by JK Franks
“Morning, pops.” Her uncle was struggling to get the coffee going in the large kitchen. He finally got the pot together and on the small camp stove.
“How was your run?”
“Fine,” she mumbled. “Still a little chilly but looks to be a nice day. Thought I saw someone on the beach, but it turned out to be nothing.”
“Cool,” he said, distracted with his task. “I’m tired of all the rain. You had your gun, right?”
“Of course, never leave home without it.”
Scott looked over at his niece and smiled knowing that she was not a naïve little girl any longer; they had been through too much. “Todd wants to talk to DJ tonight when he calls. Can you give him a couple of minutes?”
Puzzled, she nodded. “Sure, what’s up?”
“I really don’t know. I assume his Navy connection wants him to find out something, or maybe he’s just satisfying his own curiosity. Don’t worry though, he won’t put DJ in any danger.”
They had strict rules on radio discipline. DJ moved to a different secluded location for each broadcast; channels were switched multiple times each call, and the calls themselves were limited to just a few minutes each. Todd seemed convinced Praetor had the equipment to triangulate and locate radio signals. They all feared the consequences if DJ was ever discovered. The kid was bright, though, and so far, seemed to have avoided detection.
The radio calls were always late at night when the signal range was better, and hopefully, fewer people would be trying to listen in. No actual names or locations were ever used, but the communications were not all in code. That was too impractical. Information was passed back and forth mostly in the clear. The location of FSU was ‘The Campus,’ Harris Springs was ‘Pitstop,’ and other terms were substituted as needed. It was not a solid plan, but a more complex one would have made the personal calls between Kaylie and DJ even more difficult. While the boy was a source of intel, he was first and foremost her boyfriend.
Todd sat at the lone chair in the radio room of the Aquatic Goddess. Kaylie was behind him, tears running down her face. The calendar on the stark, white wall showed a beautiful scene of the Greek island of Santorini. The calendar was for the prior year, but no one had taken it down.
“WhizKid, listen to me, don’t do anything stupid. Try and lay low and out of danger until things settle down.”
“Skipper,” DJ answered quickly, “The drones have been taken out, the Grays are fucking pissed, and I can’t even get back into my labs. It seems your friends have decided to take us out. Rumor is they’re about to attack in force. I’m not sure how long we’ll be here, but the Grays are packing equipment into trucks right now. They are bugging out. And I . . . I want to get the hell outta Dodge.”
“I don’t blame you, kid,” Todd responded. “But you and the doctor are the most prized assets they have. They will protect you, and they’re not going to let you just sneak away. You are right, the Navy is attacking, and I am sorry, but they want to end this. I do have some new information for you from them, though.” Todd passed along the information Commander Garret had given him. DJ was to set his radio to repeater mode using a channel very far out of the normal broadcast range. The Navy drones would lock in on the signal and not fire on that location. “It offers a twenty-yard exclusion zone. Just don’t leave the radio, keep it with you at all times. And stay close to the doctor as well.”
They could hear DJ sigh on the line. “Okay. I mean, um . . . Roger that, Skipper,” the young man said nervously. “What if the Grays find the radio? You always told me to keep it hidden.”
“I know, change of protocol. Stay safe but understand that radio is your safety net. Leave the radio, and you are unprotected—we won’t know how to find you. Here is your girl back . . . you guys have—” he glanced at his Omega dive watch, “—just over ninety seconds before we have to end this call.”
Kaylie was still rattled as she took the handset and began speaking softly to her boyfriend. Todd stepped out the door and let them have their privacy and to think. He knew he had been partially responsible for putting DJ in danger, but Garret had said they would do all they could to avoid injuring him or destroying the lab. Although small, the FSU protectorate was apparently the only known Catalyst-protected zone near a coast. It was one the Navy could reach, and it was strategically important to them.
Todd had not been briefed on the attack but assumed the drones had been sent in to first recon the campus and then probably unleash air-to-ground rockets on the hard targets. Once defenses were weakened, they would drop assault teams in. The elite Praetor troops were about to have an unpleasant day in Tallahassee.
Chapter Twenty-One
December, the previous year
Pakistan – Persian Gulf
Skybox could feel the danger. The village was so small it didn’t even get a name on the map he was holding. He, Hooch and the handful of soldiers that made up his remaining squad could see the road leading to the coast—leading to home—but ISIS had controlled this stretch of road for months. It was the last stopping port before the coast.
“Put the birds up.”
“Yes, Commander,” came the immediate response. Hooch walked briskly toward the technical truck to get the recon drones launched into the early morning sky. It was no secret that the Chimera epidemic had crippled ISIS terribly, but they continued to attack nonetheless. For a fighting force whose ideology had no issue with throwing away lives on suicide missions, the use of the infected had given them a new, even more macabre tactic. Just before the infection reached the rage stage, they would equip their recruits with hand weapons—knives, swords and such—and attach to each a backpack filled with nails, rocks, ball bearings, and explosives. The infected warriors, once they entered into the rage, were brainless, fearless and filled with hatred for anyone in their path. The fact that the entire organization was being infected in the process of using the infected as weapons did not seem to bother them; as long as their enemy suffered as much as they did, it was a success.
Earlier in the day, Skybox had been on a secure video call with command, giving them a full sitrep. Fucked-up beyond belief was how he had wanted to describe it to his superiors. Why aren’t you getting us the fuck out of here? HE wanted to scream at them.
He addressed the commander as “Sir,” even though the person he was speaking to was female. “I see no way to continue to pursue even secondary MOs.”
“I understand, Commander Skybox, but perhaps you don’t fully appreciate the consequences of failing to delay the spread of the contagion.” The commander looked weary and glanced off camera numerous times. “The US homeland is in shambles . . . we have a nearly lawless, grid-down, worst-case-scenario of our own here. We are implementing Wildfire protocol. Most of the allied powers have already done the same.”
Skybox was stunned, “Catalyst is active?”
“Yes, regrettably so.” She paused, looked away from the camera for a moment then continued in a much quieter tone. “Look,” she confided, “the collapse of the country is imminent. Leadership—the government, is nonexistent, major cities are burning and the death toll is well above the threshold for these protocols to be put in motion. Teams are rounding up the names on the resource list and opening up safe-zone facilities.”
Skybox sat on the side of the truck looking out at the expanse of desert and rock. Shit. He had no idea who this woman was or where in the world she was located. He trusted her, though. Praetor teams were a family, and openness was a key part of the command structure. Every member of the team would know what the others knew. It was part of what had driven him into the elite service so many years ago; that, and the amazing hardware they had at their disposal.
He watched as a dozen of the mini-drones, each the size of a sparrow, took flight from the rear of the tech truck. Skybox was never sure where all the funding came from. It was off the books for sure. But sometimes he wasn’t even sure it was government-funded since some of the mission parameters made t
hat seem highly unlikely. The missions within Praetor were always big picture strategic moves, not the tactical, headline-grabbing battles covered on the news channels.
He had always had the respect of his commanders, but in all his years, never had one been so candid as this woman had just been. The situation must be as bad as everyone feared. “Sir,” he responded at his nameless commander. “Are you aware of the conditions at the Ranch?”
The Ranch was essentially his home base (if he could call anywhere home), located in a remote corner of Nevada. Much of his training had been done there as well. Praetor troops did not routinely know of other base locations, other than by codename. He and a few of his squad were from the Ranch. Some were from a place in Canada called Jackknife, and others from a spot in the South at a place they referred to either as the Swamp, or, more often, Mosquito Heaven. They also had a few rapid response teams on roving stations around the world, often embedded in the regular Army or Marine bases. Everyone generally assumed they were CIA, but those kinds of questions were never answered. Praetor commanders were the badasses, the killers. That much was understood. Other soldiers knew it instantly; you didn’t fuck with their kind. You did not want to know their story.
“The Ranch is still secure, Commander,” his command replied. “Its location certainly helped ensure that. They lost electricity for a time, but it is back up and running. Your friend is doing well there, though we do have a contingency plan for him and the others if the need arises.”
“Thank you,” he said, relief evident in his voice. The conversation went on for several more minutes as they discussed alternate mission plans and reviewed updates on efforts to develop a more effective treatment for the Chimera virus. Despite the mission failure and loss of most of his troops, command seemed neither surprised nor upset. It could be that they just had bigger problems right now.
“Commander, you need to see this,” Hooch called out to him. Skybox signed off and walked back to the tech truck to view the monitors. The drones were over the road ahead and sending back images of who was there—or what was there.
“God damn,” Skybox muttered, his eyes wide with alarm. The scene on the screens showed hundreds—probably thousands—of infected being pushed forward by militants using trucks and even long prods to keep the infected moving forward, toward what remained of Talon. They had faced smaller skirmishes in which the same tactic had been used, but nothing on this scale. The approaching sounds of the brigade of infected could now be heard with their own ears. Even to the elite soldiers, the effect was horrifying.
“Hooch, get four rifles on overwatch, the rest set-up a perimeter. Lay out extra mags and ammo cans for the fifties.”
“We’re going to fight . . . that?”
“We have no choice, we have to get through. We lead!”
“Yes, sir.”
Those would be the last words he and Hooch ever spoke to each other.
Chapter Twenty-Two
Present Day
Harris Springs, Mississippi
What were you doing when the world ended? Scott Montgomery had been asked that question once or twice. It seemed that as the time passed, it was something people could speak of with a little less pain. He thought back to that previous August. It had taken him a while to fully recall the bike ride he’d been on when the massive solar flare hit. While most memories from those days were dark, muddy recollections, he clearly remembered the bright Northern Lights that followed the flare’s strike. What a strange phrase to be true: when the world ended. Not something his father or grandfather had ever had to deal with, though the threat of it had loomed in numerous forms. But while life, at least a fraction of it, survived, the world as he knew it had indeed ended, along with the lives of millions—or more accurately per the Navy—billions of people worldwide.
They estimated upwards of a fifty percent mortality rate so far across the globe. That meant that as a species, then, the human population was down to 3.5 billion in rough numbers. As bad as that was, it was not a terrible number: nowhere near extinction levels. Had they been an animal monitored by mankind, humans would not have yet made it to the threatened species list, much less the endangered list. But it was far from over. They were just six months into this new world. Some still had resources stockpiled from before the flare. When those ran out, what would the numbers look like then? Preacher Jack was speaking to the council about his most recent adventure to Slidell. Scott’s mind had wandered, as it had a habit of doing more and more, recently.
Jack continued, “It’s pretty much as we feared. Pirates and raiders have moved out to sea, partly because the Messengers have made it unprofitable and unsafe for them to operate on land. You either convert and join their movement, or they kill you.”
“So, do we have any idea of the numbers of these Messengers?” Bartos asked the question that was on all their minds.
“Yeah . . . well, we can estimate. The best guess is a fighting force of between 8,000 and 11,000. Any more than that and there’s no way they could scavenge enough resources to keep themselves fed,” Todd answered.
“How the hell are they even feeding that many?” Scott asked with genuine curiosity. “We’re struggling to feed a fraction of that number.”
“They keep expanding, only way possible,” Todd replied. “They’ve been successful in finding large caches of food—distribution centers like they had for restaurants and grocery stores. They’re usually located in industrial parks . . . not on the radar of those earlier looters who mainly hit the restaurants and grocery stores.” Todd looked out the large window at the building gray clouds. “That path is not sustainable, though. It’s a one-way trip. Once that food is gone, they’ll begin to suffer. Ironic, but they’re like a plague of locusts descending on a farm, devouring everything before moving on. When there are no more farms—they will die.”
Bartos looked up, nodding, “Only problem with that is, when the food is gone, we die too.”
Other heads nodded in agreement around the long table.
Jack leaned back. “Unfortunately, there’s more. Other groups are copycatting the Messengers—banding together and attacking en masse. Some have a similar ideology, some have none. In particular, we’re hearing about a group coming out of Jackson, just up the road from here. They seem to be parroting Messengers’ lines and tactics, maybe to resist recognition. Certainly, to take advantage of the intimidation factor in their raids. Pretty sure that will be the first group we’re likely to see.”
Todd looked at Scott. “Ideas?”
Scott stood and paced the room. “I think one of those groups is already hitting some of the farms. Jim Thompson’s place sure looked like it could have been hit by one of them. We all know we’re a big freaking target on this boat. While we’ve done well to keep it quiet, I’m sure the word is beginning to get out about us. We have weapons and can easily hold off a small group, but 8,000 . . . no fucking way. I assume the Navy won’t supply us with any heavy arms,” he looked at Todd, whose face remained serious but neutral. They had refused before; it was unlikely to be different now. He continued, “Our options seem to be: defend the ship, abandon the ship or . . . or move the ship.”
The discussion ran late into the evening as each of the three choices was discussed. Todd had assigned teams to explore each option. “I just want the feasibility of each idea: time, complexity, pros and cons.” The Aquatic Goddess was still a functioning ship, but steering, navigation, and many other major subsystems would never fully come back online. Getting her moving would not be a problem, but not bumping into shit would. Further, taking to sea would limit their ability to access the sorely needed fresh produce that would soon be coming from the farms. Abandoning the ship seemed to everyone like a desperate move. Truthfully, it was, but for the safety of everyone, it had to be considered; how could it be done and where could they all go? Defending the ship brought up some interesting possibilities. One of these involved using the firefighting water cannons onboard to blast any on
coming raiders. At best that was a deterrent, though.
Chances were, they would stay moored and fight all but the largest of forces. Few thought it likely that the main group of Messengers would head toward them. Jack and a few of his men volunteered to do reconnaissance and hopefully expand trade routes in the process. They would leave lookouts posted at roads and towns as far as the radios would reach. If they spotted potential attackers, they would radio back, hopefully giving the AG a few days to prepare.
Scott felt uneasy and exhausted, as he did most days. The role he had taken on covered a lot of areas, and the responsibility for all these people was never far from his mind. Most of all, he worried about his brother, Bobby, and his wife, Jess. They were in Little Rock when the flare hit, and he hadn’t spoken to them since shortly after. They might have gotten up to Bobby’s bugout location in the Ozarks, or maybe they tried to get down here to make sure Kaylie was safe. The not knowing was the hardest part.
At this point, trying to get here from Little Rock would be a near-impossible journey. The distance wasn’t the issue; the people between here and there were. The people that were left were hard; they were survivors. Society was gone and had been replaced by something far more primal. A person either recognized another and accepted them as part of the tribe or considered them an outsider. Outsiders were not often accepted, and many people just killed them outright and took their usually meager possessions. It was safer than trusting someone these days. Common courtesy among strangers was a lost behavior . . . one that might never be seen again.