he couldn’t see his attacker. He surmised they were coming in a line, with any others perhaps too far to his right to be heard, and began to worry about being flanked if he got pinned down. He definitely had to fall back, but needed to cut down the odds a bit first.

  The injured man with the pistol was the logical target, but also the lesser threat, and taking down the still-invisible man to his right would definitely do more to even the odds. He decided to try for a double, figuring even if he missed the second man, he’d instill caution and buy time to get to his next hide.

  He swung the shotgun toward the man with the pistol, waiting for him to step into a gap between the trees, then fired. A tight pattern of buckshot riddled his target’s midsection, and Anthony ejected the shell and swung the gun before the man even hit the ground. He pumped four loads of buckshot through the foliage in the direction of his unseen stalker, and turned to run, moving as fast as his old legs allowed. He stuck to the path now, knowing he’d make better time, and confident the surviving attackers were in the thick woods to the west.

  His breath was coming in gasps and he was halfway to the cabin when a man stepped from behind a big tree and slammed the butt of an assault rifle into his gut.

  ***

  Jermain moved through the thick woods at a hobbling run, as fast as his injured leg would allow, his noisy passage masked by distance. He figured the old man would set up another ambush closer to the path; that was the logical thing to do. His reluctantly advancing underlings would trigger that trap, spurred on by the thought Jermain was at the far end of their short line of advance, ready to deal with them if they faltered. But unknown to them, he’d already rushed ahead, moving fast and circling wide in an attempt to take the old man from behind.

  There were only two possible outcomes: his men would pin the old man down or the old man would win the fight and fall back looking for a new ambush site, and Jermain was prepared for either eventuality. If his men survived the ambush and pinned the old bastard down, he’d creep up from behind and back shoot him. But if the old man sprang his trap successfully and then retreated, Jermain would become the ambusher. Either way, the old man was going down.

  He ran on, adrenaline masking the pain in his leg, and when he thought he’d gone far enough, angled right, moving to intersect the path. The woods began to thin a bit, and he was brought up short by the sound of gunfire—a single shotgun blast followed by four more in rapid succession—with no return fire. His men were either down or cowering, and either way he expected the old man to fall back in his direction. He took a position near the path behind a thick tree trunk and was rewarded moments later by the sound of boots pounding the packed earth and labored breathing. He steadied his AK against the tree, sighting up the path. The old man came into sight, running hell-bent for leather with his eyes on the path immediately ahead of him, oblivious to the threat farther down the path. Jermain aimed—and then thought better of it.

  What if they had the good stuff hidden? The old man would be the only one who knew where it was. He couldn’t call for reinforcements to search the place because the radio was shot up, and he sure as hell didn’t want to be here by himself when that Levi asshole got back. And showing up empty-handed after losing his whole crew to one old man and then trying to explain to Kwintell didn’t bear thinking about. He knew his odds of survival would be infinitely improved with a few cases of grenades or the gold and silver that fool Singletary was always babbling about. No way round it, he had to take the old man alive. Of course, he didn’t have to be gentle.

  He dodged back behind the tree and reversed his grip on the rifle, waiting for the old man to approach. He sprang from hiding to slam the rifle butt into his quarry’s gut, sending the shotgun flying and dropping the old man flat on his back. Jermain flipped the old man onto his stomach and flex-cuffed his hands behind him with an electrical tie, then dragged him to his feet and pushed him down the trail toward the camp.

  ***

  The thug heaved the rope a final time, and Anthony came almost off the ground, forced on tiptoe to relieve the racking pain in his arms and shoulders. He was suspended by his wrists from a crossbeam of the outdoor kitchen, and the sharp pain in his gut from the rifle butt was quickly palling compared to this latest abuse of his aging body. He stifled a moan and glared at the banger as the man tied the end of the rope to one of the support poles. He took satisfaction from the blood staining the leg of the man’s jeans and his awkward movement, and regretted he’d failed to make every shotgun blast accurate. The man pulled the knot tight and limped back toward him.

  “Now, old man, we gonna have us a little talk.” The thug smiled. “You a pretty tough old bastard, I’ll give you that. I looked around a little and y’all got a good setup here too. Thing is, I couldn’t find the really good stuff, so you gonna tell me where you got it hid.”

  “What the hell are you talking about? We don’t have anything hidden. It’s ALL hidden here in the woods, so why would we need to hide anything from each other?”

  “Don’t play stupid! You know what I’m talkin’ about. Where are the grenades, and the gold and silver?”

  “Grenades? Gold? Silver? You been smokin’ crack? Why would we have any of that stuff? We sure couldn’t eat it.”

  “Don’t act dumb. I know you got grenades from them soldiers at Wilmington, and Singletary told us about the gold and silver—”

  Anthony scoffed. “SINGLETARY! So that’s why you’re here? Anybody stupid enough to listen to that fool is dumber than a box of—”

  The blow was unexpected, driving into Anthony’s midsection in the same place the rifle butt landed. The result was involuntary and equally unexpected, as the contents of his stomach erupted from his mouth, spraying into the thug’s face. The man jumped back, then stood stock-still for a long moment, Anthony’s vomit dripping from his chin. The rage seemed to build almost visibly until the thug trembled with rage, and he dipped a hand into his pocket to fish out a switchblade. The knife sprang open with an audible click.

  “We still got some talkin’ to do, old man, but you don’t need your balls for that. Fact is, I figure an old man like you don’t need ‘em no way, so I’m gonna do you a favor and take ‘em off.”

  Less belligerent now, Anthony closed his eyes and steeled himself as he felt the thug tugging at his belt, then something warm and wet splashed his face—followed a fraction of a second later by the unmistakable crack of a gunshot.

  ***

  Anthony lay on the ground and braced himself as the big man probed his tender belly, looking over the man’s broad back at the men standing behind him.

  “I’m obliged, Vernon,” Anthony said. “If y’all showed up a few minutes later, I reckon I’d have been changin’ rows in the church choir.”

  Vern Gibson laughed. “Glad to help another river rat, Anthony, though I didn’t know you were one. I figured you’d be at your place in Currie. When did y’all move here to the river?”

  “Soon as the power went out. Levi figured it wasn’t coming back anytime soon, and we were way too exposed on the county road.”

  Vern nodded. “That’s a fact, though it looks like you’re attracting a fair amount of trouble here too. Held your own right well too—taking down five out of six ain’t bad.”

  “Five? I only got four that I know of.”

  “I was giving you credit for the snake-bit one we found in the willows,” Vern said.

  “Well, I’ll be damned,” Anthony said, “so THAT was the ruckus, then. Hadn’t been for that snake, they’d have caught me flat-footed for sure. Guess they serve a purpose after all. Anyway, I’m obliged to you.”

  Vern nodded to the big man examining Anthony. “Then you ought to thank Sergeant Washington here. He took out the banger.”

  The big man finished his examination of Anthony and rocked back on his knees and flashed an embarrassed smile.

&nb
sp; “And I do thank you, Sergeant,” Anthony said.

  “Not necessary, Mr. Jenkins,” Washington said, “all in a day’s work.”

  “How’s it look, Washington?” said a young man who looked somehow familiar.

  Washington shook his head. “I’m not a medic, Lieutenant Kinsey, but I think he’s gonna be okay. He really needs to see a doctor, though.”

  “Kinsey,” Anthony said. “I knew that face looked familiar. Your daddy in the Coast Guard?”

  “Yes, sir,” the man replied. “Is he here? I’m looking for him.”

  Anthony shook his head. “He took off a week ago on a ship headed to Texas. But I reckon they’re checking in with the folks at Wilmington. We got a radio here, but their antenna is much taller. They can pass a message to him for sure.”

  The young man let out a relieved sigh. “Well, that’s about the best news I’ve heard in a while. At least I know he’s okay.”

  “Is there a doctor in Wilmington?” Vern Gibson asked.

  “There was a medic with the National Guard unit,” Anthony said, “and they were going to try to find medical personnel among the refugees, but I don’t know if they did. But y’all don’t worry about me. I’m fine right here.”

  “We’re not leaving you,” Vern said, “even if we got to tie you up. You need to get checked out.”

  “Somebody’s got to stay here and feed the animals,” Anthony protested.

  “I reckon rabbits and chickens can get by on their own a few days,” Vern Gibson said, “but even if they can’t, we can cover it.” He looked at Luke Kinsey. “You got ‘em fed for today, and we’ll likely overnight in Wilmington and head back up to our place tomorrow, so we’ll stop in and check on them. Then we’ll come down every day until y’all get back. How’s that?”

  “You don’t have—”

  “I know I don’t HAVE to do it, but it’s what neighbors do, and things bein’ like they are, we’re all gonna need good neighbors, Anthony.”

  Anthony grew quiet, then nodded. “I expect I can’t argue with that. All right, have it your way. I’m all right, but I’ll go get checked out if it makes you feel better. I gotta tell Levi and the others what happened anyway and I don’t want to go into it over the radio. No tellin’ what that puke Singletary told those bangers. I don’t know how he found us to start with, but if they know we’re here, I expect this isn’t the end of our problems.”

  Appalachian Trail

  Mile 998.6 Northbound

  Just South of Bear’s Den

  Day 17, 8:45 a.m.

  George Anderson gasped as he sprinted up the hill, back toward Bear’s Den, the gun belt on and the other items Tremble left in his pockets. He’d worked his way out of the paracord in less than ten minutes, but knew that was by design. He might be a country boy, but he knew a setup when he saw one, and he sure as hell didn’t intend to be Tremble’s diversion. Not that he didn’t intend to bolt—he had no doubt he was on borrowed time as far as FEMA was concerned, and hauling ass was his last chance. However, he also knew his chances of outrunning pursuit were somewhere between slim and none, and the first thing they’d do when he didn’t respond was deploy the chopper to check things out. They’d likely start with the known position of the car and work outward with IR scans. Ground teams were sure to follow, and quickly, but they’d take at least a half hour to get here, and the first priority was getting invisible to the chopper and fast.

  He glanced at his watch as he broke into the clearing around Bear’s Den and dashed toward the hostel. Their car sat right where they’d left it, and he changed course slightly, ripping open the door to grab the two half-full bottles of lukewarm water from the cup holders, stuffing one in each pocket before slamming the door and racing for the hikers’ entrance at the back of the hostel. He moved inside, confident the thick stone walls of the building would mask his body heat, leaving only the task of finding a hiding place to wait out the ground search. Anderson liked his chances. The ground around the hostel and the various trails were now a confused welter of tracks, and four of the people making them were wearing standard-issue FEMA boots. With his partner’s body likely to draw the search to the AT, the building itself was the last place they’d look, so he started a search for a hiding place.

  He found it quickly—a deep narrow storage closet off the hikers’ bunk area, almost empty. He grabbed a mattress off one of the bunks and maneuvered it through the closet door. Standing on end, it spanned the closet from side to side almost exactly. Perfect, he thought, and leaned the mattress out of the way against the long wall of the closet and went to the bathroom, hoping to drain a little water from the pipes to augment his meager supply. He was elated when water gushed from the faucet. Better and better, he thought, as he filled his bottles. He grabbed a small plastic trash can, in case nature called, and carried his amenities into the far end of the narrow closet and set them on the floor before returning for an armload of towels. The floor might get pretty hard over time and a little padding couldn’t hurt.

  In final preparation, he pulled three more mattresses off the bunks, standing them on end and leaning them in a row along the inside wall of the deep closet. He then maneuvered the mattress nearest the door across the width of the closet as he backed deeper inside the closet dragging it behind him. When he got to the next mattress, he let the top of the one he was dragging lean toward him a bit, then tossed it away from him and quickly flipped the next mattress across the closet in front of it before the first fell back against it. He repeated the process with the remaining two mattresses, dragging each back a foot or so each time. The top of the last one came to rest against the back wall of the closet, forming a nice little triangular cave near the floor of the closet, his shelter from prying eyes. All anyone looking in would see was a haphazard stack of mattresses in storage, filling the closet.

  Anderson settled in to wait and thought about Tremble. Two can play this game, Congressman, and I’m not gonna be your damned decoy. In fact, maybe you’ll be mine.

  Appalachian Trail

  Mile 1002.3 Northbound

  Virginia/West Virginia Border

  Day 17, 9:35 a.m.

  Tremble’s arms and shoulders burned as he grasped his end of the stretcher and struggled up the steep hill behind Wiggins, straining to keep up with a man two decades his junior. Then he heard the distant thump of chopper blades to the south.

  “TEX!” he called ahead. “I HEAR A CHOPPER. FIND US A SPOT OFF THE TRAIL AND GET THE SHELTER RIGGED FAST. WE DON’T HAVE MUCH TIME.”

  Tex raised her arm in acknowledgment and darted off the trail to her right. Without urging, Wiggins picked up the pace until he reached the point Tex left the trail and followed her path. They found her a hundred feet off the trail where the steep hillside shelved a bit, tightening a length of paracord between two trees. She finished as they set the stretcher down, and began throwing one of their two ‘space blankets’ over the taut cord.

  She tossed some small plastic tent stakes in Wiggins’ direction.

  “We’ve only got enough stakes to do the corners. Find a rock and help me pound these in,” she said, then turned to Simon. “It will probably be easier if you help Keith crawl under while we set it up. We’re going to have to lay on top of each other to fit anyway.”

  Simon nodded and helped Keith hobble over to crawl under one side of the emerging pup tent before it was staked down.

  “I’ll stack all our other gear on the stretcher and spread the other blanket over it to shield any residual body heat,” Tremble said, and the others only nodded as they worked feverishly, driven by the increasing volume of the approaching chopper.

  Tremble finished and crawled into the end of the makeshift tent next to Keith as Tex and Wiggins finished pounding in the stakes.

  “Remember to bring those rocks in with you. They may have residual heat from your hands,” Tremble called and got grunts of affirmation moments before Tremble was grunting himself as Wiggins crawled through the opening to lie on
top of him.

  “Damn, Wiggins, you’re a heavy bastard, and watch where you put your hands.” Keith stifled a laugh in spite of the circumstances and then grunted himself as Tex crawled on top of him.

  “I think I got the better deal, Dad,” Keith said.

  “Yeah, well, don’t get excited, Romeo, or you’ll find my knee in your balls,” Tex said.

  They lay sweating under the thermal blanket as the chopper drew nearer.

  “You really think this is gonna work, Simon?” Tex asked.

  “No clue,” Tremble said, “but it was the only thing I could think of. The foliage is too thick for them to get a visual and it’s pretty hot out, so there shouldn’t be much of a temperature differential. With the blanket masking most of our thermal signature, I think we at least have a shot.”

  They fell silent as they willed the chopper to pass, and heaved a collective sigh as it continued north without slowing. They lay there another twenty minutes as the chopper reached the northernmost limit of its search pattern and flew back south, some distance away. Only when the thump of the blades had completely faded did they crawl from their improvised shelter.

  “That bought us a little more time, at least,” Tremble said as they folded their shelter. “But when they come back, they’ll be searching on foot as well, and we can’t hope to outrun them. We need to open up the lead and find a place well off the trail to hide a while.”

  “Why didn’t we hear anything on the radio?” Tex asked.

  Tremble shook his head. “We didn’t hear anything on ours either after they realized we likely had one, so they must have changed frequencies. That’s pretty much standard procedure if comms are compromised. And they probably suspected something after George’s last transmission. At this point the radio’s dead weight. I’ll bury it here before we leave.”