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

by C. Chase Harwood

  Mitchell seemed to shrivel slightly. “I don’t know what you’re impl—“

  Olsen poked him again. “Save it.” Then in a whisper into Mitchell’s ear, “Created those monsters, you did. Quale doesn’t think I know.”

  The others who were witnessing this began to look at Mitchell with different eyes, confusion mixed with suspicion.

  Mitchell attempted to correct his posture, saying under his breath, “Colonel, I think you’re confusing me with—“

  Olsen grabbed the man’s lab coat and pulled him in close. “All of it.” He waved his arm to encompass the world. “You did all of this.”

  Nikki said, “That Doctor Mitchell? Florida-chicken-farm-Mitchell? They let you live?”

  Doctor Harrison took a half-step away from Mitchell, who immediately saw that this was about to spin out of control. He broke free of Olsen’s grasp and pointed at Nikki. “Silence!” Then to Olsen, “Pull yourself together, Colonel. I would remind you—”

  Singletary stuck his head out of the sentinel trailer door. “Colonel, sir. Councilman Quale is calling. Urgent it is.”

  The spell was broken. Olsen adjusted his tie and said to Silver, “All of them locked in the basement. This wretch hosed off and tied in a stress position. Dispose of that body. And Lieutenant, a conversation about subordination you and I will have.”

  Silver, desperately wanting to get herself back under the simple rules of command said, “Yes, sir. And, sir? Rather frightening things the creatures downstairs are informing us of.” She pointed her thumb at Littlefield. “Things this man must know.”

  “Of course he does. That’s why I want him in the stress position.”

  Littlefield, desperate, said, “That’s totally unnecessary. I can tell you anything you need to know.”

  Olsen turned for the trailer and spoke over his shoulder. “You have your orders, Lieutenant.”

  Inside the trailer the ashen face of Councilman Quale filled a monitor. He said to Singletary, “May we have the room, Lieutenant?”

  Singletary saluted, “Yes, sir.” He stood and passed Olsen to step outside.

  With the door closed, Olsen sat. “Donald, like a ghost sighting is your face.”

  Quale said, “Neutralized, the Long Island force has been. Our man, Pettybone, up north says a major invasion force has assembled and is even now en route south.”

  Olsen chewed on this for a moment. “How? Weak, they are. With what navy? What army?”

  “Pettybone was able to send images. No question of intent. Our own flyer images we have, that back him up.”

  Olsen let that sink in, then he took a deep breath. “News I have as well. Fiends on the far shore down this way. Perhaps more than that.”

  Quale gave a puzzled look. “More than that?“

  “You’ll send the flyer I requested. Something big happening out there.”

  “Josh, even if there is, on an island we are. We’ve got bigger—“

  “Gathering boats they are.”

  Quale paused at that. “Fiends gathering boats?”

  Olsen bunched his fists in exasperation and his right cheek began to slightly twitch.“Did you not get my report? Not just Fiends. Demon Children.”

  Quale said, “There have always been demon children over there. Did you not hear me say invasion force? Some sleep you need, my friend. Then up here we need you.”

  Olsen slammed his fist onto the control panel. “I’ll have my flyer! Understand you don’t! Lost a sentinel to them we did!”

  A look of concern crossed Quale’s features. It wasn’t about what might be on the far side of the Chesapeake, or even the loss of another sentinel; Olsen had been badly shaken after they’d secured the island all those years ago; had gone into a reclusive mode that he’d only snapped out of when presented with a chance to remake government as he imagined it to work best. Olsen had experienced the worst of the Cain’s pandemic, losing every family member. Some turning before his very eyes. He had killed them all.

  Quale said softly, “OK, Josh. Have your flier you will. First light.”

  Olsen breathed in deeply through his nose. “Thank you. Now I have a new captive to interrogate. From over there he came. Been with them I believe.”

  Quale said, “Extraordinary. Uninfected?”

  “Would seem so.”

  “Extraordinary. Do what you must, but then I need you up here.”

  “Will do.” Olsen cut the feed before Quale could say another word. It was late. The middle of the night. No time to rest.

  Nikki was locked up with Eliza in a space built for one. Jon was tossed in with Dean and Billy in an equally small box. The sounds in the basement carried in such a way that they all could faintly hear Littlefield protesting about being forced into a stress position. There were some screams and then silence.

  Eliza said to Nikki, “Terrible. That poor girl. To have come all that way. To have escaped them…”

  Nikki punched the thin mattress. “Assholes. These people are first class assholes. That fucking guy with the oak leafs was going to shoot Jon. No reason… Well, we were trying to escape, but fuck.”

  Eliza cupped her hand to Nikki’s ear and whispered. “They’re listening.”

  Nikki closed her eyes for a brief moment of self-admonishment — of course they’re listening. She glanced around the dark room and whispered back, “What about the pucks? Can you, you know, reach them?”

  “I’ve communicated with both, but they’re isolated, heads covered. The scientists were…” Eliza paused at the memory. “They were hurting me to see how it would affect the kids. Not Billy. Just Hansel and Gretel. There’s a room that they do their interrogating in. It has one way mirrors. They kept a hood on my head each time they moved me. Also, they knocked out Hansel. Before he went out, he said they were gassing the room.” She took in a quick breath of realization. “I don’t know if he’s dead. He might be dead.”

  Nikki held her hands over her face and sighed. After a moment she put her lips back next to Eliza’s ear. “Speaking of gas, I haven’t seen that spider drone again. Would’a thought that it would’ve been guarding the barn or something.”

  In the other cell, Jon lay on a blanket on the floor, with Stewart and Billy on the hard bunk. But for a thin line of light along the bottom edge of the door, the room was pitch black. Billy asked, “Why are they hurting that man, Jon? Seems like he’d answer any question after escaping from the Chosen.”

  “Beats me. These people are hyper paranoid. Why’re they treating any of us like this?”

  Dean sighed. “It’s a typical reaction.”

  “How’s that?”

  “Billy and I were just talking about this. Like everyone one else born before Omega, these people are traumatized. I’m not excusing the behavior, but I’m not surprised. In my experience, societies which meet with overwhelming catastrophe can, and do, overreact. They gather inward, protect their own kind and fear the stranger. A generational shift in thinking happens and it self-perpetuates. Saw it all over the world. Every hot zone I got dropped into was the product of the anger, mistrust, paranoia and outright terror caused by one thing or another, and for some places it had been going on for a thousand years. These Shore people are no different. It isn’t rational, but it’s human. The other is the enemy. We are the other.”

  “Yeah? So how does that help us to get out of here?”

  “I don’t think we’re getting out of here. And if what you say this doctor told you is true, this whole island is in a shit heap of trouble.”

  Inside the interrogation room, Littlefield had been forced to lie on the floor with his arms pulled behind his back, his wrists tied to his ankles and then to a chain. The chain led to a hoist, which was anchored to the ceiling. His skin, though hosed clean, exhibited lots of bruising and sores. The sores appeared to be more than from the exertions of his journey — something was wrong with him. Olsen was pacing around him in a tight circle while a soldier stood by holding the hoist control.


  Mitchell stood to one side, Harrison reluctantly behind him. Harrison spoke over Mitchell’s shoulder. “Colonel, this man is exhibiting signs of significant illness.”

  Ignoring the doctor, Olsen nodded to the soldier. “OK. Up we go.”

  Littlefield said, “Stop! You don’t have to do this. I will tell you everything you want to know! I want to tell you. There’s an army of them. Tens of thousands. The children of infected and their parents too. They eat people for pleasure.”

  The soldier hesitated for the briefest second, caught Olsen’s eyes turning toward him, a look of impatience building across the colonel’s features, and he hit the up button. Littlefield immediately started screaming as he was lifted off the floor, his joints straining and shuddering with the agony.

  Just as dawn was warming the eastern horizon, a flier took off from Dover Field and banked in a long lazy turn toward the west. With a forty-foot wingspan and a high-efficiency electric motor turning a massive propeller, the machine was extremely efficient; capable of gliding on thermal lifts for hours while using very little juice. Tim James, the captain assigned to pilot the machine, was sweating in the air-conditioned flight-ops room. Fear had his guts twisting like a couple of eels fighting it out. He’d just pulled a night mission, flying the machine as far north as it was supposedly capable — and then a little further. What he saw had set his pulse rate pounding in his neck. A ragtag fleet of vessels were sailing/motoring on a heading that had the bulk of the armada already south of the island of Martha’s Vineyard. Thousands of armed and armored-up people were in evidence. The island itself was dimly lit and appeared to be stable. No sign of the horror-show that he had expected. What have we done? kept churning through his head. He had informed his superiors, delivered the video and turned back for mission number two.

  His new flight plan called for flying west, crossing the northern part of Delmarva and the Chesapeake, then a left turn at the remains of Annapolis to fly down the coast toward a town called Reedville — a place that had become a built up tourist town in the years before Omega. Other than from the air, or by a concerted land exploration, Reedville was not observable from The Shore. It had a large, well protected harbor, which was also hidden from view.

  The low sun cast long shadows from the vast dead forests that dotted the coast. Among all the gray and black branches, Captain James was able to make out a growing spread of green. The land was regenerating itself and he felt a slight burst of optimism pushing some of his anxiety aside. The mission called for checking out a report of some kind of infected population. As the drone reached Reedville, he caused it to circle over the harbor. Empty docks led to a dead village without a single heat signature. He turned west and flew toward the approaches to the town. Long abandoned farmland came into view, and that’s when things got interesting.

  “Major. Going to want to see this, you are,” he said over the radio that connected him to flight command.

  Major Dillon’s voice came through James’ headset. “Whatcha got’s more important than an invasion fleet, Captain?”

  The flatland that James was looking at was churned in a way that could only have been accomplished by thousands of animals. More importantly, there were signs of habitation, fire rings, slit trenches. “Serious signs of intelligent activity, sir.”

  Two minutes later, Dillon came into the room. “A full blown meltdown I’m dealing with, Tim. Knee-jerking like mad, the council is. This better be good.”

  Captain James had the drone doing a lazy circle over the displaced ground. “Recent it is, sir. The dirt is black with fresh turning.”

  “Whoa. Like Napoleon’s Army was camped there it looks. Infected didn’t do that. Not sure even demon children — least not the ones we know.”

  “Passable, the roads are around here.” Captain James drew a circle on the monitor that showed a map of the area he was exploring and the position of the drone as it flew. The circle encompassed fifty miles of land to the north, west and south of the farm. “Permission to search in this quadrant, sir. Especially north.”

  Dillon let a long sigh escape through his nostrils and he rubbed his hand over the silvery stubble that covered his jaw. “Need your eyes back over the sea, Tim. An hour you’ve got, then to Dover for a fresh battery pack.”

  “Roger that, sir.”

  “The moment you see something.”

  “Of course sir.”

  CHAPTER TWENTY-SEVEN

  The Gates of Hell

  At the research farm, the hazy Sun cracked over the horizon, but was still too weak to chase away the night shadows. After an hour of tossing and turning, Olsen was awake and back in the sentinel trailer with an exhausted looking 2nd Lieutenant Singletary. He held a precious cup of instant coffee and let the steam rise to his nostrils as he took a sip.

  Singletary said, by way of explaining the digital image that kept fracturing on his screen, “A little interference, sir. The distance to air command likely.”

  The screen showed the flying drone’s point of view as is scanned the landscape of the far shore.

  “See well enough I can. How old is the video?”

  “Uh, a little less than fifty-minutes, sir.”

  “And what did Dillon say of the docks?”

  Singletary scanned a transcript on a separate monitor. “Uh, not seeing anything, sir.”

  “For fuck’s sake! The docks full of boats were the oddity.”

  “Lots about this area here, sir. Appears to be a camp for a big army.”

  “Get Major Dillon on the line.”

  “Tried I did, sir. Right before you came in. The sergeant major said the major had his hands full.” The drone driver turned and looked at his boss to gauge his reaction. “Said Americans sending a big fleet our way. All in the transcript.”

  Olsen scowled. “Give me the radio.”

  Singletary held the mic out toward the colonel who asked, “Right channel?”

  “Good to go you are, sir.”

  He keyed the mic. “Colonel Josh Olsen this is, come in?”

  A polished voice came back over the speaker. “Flight Command. Master Sergeant Robinson. Good day, Colonel. Over.”

  “Give me Dillion. Over.”

  “Requested not to be disturbed he did, sir. Over.”

  “Get him now or permanent KP duty for you, Sergeant. Over.”

  There was a pause and then, “Getting him now, sir. My apologies, sir. Over.”

  Olsen and Singletary waited, Olsen sipping his cup. Singletary could hardly hide his longing for the nearly impossible to get beverage. “Smells good, sir. Your coffee I mean.”

  Without a hint of irony, Olsen said, “It’s not fresh ground, but gets the idea across it does.”

  Dillon came on the line. “Colonel Olsen, sir. Major Ned Dillon here. Over.”

  “I know who you are, Dillon. The transcript and video you sent offers nothing about the docks. Over.”

  “No insubordination intended, Colonel, but we are facing an invasion fleet up here. Over.”

  “I’m aware of that, Major. Now what about the damn docks? Over.”

  “Need to ask the pilot, I do. Standby. Over.”

  Olsen drained his cup and set it down hard on the console ledge. “Take a note, Singletary. When we get back home, clean the wax out of Major Dillon’s ears I will.”

  Singletary smiled. “Note taken, sir.”

  They waited and watched the hour-old flyover of the churned up fields across the bay. Finally, Dillon came back on.

  “Captain James said empty the docks they were, sir. No sign of what may have caused the fields down there to be turned over. Searched all obvious avenues north and south he did. Over.”

  Singletary and Olsen looked each other in the eye with bewilderment bordering on dread. Olsen keyed the mic. “Reedville? He’s certain it was Reedville with empty docks? Over.”

  “Reedville. Yes, sir. Over”

  Olsen breathed into his free hand as if to warm it. “A flyover of the water I ne
ed now! Over.”

  “Bird’s not down your way anymore, sir. Over the Atlantic. I’m sorry, sir. Over”

  “Turn one around now, Major. Now! Over.”

  “Orders from Colonel Quale say otherwise, sir. Sorry I am, Colonel. Would if I could. Over”

  A shot rang out outside the trailer and was followed by another, and another, and then a full burst of auto fire. This was joined by screaming in a high-pitched wail that no human could recreate voluntarily. The gunfire stopped, but then picked up again — lots of guns firing.

  Olsen dropped the mic and turned for the door. At the same moment, Singletary pulled up the outside cameras on his monitor. “Don’t open that door, sir!”

  Olsen had already turned the handle and begun pushing. At Singletary’s command, he paused. He began to pull the door shut again, when an overly large human hand gripped the edge and stopped him. He looked down at the hand with confusion. The fingers were too long, the nails overgrown and unkempt.

  Singletary, his heart nearly beating out of his chest, was up out of his chair and turning to help when suddenly, the door was violently yanked open. Olsen instinctively reached for a non-existent sidearm that The Shore’s cultural rules said he couldn’t wear, and then froze as the huge male Chosen locked eyes with him, pulling Singletary into the mix as well. A great sharp toothy grin spread across its lips and it clacked its jaws in anticipation. The two humans received a vision of exactly what was in store for them. Olsen didn’t notice the hot spreading urine that soaked his pants and pooled on the floor.

  No longer heard behind them, Dillon’s voice came over the speaker. “Are you there, sir? Repeat. Are you there? Over.” There was a pause. “I’m sorry, sir. Understand your anger, sir, I do. Try to get a flier down there I will, but perhaps you should reach out to Colonel Quale yourself, sir. Over.”