by JK Franks
Chapter Twenty-Three
DeVonte tried again, but the engine simply would not start. They had drained the fuel tank and purged the lines. Bartos looked up from the raised covering and smiled. “Hold on, think I have it. May not’ve been bad gas after all.” He held something up: a black and greasy round object with a wire on one side.
DeVonte had no clue what it was. If they didn’t get this tractor going, it was going to be a very long day. He watched as Bartos disappeared into the gaping maw of the dark barn. Solo lay in the shadows near a hay bale. DeVonte gave an involuntary shudder. He knew the dog was not a threat to him personally, but he’d seen what the animal could do, and it unnerved him on a purely instinctual level.
“Yes!” Bartos came out looking triumphant with a new looking doozy-whutzit grasped tightly in his hand. Within minutes, he was giving DeVonte the signal to try again. This time the green tractor coughed only once before it caught and came up to a smooth idle. Bartos nodded and gave a thumbs-up. DeVonte deftly backed the tractor up to a spiked pole, and Bartos had the three-point hitch attached quickly.
Bartos and Scott had been bringing DeVonte out to help on the farms more and more, and the boy had to admit, he really liked it. Fishing, in fact just being on the water, wasn’t enjoyable to him, but this, he had decided, was not too bad.
Using the spike pole, he speared a round hay bale, lifted it clear of the ground, and headed down to the cattle field. The winter grazing had left the herd looking a bit lean, and the additional hay would help keep them going until the spring rains came. He had three more to bring down, and then they would hook up a plow: it was time to start breaking up the ground for planting.
There was one other reason he had wanted to come to the farm today. He waved to Angel as she gathered eggs from the coop. Damn, that girl was fine! So far, she’d been polite, nothing more, but he was always an optimist. The strikingly beautiful girl looked his way and gave a slight nod of acknowledgment.
His focus remained on her until he realized that the tractor was taking out a long section of fencing. He had let the machine ease from the two-track path, and it had begun clipping fence poles as he watched his muse disappear into the farmhouse.
Bartos was yelling for him to shut off the tractor. “Goddammit, DeVonte, what in the hell are you doing? Never mind, I know what you were doing . . . I hope she’s worth it, you got eight . . . no, nine fencepost holes to dig and about seventy feet o’ barbed wire to rehang. That should take you ’til sunset. I’ll get someone else started on the plowing. Love is blind kid—remember dat next time you behind that wheel.”
Grinning, DeVonte yelled to Bartos as he untangled wire and post from beneath the tractor. “Jesus loves you Bartos!” and, only slightly lower through his grin, “The rest of us think you’re jus’ an asshole.”
Bartos lifted a middle finger into the sky and kept walking away.
The day had faded to inky blackness, and almost everyone was back on the ship. Solo lay behind the pile of muddy and broken fence posts, still as stone, watching the man, whose eyes darted sideways and behind. He could smell the wrongness on the stranger: fresh sweat and nerves. The dog had had him pegged as soon as he snuck onto the property. Solo was a Kuvasz–German Shepherd mix: keen senses and hyper-aggression were ingrained in his genetic code. His muzzle still rested on the cool ground; only his eyes moved, watching the figure that crept cautiously toward the small house. Solo had already noticed the weapon on the man’s back. To him, it was a clumsy tool, but something he would need to avoid when he decided to end the human’s life.
Solo also knew the man was not alone. He had left two friends back in the woods. This man was the scout, looking for what he could steal. Many people had walked the roads and camped in the woods in the weeks after the cars stopped working; few still did so now. Solo had been told to leave strangers alone unless they came close. He would sometimes investigate as he picked up all manner of smells and sounds. Many were sick or suffering, so he left them alone; they were no threat to his human. This one was not one of those. He was a thief, thin and malnourished, but a thief nonetheless.
The big, white dog watched as the man ran over to a boat tied off at the edge of the estuary by the farmstead. He had a thought, or perhaps it was instinct. He was a dog, after all. Either way, it caused his tail to thump just once before he regained control of his excitement. Time to go to work.
The thief didn’t hear the dog slipping up behind him. He was reaching to untie the boat when Solo hit him from behind, just below his knees. The man went down hard, and the back of his head cracked off the hard wood of the dock. Seeing stars, he leaned up groggily and reached for his weapon. Solo's teeth were around the man’s thin neck before he could scream. The gun clattered into the water as the dog’s powerful jaws tightened and the cracking sounds of breaking bones began. Solo watched as his victim’s legs shuffled up and down in a little dance. Then they were still. He pulled the body to the end of the dock and used his head to push the body into the estuary.
Solo went to make sure the man’s friends hadn’t been alerted. He picked up their scent immediately and found them still in the makeshift hobo camp where they’d been for some time. This was off-limits for a kill according to the loose rules Bartos forced him to obey, so he wandered back toward his favorite bush to lie down. Then he froze. His eyes watched for movement, his ears listened for threats. He sniffed . . . nothing. He raised his head higher, then lower, but still nothing. The dog’s rigid calm belied what was going through its brain. Something else was here, though. The dog could feel eyes watching him. Whatever it was, it was dangerous: a hunter, a predator.
Near the dock, an alligator snapped and began tugging and tearing on the remains of the thief. The sound of the gator diverted Solo’s attention for just an instant. The dead body, along with the feeling of being watched, was gone. Solo heard nothing still, but instinctually he knew he had not been alone. Uneasy, he slid into the deep shadows cast by the thick limbs of the trees and lay down, his eyes constantly roving over the surroundings.
Bartos sipped his morning coffee with its usual shot of bourbon. The morning air was still, and the day showed promise of rain. Babysitting the farm had been his idea, but so far no one threatening had been by. Perhaps Scott was wrong; no other farms had been attacked.
Few others liked staying overnight at the abandoned farms, but Bartos preferred solitude and a fishing pole to a cruise ship full of people; a gun and his dog were plenty of company. His bond with the beautiful, white dog had grown exponentially in the past few months. He now felt, more than saw, Solo resting nearby. Glancing around, he caught a glimpse of the dog under the bough of a young cypress, nearly hidden in shadow. Setting his coffee on the railing, he walked down to the edge of the bayou to check his crawfish and turtle traps.
His realized almost immediately that something was off. There were signs of a struggle and animal tracks: dog, gator and something else. He looked up to where Solo was lying. The dog’s tail was thumping now. “What have you been up to, Solo?” he asked, trying to sound stern. In answer, the beautiful dog stopped the wagging and stood. “Oh shit, you have that look again. Is that a smile?”
Bartos walked out on the dock, newly painted with gore and bloody paw prints, and began pulling in the first trap when he noticed the torn remnants of a man’s shirt. It was not one of his.
Solo moved closer to the water. Puzzled, Bartos began noticing other items strewn about the overgrown shoreline: a shoe; a bit of ball cap; what he had first taken for a stick but was now clearly part of a rifle. He felt the dog brush against his leg, then lean in heavily and sit, his usual morning greeting, a combined “Good morning” and “I’m hungry.” Looking down, he noticed the dog’s white muzzle was stained a dark brownish-crimson.
Bartos squatted and leaned his forehead to softly meet Solo’s. It was as much physical contact as either seemed comfortable with. “Did you have fun last night, boy?”
Solo’s tail beg
an thumping again, even more furiously. He had, he really had.
Chapter Twenty-Four
Arkansas
Michael Swain had come to the church by a somewhat less-than-holy route. He had been twenty-three, a graduate student and teaching intern at a parochial school. He had enjoyed that job more than anything in his life. Not so much the teaching, but being around the young girls, so sexy in their matching uniforms. He had been there only eight months when one of the girls had made a complaint about him. When the authorities questioned him, they took his phone and found the pictures. Lots and lots of pictures. Most were only suggestively inappropriate, but a few obviously indicated that he was stepping into forbidden territory. One picture, in particular, had cost him his career.
The headmaster had given him only one choice: go into the seminary to be a priest or go to jail. The school and the DA had decided to pursue a criminal case if he chose to ignore God’s will. He had not made it as a priest in the order, but he did get a degree, and with that, preaching jobs had been easy to find back home in Texas. Soon after, he had begun to garner attention for some of his more extreme right-wing sermons, as well as some of the protests his church sponsored. The ones outside abortion clinics and veterans’ funerals had been the most controversial, and by his measure, the most successful. Still, when confronted by a schoolgirl, his body reacted . . . He smiled as he felt his hardness grow. Looking next to him he saw the girl was still there. They had brought her to him the night before.
Michael liked this new world; he liked his place in it. He wanted more. He slid his naked body up against the girl. Her body stiffened, and he thought he heard a small whimper as he pulled her close. Was she crying? They often did. No matter. He wanted more.
A line of dark clouds indicated the morning raids would be a messy affair. Michael, the Prophet to his followers, came out of his RV camper still buttoning his pants. The morning glow on his face was often mistaken for something divine. To be honest, it was more accurately a combination of sex, liquor and pills.
“Are they ready?” He could hear the music playing and people singing.
“Yes, Your Holiness,” came the immediate response. Michael liked the Holiness part. He had borrowed it from the Pope, but big deal. The Pope was dead now. And Michael just fucking hated Catholics. It was all so much of a show: all those rules, rituals and costumes. And the outfits they made those girls wear at their schools—what a fucking joke. It was what got him in trouble, and damned if he was the only one who noticed that. He guessed they made the girls look so good just to try and keep the priests from going after the boys. Fuckin’ faggots. He still felt boiling anger when he thought back.
He walked towards the huge congregation, up the few steps to the flatbed truck they used as a stage. Hawley, his personal aide, driver and enforcer, handed him the microphone.
“Brothers and sisters in Christ. Good morning! Who are we?”
In unison, the crowd yelled, “The Messengers!”
He nodded, smiled and continued in his laid-back baritone, “And what is the mission of the Messengers?”
“To vanquish sinners and spread the Word!” Yep, he loved this new world, and he absolutely loved his place in it.
“Today, we move eastward, into the rising sun! Onto the glory road, where our enemies will perish before us! Do you know why? Because we have God on our side! We carry the Word into the darkness of this wretched world. We carry it like the sword of God. Our Word will smite down all those who would stand against it, all the wicked, all the sinners and yes, all those misled by false religions. We carry the message. We carry the message!” His volume increased with his fervor. “We carry . . . ” the crowd had picked it up now. Chanting in unison, over and over. He picked up the small trumpet that had become his trademark symbol and held it high. He felt the chant of the crowd rush through him.
“We carry the Message! We carry the Message!”
Some of his flock had their hands waving in the air; others stood on the verge of tears or hysteria. For the Prophet, it was intoxicating. Again, he felt his body responding. Smiling, he turned to Hawley and covered the microphone with a hand, “Get everyone moving. Deal with the new, um,” searching briefly for the right word, “converts, and let me know when the Judges report back in. I’ll be in my bus,” he paused again and smiled wickedly, “praying.”
Even though he knew Michael would not be praying, Hawley was convinced his illicit activities were sanctioned by a higher power. He had been with Michael from the early days, back when the movement was only a few hundred strong. Michael was a born orator, and Hawley was impressed that the man could preach for hours and never open his Bible. It was as if he were simply a vessel, and the words and divine wisdom just flowed out of him. Hawley was a true believer and proud to help His Holiness, the Prophet, in his quest to spread the Word.
Hawley and two of his disciple-brothers went to the holding pens. The stink and filth of the occupants reeked. The fetid mass of humanity inside the fencing was all male, all miserable, and all terrified of what was coming. They had seen it happen almost every day since being captured.
“Who’s ready to be judged?” Hawley called out loudly. None of the men moved, nor looked up. “Come on, come on, it’s time to get on your knees and confess. Release your burden as His Holiness has instructed.” A few of the men cautiously moved farther back in the crowd. Looking to the other two men, Hawley said in a lower voice, “Go on and get us the first twelve, we need to get this done quickly today.”
The twelve men selected were gathered and knelt in a row facing the compound. The other prisoners watched in horror. They were at once thankful that they had not been chosen and assured their time would also come. Hawley faced the large group of prisoners still in the holding pens again, “It is time to make right with your Lord. You were allowed to live this long simply thanks to our leader's abundant compassion. The Judges who found you must have felt you could be worthy. They allowed you to continue to live and struggle here on Earth, so you could be redeemed. You could help spread the Message of God’s love with us.
“The Prophet has graciously allowed me to give you a choice. You can convert from your wickedness and help us in our mission, or you can confess your sins and meet the Lord . . . or, you can choose not to confess and go straight to fiery Hell this very morning. These twelve here kneeling before you are going on ahead to help prepare a place for us in heaven. Bow your heads in silent prayer as they make peace.”
As most of the heads bowed, the sounds of axes hitting meat began to echo off the surrounding buildings. The spray of blood spattered many of those closest to the front of the pen. Hawley and his fellow Messengers watched as the effects of the gruesome deaths washed over the cowering men. The bodies tumbled forward, the ruined remnants of heads still attached tenuously to a few.
“Now you miserable sinners, who would like to come forward and convert this morning? Come on, we have room at the altar. Hold on, Pete, get those bodies out of here so we uh . . . we can have room at the altar.” Hawley smiled.
The line to convert formed instantly and Hawley’s men began taking names and inking the mark on the back of the hands of the new recruits. Michael always wanted more; he would be very pleased today. “You are now the very hands of God on this Earth. You are His Messengers. You will serve the Prophet, and you will obey me.”
Chapter Twenty-Five
Harris Springs, Mississippi
From the top deck, Scott could see the ocean, the town, the edge of the bayou and much of the surrounding land. An early spring was settling in, and just after sunrise, the temperature was already very comfortable. He sipped his coffee from a cup with the fancy Aquatic Goddess logo on it. He was not a man at peace; his mind was running. Even simple errors now could be fatal. Who can you trust, is the water safe, is that a cough or the beginning of something worse? As a man used to being alone, the responsibility for so many weighed him down.
He wanted desperately to get on his r
acing bicycle and take a ride; just park his brain and enjoy the open road. That might not be something he would be able to do much longer, even if he had the time. Every day brought new dangers now. Every turn of the road could be the one that ended him. When he rode now, it was rarely alone, he was always armed and he was working; fun was much less a part of his routine these days. He smiled. Who was he kidding? It still gave him a thrill to clip in and start pedaling. The gun and the extra ammo were just part of his normal outfit now.
Thankfully, he had only had to kill one other person since the day of the Waterworks Battle, as many referred to it. He had surprised a man attempting to steal his Jeep. It had just been loaded up with supplies. Even though Scott was well within his rights to simply kill the man, he hesitated—he had recognized the thief. That brief pause of recognition was all the man needed to raise his weapon. Scott’s shot was faster, and the aim was true. The man he’d only known as Richard, or maybe Rich, lay dead. Scott knew the family: a wife, a son and a daughter. He would not be coming back home to them. Richard had been one of the business owners in the town, not a druggie, not a common thief. He was just a man trying to survive and feed his family. Now he was dead, and his family would starve unless they came to the AG and could offer some contribution to the group.
He had remembered Richard voicing a mild protest when the town council said that everybody would have to work. He didn’t feel his wife should work. Her job was to stay home and raise the children. While that was a concept more relevant to the 1950s than the current era, he was not alone in that attitude. Many of the men in these parts had been traditionalists. Scott felt his demand was demeaning to women and had been the one to tell him so. If Richard came to the ship, he and his wife would work to help the group, as would his children when they reached an appropriate age. “Your archaic societal rules be damned. This is not the same world anymore.”