A House Divided: Book 3 of The Of Sudden Origin Saga

by C. Chase Harwood

  As Paul’s anguish filled her with sympathetic agony, she could only stand and stare as he rolled in the dirt and shredded chunks of tent until the flames were doused. When she lifted the tent fabric away from him, skin pulled away with it, leaving his upper torso a blackened bloody meaty mess. His left eye had fused shut. Gasping, he opened the right — a white beacon in a mass of black — and glared a mixture of thanks and shock at her. Full Face placed all her mental focus on her prophet and took away his pain while leaving him able to think clearly.

  Mary? he inquired.

  She glanced at the female. The body was a mixture of bright red coals and sizzling flesh. A simple thing, such as dousing the flames on a burning body with a blanket, was unknown to the Chosen. It was enough for Paul, who closed his one working eye. My eldest?

  Full Face glanced at the boy, who only moments before had been bouncing on the table tormenting the meal. Now, unharmed, the youngster was bouncing next to the corpse of his mother. Full Face couldn’t tell if the boy was sad or excited. The son of Paul kept his thoughts well to himself.

  Littlefield groaned under the weight of the Chosen above him, and grew panicked as he felt the beast burn. He took a cough filled breath and heaved upward. It was as if someone had laid bags of cement on him. He felt the fire touch his ankle and he screamed, shoving up and getting a knee beneath himself. Yelling like a competition weightlifter, he heaved again and felt the flaming corpse slide off of him. He scrambled out of harms way to a relatively untouched patch of ground and observed his surroundings. The immediate vicinity was teeming with activity. Even as flames rose from dozens of tents, Chosen swarmed in to offer help to the injured. The few humans nearby were ignored. Littlefield could see in the way they moved, the humans discovering their sudden freedom; despite some injuries, they were carefully slinking away, trying not to be noticed. He looked back at the oil cart, which had been reduced to its burning rubber wrapped wheels. The frame was laying in a lake of oil and flaming metal drums. The oxen were nowhere to be seen. Then he saw the smoldering head of one of the beasts at the feet of the Chosen he had just shucked off. The head must have acted like a blunt force projectile into the back of the monster.

  Another drum went off, arcing across the sky in a lazy cartwheel.

  Instinctively ducking, Littlefield forced himself to stand in a crouch. A mass of Chosen were headed for the remains of the tent of The Five. In order to escape them, he had to walk toward the tent as well and then past it. That’s when he saw Marlena pulling herself from beneath the flaming canvas, as yet un-burned. She stood in terror and turned in a slow circle while backing away from the heat. The doctor angled for the girl while unbuttoning his ruined shirt.

  He startled her while handing the shirt toward her. She quickly recognized him and gratefully took the garment, throwing her arms through the sleeves and wrapping herself. He looked around seeking the path of least resistance, took her elbow, and guided her toward the tree line to the east. “Quickly now. Just a small window to make our break.”

  CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE

  Breakout

  Dietrich Pelham still held his napkin in his hand as he stepped out on the porch with Olsen, joining Dr. Harrison and others as they observed the glow in the Western sky.

  It was well past sunset. With little to no light pollution to spoil it, the view of the galaxy peeking through the black cloud cover created the impression of an unfinished jigsaw puzzle — the clouds to the west glowing orange. The sound of the screen door slamming shut jolted the group as Mitchell was the last to step out.

  “Forest fire?” ask Dietrich to no one in particular.

  “No lightning to speak of,” said Olsen.

  Dr. Mitchell said, “Explain it does, a forest fire would, the reason we’ve seen panicked animals coming ashore.”

  Dietrich asked Olsen, “Is there a flier free?”

  “Can’t,” said Olsen. “Up north, they are. Part of the Long Island campaign.”

  Dietrich looked hard at his fellow councilman. The colonel ignored the glare, his eyes remaining firmly fixed on the horizon. Dietrich said, “Campaign? I thought it was a done deal.”

  “Tomato tomahto. The US wasn’t going to just roll over.”

  Dietrich turned fully to look even harder at Olsen, who continued to ignore the stare. “Actually, that’s exactly what you said. Too lazy up there. Their heads stuck in virtual reality. Welcomed with opened arms, you said.”

  Olsen waved Pelham away like a buzzing fly. “We’ll send the sentinel across the water. Suss it out it will. Not like the Chesapeake won’t hold back a forest fire.”

  Like the rough-hewn boards that made up the walls of the barn that surrounded him, the stall wall that Jon was bolted to was old. The top of it had been gnawed to a rounded splintered edge by decades of anxious penned up horses. It was also really strong; hard and harvested from old growth trees. No matter how much he yanked and twisted on the handcuff, he only managed to chafe his wrist into red swollen rawness. On the opposite side of the wall, Nikki swore under her breath as she looked at her own mangled wrist. Her cuff was just loose enough so that she could slide her hand partly out, but not enough to succeed. She was bleeding from the attempt.

  Jon whispered, “OK, this is fucked. Everywhere I go with you I end up getting imprisoned. I didn’t ask for this assignment. I was dragged into it.”

  She chuckled.

  “What’s funny?”

  “I think that was my quote to you when we finally split up.”

  “Nice.”

  There was a cracking sound of bursting wood from where Dean was and then the sound of creaking cot springs, some shuffling on squeaky floor boards, and he stood looking at his two companions, his position allowing him to be seen from both sides. A handcuff with a bent D-ring on it hung from is raw wrist. “You two should get a room.”

  Jon looked at his own wrist and said, “How’d you..?”

  “I’m going to look for my wife and son. If I don’t get caught or killed, I’ll come back with something to break you free.”

  Nikki said, “Why not break us free now and we can help you?”

  “One: I’m much less likely to be spotted working alone. Two: Hopefully they don’t notice I’m missing until they return with breakfast. Three: That was loud. Can’t risk that sound again.”

  Nikki said, “I’m a Marine, Force Recon. A trainer. I can help you. We can help you. We’ve seen it all.”

  “I’m a former frogman, but thanks for offering. I don’t think they’re planning on hurting you, so you’re safer here.”

  Jon said, “You don’t know that, and you can’t make that decision for us.”

  Dean turned to climb a ladder leading up to the rafters and a venting cupola at the roof’s peak. “Sorry, I just did.”

  Stewart was relieved to discover that one of the wood slatted air vents that made up the four sides of the cupola was hinged to make access to the roof easy. The jerks who had locked them up hadn’t considered the three story high space as a means of escape. The hinges squeaked in an unnerving way. He had to fight past a wall of ancient cobwebs, but then he was outside. Crouching low, he closed the door behind him and scanned the surroundings. The house was lit up, with no one posted on guard. The sentinel, which had been stationed outside the barn, was moving off on the road that led west, with an escort of two soldiers. He waited until they were obscured by the forest before moving further out to scan the rest of the surroundings. As was typical of post Omega nights, it was very dark outside. Nevertheless, the farmhouse was aglow, throwing off enough light to give definition to the surroundings on that side of the barn. To the east, where the driveway came in from the main road, he spotted the truck and trailer that had brought them in. There was also a fancy looking horse drawn cab and a military looking camper/van. The van windows were dark, with a slice of light peaking through the bottom edge of a shade or some window cover. The horse paddock was quiet; the animals having been brought under the cover of a
ramshackle roof built over a trough. The most startling feature was the western horizon, which was lit up, a glow turning the cloud cover orange. That would explain the sentinel moving off. He glanced around once more, hunting the darkness for any other movement. The far side of the barn was almost completely devoid of light, the ground below indiscernible. It might as well have dropped off into an abyss. A leap of faith was in order. He sat, like a child on the top of an insanely steep slide, and pushed off. Dragging his feet and hands to slow his descent, he felt his stomach leap into his chest as he suddenly plummeted into thin air. Parachute training was a huge help here. He hit the ground and rolled in a perfect display of the right way to land. His aging joints protested a bit, but he got himself up quickly, and, with a slight limp, headed for cover. He wanted to work his way to the back of the house. He would skirt the front by moving inside the tree line. The long dead forest didn’t offer much concealment, but it was enough.

  As he got in among the fresh ferns that were defying the rest of the dead and decayed, he heard a rustling. Had he misjudged the sentinel? Was it coming back? He ducked down to a crouch while keeping his legs spring loaded. The rustling was coming closer, the sound of several feet moving. Six-legged fucking robot soldier. Can’t get caught already. His right hand instinctively searched the ground for a rock or stick to use as a weapon, the motion making a rattling sound as the handcuff with the dangling D-ring clanged. He closed his eyes and swore at himself. The rustling stopped. Couldn’t be more than twenty yards away. He remained crouched and closed his eyes, letting his hearing do the work. Lactic acid was building up in his legs and he could feel a cramp coming on, then suddenly his left calf seized up in a full spasm. He gritted his teeth and gripped it firmly with his left hand, trying to massage it out without falling over. While the muscle was contracting into a tight ball, it occurred to him that he was extremely dehydrated.

  The rustling returned and burst into a crashing rush. He prepared himself to be bowled over, when he felt rather than saw, a half-dozen deer blast past him into the open space next to the house and into the darkness beyond.

  He let himself fall to a seated position and furiously rubbed at his calf until the spasm subsided, leaving him with a dull ache.

  No one came out to investigate the noise. It was like the deer hadn’t even gone by. Still, he followed his initial instinct and skirted the house until he could safely approach it from behind. He saw movement inside what must be the kitchen. A man in uniform passed the window and he paused to watch. From what he could see, the man and some other soldiers were eating and quietly talking.

  He glanced in another window. A more formal meal was taking place in the dining room; a well dressed man sporting a mustache had joined Olsen and the doctors. Dean’s stomach gurgled a plea to be filled.

  Inside, Dietrich finished off a glass of red wine, set it down next to an empty plate and pushed back his chair. Olsen sat at one head with Dr. Mitchell at the other. Dr. Harrison was finishing his plate opposite Dietrich. Dietrich said, “I haven’t watched television in long time. Should we go to the sentinel van? See what the drone sees?”

  Olsen scowled a bit and wiped his mouth. “Not quite with the Shore lingo you are, Pelham. Not much of a joiner, eh?”

  Dietrich smiled and set his napkin on the table. “If you are referring to the preposterous way of speaking that you and Plimpton and Quale foisted on this nation — then no.”

  Mitchell wiped his mouth and slapped his napkin on the table. “Ha! I’m with the councilman. Idiotic.”

  Olsen said, “Watch your tone, Doctor. Dangerous territory you’re walking. A councilor you’re not.”

  Both Mitchell and Harrison looked at Olsen with a mix of skepticism and mild alarm. Neither man was accustomed to being spoken to that way.

  Dietrich snickered, “Olsen’s sensitive on the language thing, doctors. It was mostly him, and that mighty asshole Plimpton, who came up with it. Quale just went along for the psychological effect. My guess, some pop-psych book told them that one of the ways we could differentiate our new nation from the old was to create a new dialect.”

  The doctors looked from Pelham to Olsen, anticipating a return shot. Instead, the colonel pushed back his chair and stood up. “Sure, let’s mosey over to the van and watch the sentinel. The lads likely have it on the water by now. We can see how close this fire is.” They all took note in the change in speaking style. It was as if the colonel had been looking for an excuse himself.

  Harrison said, “And what about the… persons downstairs. We have a schedule—”

  Mitchell interrupted, “They are all sedated. The boy as well.”

  “Boy?” asked Dietrich? “No one mentioned a child.”

  Mitchell’s face briefly soured over the slip. He had been warned by Olsen to leave the news of the boy out of any conversation with Dietrich. Olsen came to his rescue, telling Pelham, “They were traveling with a pre-adolescent. Appears to be friends with the demons. Kid’s fine. Cooperative.”

  Mitchell smiled. “We are devising a worthy experiment.” On Pelhams look, he added, “No harm will come to the child.”

  Before Dietrich could object, Olsen said, “I’ve got brandy. Let’s all take a glass while we walk to the sentinel van.”

  Dean stepped back into the tree line as he watched the colonel, the doctors and the mustached guy step out of the house and walk toward the camper, the screen door squeaking and slamming behind them. He waited until they were well inside the vehicle before breaking cover and walking toward the house. There was a storm cellar entrance on the closest side of the building. He knew it was a long-shot as he gave it a gentle but firm yank. It didn’t budge. He did note that the door was new — must have been recently installed. He skirted his way back toward the kitchen window to get a count of enemy personnel and froze as the back door opened, and like the porch door, slammed shut again.

  The soldier was carrying a cooler in one hand and a jug of water and plastic cups with the other. He angled toward the barn. Dean melted back into the rough dead scrub that was the remnants of a hedge around the house, and stopped short as a branch firmly pressed into his back. He dared not rustle the branches. Instead, he stood absolutely still, willing the ambient light not to reveal him.

  As the soldier passed, his lips were blowing a light working man’s whistle, his eyes straight ahead. He was no more than six feet away from Dean when he suddenly stopped. He turned his head slowly and stared where Dean’s face hovered in the dark. The soldier was young, maybe 19, short cropped blond hair. His eyes widened with fear as he recognized a face in the bushes. Before he could let out a cry, Dean lunged forward and punched him in the throat, cutting off his air. The cooler and the jug fell to the ground as the soldier lifted his hands to his neck. Dean then punched him in the stomach. While the man doubled over his knees, the SEAL captain got an arm around his neck in a choke hold. With increasing pressure, he cut off the soldier’s already ragged breathing until the young man fell unconscious. Dean lowered him to the ground while looking around to make sure he remained unseen. Feeling around the body, he searched for a weapon, coming up empty. He pulled one of the man’s boots off, then yanked off the sock and rolled it into a ball, shoving it into the man’s mouth. With the swiftness of a rodeo star, he un-tucked the man’s BDU shirt, pulled it up over his head, trapping the arms, then used a bootlace to tie the bundle shut at the top. He then dragged the unconscious body into the woods, leaving it hidden among the ferns. He quickly walked back to the side of the house and peered in the kitchen window. Three other soldiers and the cook were sitting around the table talking and quietly laughing. The kitchen door that led to the rest of the house was closed. He circled to the far side of the house to insure there wasn’t anyone else loitering about and headed for the front door.

  The screen door let out an unnerving squeak as he did his best to open it quietly. He stopped as soon as he could let his body slip past to enter the dim front entry; a gas lamp on a narrow t
able the only source of light. The muffled voices of the soldiers in the kitchen carried down the hallway and he winced as a floorboard groaned beneath his tread. Ignoring the stairs that led up into darkness, he searched for a basement door and was rewarded with one directly beneath the main stairs. He closed his eyes and pressed, holding his breath against another squeak. This door opened with well oiled silence. A newly installed staircase led into further dimness — the hallway beyond lit by an unseen source. As he started down, an antiseptic odor tickled his nostrils and he had to hold his nose to keep from sneezing. His eyes watered with the effort and he mocked himself as a one-time elite fighter.

  He moved quickly now, reaching the hallway and noting the LED ceiling lighting that contrasted with the upstairs. The entire space was newly built with freshly poured concrete on the floor. He stopped at a door marked lab, tried the handle; locked. A little further along was a door marked observation. This one was unlocked and opened smoothly, continuing on its own after he gave it a gentle shove. The space beyond was small and he was briefly startled by motion in front of him, only to realize that it was his own reflection in a large window. As he stepped inside, he could smell the distinct muskiness of one of the pucks. A chair/toilet was bolted close to the window. Loose straps hung from it. The intent of the device was clear. The window also spoke for itself and he searched around for a light switch. A paddle switch on the wall to the right of the window caused the room beyond to flood with dim overhead light. Still strapped to his own chair, Hansel sat unconscious, his head hanging, his chin at an awkward angle on his chest.