Feral Nation - Insurrection (Feral Nation Series Book 2)

by Scott B. Williams

  Contents

  Title

  Copyright

  Dedication

  One

  Two

  Three

  Four

  Five

  Six

  Seven

  Eight

  Nine

  Ten

  Eleven

  Twelve

  Thirteen

  Fourteen

  Fifteen

  Sixteen

  Seventeen

  Eighteen

  Keep Reading

  Enter the Darkness Excerpt

  More by Scott B. Williams

  About the Author

  Insurrection

  Feral Nation Series

  Book 2

  Scott B. Williams

  This is a work of fiction. Names, characters and events are all products of the author’s imagination and should not be construed as real. Any resemblance to persons living or dead is purely coincidental.

  Copyright © 2017 by Scott B. Williams

  All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopying, recording, or by any information storage and retrieval system, without permission in writing from the author.

  Cover photo: Fotolia #141926281 © Getmilitaryphotos

  Cover photo: Fotolia #100579897 © Stephan Orsillo

  Cover design © Scott B. Williams

  Editor: Michelle Cleveland

  12.07.17

  www.scottbwilliams.com

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  This one is for Jeffrey, a friend like no other.

  One

  ERIC BRANSON MOVED THE shift lever from neutral into forward and opened the throttle of the 50-horse Yamaha outboard just enough to push the skiff downriver at about five knots. Slow and easy was the ticket. Anything else would likely get the two of them cut to pieces by rifle fire.

  “Are you sure we ought to do this? I don’t like the looks of this at all,” Jonathan said.

  “It’s a little too late to turn back now. I think we’re committed. If we try to back out it’s just going to look suspicious. We don’t really have another option anyway. Just be cool and keep your hands where they can see them and they probably won’t shoot you.”

  “Probably won’t? Yeah, that makes me feel better!”

  Eric Branson understood Jonathan’s anxiety. The two of them were approaching the channel blockade at the mouth of the Caloosahatchee River near Fort Myers, Florida, staring down the barrels of nearly a dozen rifles while sitting there in an 18-foot skiff in the wide open. If this meeting went sideways, it was doubtful either of them would survive it. But negotiating for their passage was a matter of survival as well. Eric’s father and his ex-wife and her family were just a few miles upriver, waiting aboard the 42-foot sailboat anchored mid-channel above the Interstate 75 bridge overpass. This blockade of steel barges moored across the mouth of the Caloosahatchee was the only thing standing between them and the Gulf of Mexico, and it represented the first of many obstacles Eric knew he must overcome in the next phase of his quest to find his daughter. Eric and Bart had deemed it far too risky to first approach the blockade in the schooner due to the potential risk of losing the boat and everything aboard, as well as compromising the safety of the crew. Eric and Jonathan would instead take that risk alone, so after getting an anchor down in a quiet stretch of the river with good visibility, the two of them went ahead in Bart’s skiff.

  Ever since he’d met the kid in his hidden camp in the mangroves near Jupiter Inlet, Eric found Jonathan game for most anything, even forays as dangerous as this one. He could have come here alone, but decided it might look better to those in charge of this operation if he was accompanied by a young man he could pass off as his son. Eric would tell them his own father was also aboard their bigger boat waiting, which was the truth. Shauna and her husband and stepson he would claim as his sister and her family, even though in reality she was his former wife. He thought it might make them all appear less threatening if they presented themselves as one extended family doing their best to survive hard times, now seeking to leave the dangers of Florida to set sail for someplace safer. And for the most part that was true, but whether or not it would matter depended on the nature of this blockade and those who had set it up and now manned it. Eric didn’t know whether they were authorities of some sort, or just regular citizens that banded together to protect the water entrance to their city. He had to consider also that they might be among the bad element. Many of that ilk had taken advantage of the situation here in Florida in the aftermath of the hurricane, a natural disaster that finished a breakdown of law and order that had already begun months before it struck.

  Because of this uncertainty, Eric knew that anything could happen now that they were within rifle range of the blockade. He’d left his own rifles aboard the schooner, knowing that if this was an official checkpoint of some kind, the weapons could get him and Jonathan arrested at best or shot on the spot at worst. The only weapon he had on him was his Glock 19, tucked away in the appendix position inside the waistband of his shorts in a minimalist holster, the grip well covered by the bottom of his T-shirt. The handgun wouldn’t be spotted unless they were physically searched, and while that was always a possibility, but Eric couldn’t bring himself to come here completely unarmed. If he were indeed destined to die here today, he would have the means to take one or more of his killers with him.

  Eric had cut the outboard throttle to idle as soon as they rounded the final bend and came within sight of the blockade. As he and Jonathan sat there drifting, nearly a half mile away, he put out a call on Channel 16 on his handheld VHF radio to announce his intentions, and was directed to continue his slow approach by the man that answered. At that point it would have still been possible to turn around and leave, but not now. They were already in rifle range, and besides, Eric Branson wasn’t in the habit of waffling on decisions once they were made.

  “It’s gonna suck if we’re just running into a trap, dude.”

  “There’s no use worrying about something that hasn’t happened yet. Just chill, man. We’re just going to have a chat with these fellows, that’s all. It’s not like we’re sneaking up on them in the dark or something. I don’t think they’ll just kill us for no reason.”

  “I hope you’re right, man. I really do.”

  Eric said nothing else. His focus now was on the objective, and he steered with the outboard to the barge that one of the men was pointing to, directing him to pull alongside. There was a long line of them moored end to end across the river, secured against the gentle current by heavy chain rodes that disappeared into the dark waters to unseen anchors below. There was no room for any kind of sizable vessel to pass, although a skiff like the one they were in could probably slip between the barges in a couple of places with permission from the guards.

  Now that they were within speaking distance, Eric doubted seriously that the men manning this blockade were officials. Most of them looked more like local commercial fisherman or other local tradesmen, certainly not military or even civilian law enforcement. That could be either good or bad, and Eric knew he was about to find out which momentarily. He greeted the nearest man standing over him on the deck of one of the barges as they drifted closer. The man was watching him and Jonathan closely, the AR-15 in his hands at low ready, but not pointed directly at them as they were already well covered by his companions. This one seemed to be in charge though, and seeing the radio clipped to
his belt, Eric assumed he was the one he’d spoken with already. Eric’s friendly greeting was ignored however, answered only with a sharp question:

  “What is it you want to talk about?”

  “Like I said on the VHF, my son and I are here to find out what this blockade is all about, and see if we might get permission to pass. We want to leave the river. We want access to the Gulf.”

  “In that? Where do the two of you plan to go exactly?”

  “No, it’s not just us. The rest of my family is upriver on our sailboat. We knew you had the river closed here, but we assume the purpose is to keep vessels out, rather than in. Is that right?”

  “The purpose is for us to decide. That’s what it’s for. We haven’t had anyone coming down the river lately wanting out. There’s not many honest people still around that are thinking about boats, other than a few local folks we know. But we’ve had more than our share of looters coming in here from other places. That’s why we closed the river. So where did you come from that your boat is upriver? And why are you just now wanting to leave?”

  “My father lives upriver not far from Lake Okeechobee. He owns a small boatyard there and the boat was on the hard there for refit since back before all the trouble started in the spring. My son Jonathan and I brought my sister and her family over to my father’s place to ride out the hurricane, and we’ve been holding out there while we worked on the boat to get it ready to relaunch. We’ve had problems with looters too, and we knew it was going to get too dangerous to stay. Now that the boat is ready, it’s time for us to go. We came this way because we didn’t think we’d be able to transit the waterway going east because of the locks and dams. And we needed to get to the Gulf coast anyway because we’re planning to sail across to get my brother.”

  “Across the Gulf? It had better be a seaworthy boat, then. Just how big is it?”

  “Forty-two feet, with a twelve-foot beam. She’s built for bluewater.”

  “Well, the only way you can get a boat that size through here is if we move one of these barges completely out of the way, and that’s a hell of a lot of trouble. How do we know this sailboat even belongs to you? How do we know that you and your son aren’t looters too, and that you didn’t steal it? Maybe you even killed the owners for it?”

  Eric and Bart had already discussed the issue of ownership of the schooner, and what they were going to do about documentation. In a way, they had essentially stolen the schooner. The true owners were a retired Canadian couple living in Ontario who’d contracted with Bart to store their vessel in his yard in the off season when they went home after their annual winter cruises. But now that south Florida had been laid to waste by a catastrophic hurricane and the rest of the country was paralyzed by violence and shortages of fuel and other goods, all the boats in Bart’s boatyard were abandoned indefinitely. He’d done his best to protect them from looters while he could, but now it was time to leave. Bart knew the owners of the vessel formerly known as Tropicbird would never return, and that he would never collect storage or service fees for it or any of the other vessels on his property. If they didn’t take the boat best suited to their purposes, someone else would, or it would be looted and stripped and left there on the hard indefinitely. In the end, all that mattered now was survival, and Bart had agreed with Eric that they had to look out for themselves from this point forward. It had taken some extra work, but they had gotten rid of all traces of the original name and documentation of the custom-built schooner, and created a new identity borrowed from a similar-sized Coast Guard documented sailing vessel in Bart’s yard named Dreamtime.

  Dreamtime was a steel-hulled ketch that was in a sad state of neglect. Her hull was rusting away and the vessel would likely never be launched again even if not for recent events. The owner was far in arrears on his storage fees and wasn’t coming back. No one else would miss her and no one would likely be comparing the fine details of design and hull materials in the current circumstances anyway. A casual inspection of the Canadian schooner’s metal hull wouldn’t reveal that it was built of aluminum, rather than steel, because every exposed surface was painted with two-part epoxy paint. The size and displacement were close enough for a match, and so it was that Tropicbird became Dreamtime. The Colvin schooner left Bart’s boatyard with the new name and the hailing port of Stuart, Florida painted on her stern, as well as borrowed documentation papers and a carved number plate bolted to her main bulkhead. Bart was certain that it was good enough to fool most people they might encounter, and he and Eric doubted they would be subject to serious scrutiny by U.S. Coast Guard or customs and immigration agents anytime soon. These guys guarding their river blockade were apparently civilians and were unlikely to notice any discrepancy. Eric was confident of that when he replied to the man’s question:

  “It’s a Coast Guard documented vessel. The original owner kept it stored in my father’s boatyard, but when all the riots started happening he decided he wanted to sell it fast and get what he could out of it. All the paperwork is on board, showing that he signed it over to my father months before the hurricane hit. My father’s done a lot of work on it since, and with my son and I helping, we just recently got it ready to go. The boatyard and his house on the river are no longer safe and it’s only going to get worse. Like I said before, that’s why we’re all leaving.”

  “I don’t know where you expect to go that’s going to be much better. Things are not just bad in Florida, you know.”

  “So I’ve heard,” Eric said. “We still feel better about taking our chances out there though than staying here.”

  “It’s not up to me or any one of us to decide if we can open up this blockade. We do things here by committee decision. One thing I can tell you though, is that it’s going to cost you. Moving one of the barges out of the way and then putting it back in place is a lot of work.”

  “I kind of figured it wouldn’t be free,” Eric said. “We can pay, as long as the price is reasonable.”

  “The price will have to be determined. Committee, like I said. I can tell you this though, in case you don’t already know it: checks, plastic, folding money and all other such nonsense is off the table. You’re going to have to pay with something that is still of use in the present circumstances. I’m sure you understand why.”

  Eric did understand why. He understood that promissory notes and credit had little value with the economy in ruin, and he also understood that those in control of necessary goods and services could demand their price in whatever form they wanted. In this case, these men were in control of navigation at the mouth of this river, and the only option was to pay what they asked or try and get through by force. The latter wasn’t a realistic option at all, considering that there were several armed men watching them at the moment, and no doubt many more out of sight among the dozen or so commercial fishing vessels anchored just inside the blockade. But Eric was prepared to pay, and he had brought proof of that with him.

  “Will this work?” Eric produced a small yellow coin from his pocket, holding it up in the sunlight where the man could get a good look at it. A half-ounce of gold was worth a lot more than Eric wanted to give these people, but he’d already discussed it with Bart. The next best commodity of real value they had to offer was firearms and ammunition, of which they had plenty, but Eric feared that disclosing the presence of those on board could open them up for trouble if this was an authorized blockade. He deemed it far safer to offer payment in gold. The amount could be negotiated, and the half-ounce and one-ounce Krugerrand and other coins he had could be easily cut into segments to yield smaller denominations if such were needed.

  The man took the coin from Eric and examined both sides before passing it to his companions, who nodded approval upon having a look. “This will do for a deposit. Bring your sailboat on down here where we can see it and have your crew stand by on it over there.” He pointed to an open area near the south side of the channel. “Then you come back alone in your boat and bring me another one of t
hese for the balance. It’ll take us a good hour to move one of these barges and just as long to put it back after you leave. We’ll get started as soon as we have your full payment.”

  “That’s robbery!” Eric said. “That’s a half ounce of gold and I don’t have another one. It was a gift my father received from a friend years ago.”

  “I know how much gold it is, but what it’s worth now is different from what it might have been worth before. What I can tell you it’s not worth though, is all the trouble and work required to let a boat that size through here. Maybe you’d better ask your old man again. He probably has a little collection of these stashed away somewhere that he forgot to tell you about.”

  Eric said nothing, even though he did have many more of the coins along with the larger one-ounce variety as well. The truth was that none of them were Bart’s though. The gold was Eric’s severance and bonus pay that he’d negotiated with his employer when he’d left his well-paid contracting work in Europe. But Eric wasn’t prepared to give more of it to these thieves. It was clear that they weren’t going to be satisfied with the single half-ounce coin though, so he made a counter offer.

  “I’ll tell you what. Hold the coin for a deposit, and when we get our sailboat through, we’ll leave you this skiff instead. We probably shouldn’t try to tow it at sea anyway, in case we run into bad weather. As you can see, it’s a good rig with a perfectly good Yamaha outboard. It’s easily worth more than two of those coins and it’s certainly useful. It’s registered to my father and he has the paperwork on it and I’m sure he’ll sign it over.”

  Eric and Jonathan waited while the men whispered among themselves and finally, the one he’d given the coin to said they had an agreement. He would hold the coin until they returned and then take the skiff and outboard when the blockade was opened for the passage of the bigger boat. With that settled, Eric put the Yamaha back in gear and turned and sped upriver to get Bart and the others.