by JK Franks
Another group was busy working on a recipe that amounted to homemade napalm. It was created from diesel fuel, alcohol and styrofoam broken into small pieces. The plan was that it could be dropped over the side onto any force trying to climb up the sides of the ship. Several men were busy making rack after rack of Molotov cocktails with the napalm, and some genius had improvised a PVC grenade with a kind of impact igniter. They had even gone a step further and converted a larger PVC pipe into a compressed air cannon in order to launch the improvised grenades farther away.
Drums of diesel fuel were positioned on the deck, ready to drop into the canal where they could be ignited. Trench pits were dug on the far side that would also contain explosives. Anti-truck spikes were installed, barbed wire was strung below the surface of the waterway, and heavy guns had been brought into place on multiple decks.
The hardest part so far was proving to be the shielding and reinforcement of the lower deck’s exterior cabin windows. They would be the easiest areas to attack, and having the ship open to the elements was something they wanted to avoid.
They were unpacking the .50 caliber guns Jack had gotten in Slidell when they realized the ammo was missing. Abe. Jack couldn’t get past his guilt at having brought that traitorous bastard to the AG. “I hope you rot in hell,” he growled, glancing down at the blood stain still visible on the docks below.
The sheer volume of work being done was impressive. Everyone was nervous and on edge. They had passed word for everyone to take a break at six that evening to enjoy a community meal. He and Angel were going to address the group at that time. They hoped Bartos would also be back by then, so they could get an update on the problem to the north.
Chapter Seventy-Nine
“Preacher, we gonna be aight?” a haggard-looking black man asked. Angel and DeVonte were standing nearby, also looking worn out.
Jack was standing on a small platform to one side of the dining hall. He pinched the bridge of his nose trying to decide how much to tell. “We have our hands full, I’m not going to lie to you. We all have an idea of what we are up against with the Messengers. We are in for a fight. I know our defenses are good, and this ship is solid, but we can’t underestimate them. On top of that, this storm coming in is going to be tough. I just got off the radio with Todd who is stuck out at sea with the Navy right now.”
Jack paused, thinking back to what else Todd had said, or more accurately, not said on the radio call. “The Navy is willing to help if it comes to a fight, and that certainly seems a likelihood. While the Messengers have been having their way with most places, we are more secure and have friends with big sticks. That does not mean the Navy will come in at the first sign of trouble. Chances are we will have to fight our own battles until we know what size group we are dealing with. That’s why all of us are doing our best with the defensive measures. We appreciate you being here, and rest assured it’s far safer than being out there . . . but go ahead and get it in your head: you will have to fight.
“This may be your refuge from the storm, but you are going to have to work for it. I trust the good Lord to keep us safe. If each of you does your part, we will be fine.” Then he repeated one of his favorite psalms: “‘He is my refuge and my fortress: my God; in him will I trust. Surely, he shall deliver thee from the snare of the fowler, and from the noisome pestilence. He shall cover thee with his feathers, and under his wings shalt thou trust: his truth shall be thy shield and buckler. Thou shalt not be afraid for the terror by night; nor for the arrow that flieth by day; nor for the pestilence that walketh in darkness; nor for the destruction that wasteth at noonday. A thousand shall fall at thy side, and ten thousand at thy right hand; but it shall not come nigh thee.’
“Brothers and sisters, do not fear these people who do not serve our Lord, but only their own wickedness. We will be victorious in our battle against evil.”
Numerous “Amens” rang out through the room. Truthfully, Jack had doubts, more about himself than the Lord. He trusted his faith, but through a lifetime of fighting, he’d learned to trust his sword nearly as much. If it had just been his life he was responsible for, he would have felt better, but now he worried for all these friends and neighbors. He thought back to the priest in Slidell. Father Ernesto had seen the evil, and it scared him, scarred him. Jack didn’t want that to be him. He felt that the good Lord normally expected you to do your own fighting, not just sit there in prayer looking for a miracle. That was precisely what they needed, though.
While he was temporarily in charge, his fighting skills were primarily close-quarter self-defense. He knew little about military action if it came to that, and even less about the ship's systems if anything went wrong during the storm. The simple truth was that he missed his friends from both an emotional and a practical standpoint. Todd had been essential to Jack getting his life straightened out, and Bartos and Scott were like brothers now. The four of them had stepped forward at a crucial moment to help save the town and each other. They were a team.
He was sure Todd was holding something back when they talked, and now Jack couldn’t get past the unvoiced implication that Scott might be gone. Together they had been united in keeping this community alive; separately they were much less effective. He said his final words and turned the platform over to Angel, who addressed individual assignments.
He walked out the glass doors to the deck rail and watched the sun setting over the Gulf. Clouds were already beginning to build, and the coming weather produced a brilliant sunset. He checked his watch; Bartos should be back anytime now. Bowing his head, Jack said a prayer for his friends and the mission that each was on. Then he asked for protection for the group entrusted to his care. “We do need your help, oh Lord.”
Looking out, he remembered the opening line from the Dylan Thomas poem tacked above Scott’s work desk down below: “Do not go gentle into that good night, Old age should burn and rave at close of day; Rage, rage against the dying of the light.”
A rage was exactly what he had burning up from inside.
Chapter Eighty
Bartos dropped the radio and pushed the pedal, easing the red needle closer to ninety. They had all heard DeVonte give the report on things back at the Aquatic Goddess. He would have stayed on a few minutes longer, but they had a motorcycle pursuing them down the country road: one of the dreaded Judges. Bartos, well, he really didn’t care; in the movies, a man on a motorcycle might seem like a threat, but he wasn’t much of one in real life. In the battle of GTO versus motorcycle, he had no doubt who would win.
Bobby was not doing too well, but the poultice that Ms. Mahalia had kept applying to his wound was beginning to help. It smelled and looked awful, but the redness around the wound and the fever were much improved. He glanced back every now and then to check the distance between them and the lone Judge. “So, where is Scott again?”
Kaylie went through it for the third time, but Bobby just couldn’t wrap his head around it: his kid brother on a special ops raid at a terrorist location? “Dad, he’s not the same anymore, he—he’s, I don’t know . . . different.”
“He’s a survivor,” Bartos chimed in. Looking back at him in the mirror. “Hell, we’re all different now, including your little girl.”
“I see that,” Bobby said with a hint of sadness.
“Hey, Pops, looks like that bandage needs changing. Bartos, you got your first aid kit in the car?” Kaylie was already looking.
“Yeah, I have a first aid kit: whiskey and duct-tape. Which one you need first?”
“Don’t be an ass,” she said with a smirk.
“It’s in the top of the go-bag. Trauma kit is to the side.”
She opened the Maxpedition pack and quickly found the kit. Removing the surgical wipes and fresh gauze, she leaned into the backseat and began peeling away the fouled bandages from the wound. “Wow, this looks pretty good considering it’s so recent. Your friends knew what to do.” She dabbed some antibacterial cream around it anyway and applied the new
dressing. She glanced up to see her dad wince several times, but she just smiled and kept working. “I know, Dad. I’m pretty used to seeing gruesome now. I’m terribly sorry it’s you, and I know it hurts, but trust me. I know what needs to be done.”
“I know you do sweetheart . . .” he said through gritted teeth, “I’m . . . just very proud of you. I didn’t know what shape you would be in. It’s so bad out there.”
“You raised her right, Bobby, and she is a fast learner,” Bartos said into the mirror. “Uh-oh, here he comes again. This guy’s an idiot. I’m not leading him all the way to Harris Springs. He has to go.”
Bobby looked over at Jacob who was curled up asleep with one hand lying on Solo’s head. “How you want to play it?”
“I would just brake-check the goofy fuck—he’s doing about ninety, and since I don’t have brake lights he’d be roadkill in seconds—but that would damage the trunk and bumper. That spoiler back there would be hard as hell to replace.”
Kaylie just laughed, shaking her head. “It’s a car, Bartos, seriously.” She rolled her eyes at her dad.
“Women,” Bartos shook his head. “If I remember correctly, there’s a small rise coming up in a mile or two. I’m gonna put a bit more distance between us then stop just over the rise of the hill. The three of us will be armed and ready when he tops it.”
“That sounds like an Uncle Scott move, like on his bike,” Kaylie said
“I know. It worked for him, should work for us. Weapons hot ya’ll. I am going to swing the car to give us a firing platform. Solo, ready.” Bartos cleared the hill, cut speed and swung the goat partially sideways in the road. Bobby leaned awkwardly out the side window. Kaylie got out on her side and took aim over the roof with her M4. Bartos walked out to the middle of the road, his carbine at low ready. Solo hopped out by Kaylie and padded over to the ditch nearer the hilltop.
The sound of the approaching motorcycle increased in volume. As it crested the hill, a volley of shots rang out. The motorcycle went down, the driver clutching at his chest. Bartos held up a hand as he approached the figure writhing on the ground.
“Man, you picked a lousy day to try and be a hero.” Bartos kicked the man’s legs as he circled him. Reaching down he withdrew a large pistol from the man’s shoulder holster.
“Whoa, whoa, brother, I’m one of you,” he held up a hand with the black cross tattoo.
“If you’re one of us, why you chasing us?” Bartos asked the fallen rider.
“I’m shot, man, I’m fucking bleeding out, help me please.”
Bartos laughed, “I’m not helping you man, shit . . . I’m the one who shot you. Saving your life would be, like, counterproductive to my goals. Now answer my fucking question, or . . .” he motioned to Solo who was instantly at the man’s throat with a deep growl and his teeth bared; his face showed anticipation at the opportunity for another kill.
“Whoa, whoa, please! Mister, just call him off.” The man ended the plea with a wheezing cough that sent a spray of blood down his chin.
“Yeah, can’t do that either. He hasn’t eaten today, and he gets a might cranky when he’s hungry. Looks like you got a collapsed lung . . . you’re not likely to make it much longer one way or the other. I need an answer now. Why were you chasing us?”
“I, I thought you were part of the recon convoy. I was just trying to catch up! Most of the Judges and recon teams pulled out this morning heading to that place on the coast. I had to find some gas for my bike, and I got left behind.”
“How many of you are there?” Bartos was dead serious now.
“I don’t know, mister, honest I don’t . . . thousands—maybe three hundred in the recon division and three or four thousand total. Most of them are behind us.”
“So, we’re behind the worst of them and ahead of the main body? Are they all using the same route?” The man closed his eyes and seemed to fade. Bartos kicked him in the ribs. “Answer me now.”
The man struggled to put words together. “Huh? No, different routes, but this one should be the quickest.” His eyes fluttered. “Help me, in God’s name, help—”
“What else can you tell us? Who is this prophet fellow? Is he behind or ahead of us?” The man didn’t answer. Bartos kicked him again. “Answer me!” he yelled.
“Bartos, I think he’s dead,” Kaylie said as she and Bobby approached. She checked his pulse. “Yep, you’re interrogating a corpse.”
Bartos looked mildly embarrassed, “Sorry, I have issues, okay?”
They checked the man’s pockets quickly, finding a few items of use. Bartos was desperate for a better plan. Speed alone would no longer work. “Kaylie, you’re going to have to drive the car. I’m gonna use this clown’s bike to scout ahead. If you see me slowing down, you find a place to disappear. We’ll probably need to take some side roads, but I know them, the Messenger’s don't. Be ready for trouble. Bobby, you better ride shotgun.”
Chapter Eighty-One
The Judges’ path of destruction quickly became apparent. Houses burned, bodies hung from trees. They were within twenty miles of Harris Springs before they encountered the first group: a recon team collecting supplies.
“Dad, get ready,” Kaylie whispered. Her dad looked ashen but nodded his head grimly. Up ahead she could see Bartos waving at the men. He wore a pair of leather riding gloves he had taken from the dying man.
Bartos pulled right up to the group. “Which way did they head?” He had to yell over the noise of the Harley.
One of the guys stopped what he was doing and eyed Bartos suspiciously. “Geeze, man, that bike is way too big for you.” Bartos shot him in the head, making a neat hole through the man’s Jesus Saves hat.
He eyed the next man. “Which way?”
“Sorry, sorry man, Earl didn’t mean nothin’. They went down ’at road yonda, toward Highway 50.”
Bartos took off, waving the car on behind him. He did not take the highway but cut through to a less direct route to Harris Springs—one that led to the ferry landing. Once they were away from the group, he slowed enough to tell Kaylie the plan. She radioed ahead to the AG to let them know to be ready. “Make sure the bridges are raised and have the ferry at the dock in ten minutes,” she finished, accelerating to keep up with Bartos.
The GTO was fishtailing around turns trying to stay close to Bartos. Several times they glimpsed a dust cloud from the adjacent beach road, raised by the Judges that were using it to reach the main highway into town. The route they were on meant they would be stopped by the raised drawbridges. Kaylie was worried she and Bartos wouldn’t make it to the ferry in time, but it was the only chance they had.
She followed Bartos as he left the side road and slowed onto the dirt trail that went back to the secluded ferry dock. He drove the bike onto the barge just ahead of Kaylie in the car. As she pulled up, Bartos placed something beneath the dock and jumped back over just as the ferry pulled away for the far shore.
“Bobby, can you help?” Bartos handed him a nylon line that ran back to the dock. “When it gets to the end, tug it. That’ll arm the Claymore I planted under it.”
Bobby took the line as it rapidly fed back to the dock. He wanted to be as far away as possible before tugging, just in case. Bartos was getting back on the motorcycle; the far shore was approaching fast. The massive dirt cloud from the bikers was clearly visible now, just a few hundred yards to the west. Bobby reached the end of the line and gave a sharp tug. The line briefly went tight, then slackened again as the safety key came free from the explosive mine beneath the wooden dock.
He coiled the rope and hopped back in the car with his daughter and Jacob. He noticed the dog was gone again. Before he could wonder too much about its whereabouts, the massive white cruise ship came into view. “So that’s the AG? Wow, hell of a bugout shelter,” he remarked, visibly impressed.
Kaylie whipped the car up the short ramp. The man operating the ferry had hopped on the back of Bartos’ bike, and all were soon helped into the bowels of t
he ship.
Chapter Eighty-Two
Harris Springs, Mississippi
Jack was waiting by the steel door when the group arrived. “I see you brought company for dinner,” he smiled, holding his hand out to Bobby in welcome. Hasty introductions were made. The preacher looked genuinely happy to meet Scott’s brother.
The cloud of worry Jack was feeling had thinned a little at their arrival. “Glad to see you made it, friend. Let’s get you on over to medical. Jacob, I think Angel might have some sandwiches waiting for you in the dining hall.” Kaylie took the boy and her father and headed off to get both taken care of. Jack walked over to Bartos and quietly asked, “Jesus Christ, friend, just how bad is it?”
“Pretty bad, Preacher. We got the worst of them gathering on the far bank right now. The Judges. Probably be a few hundred by nightfall. The rest will be coming over the next few days. It will be all we can handle.”
“Well, shit, should we call the Navy for help?”
Bartos looked at his friend and shook his head. “Not yet. I guess they’re still busy with the raid on Devil’s Tower. Besides, if they hit them now, they’ll be missing the main body of the Messengers, and the fucking beloved leader. No, we’re gonna have to stand our ground ’til the rest of ’em are here. Then the Navy can come in and do some real damage.”