No way.
It wasn't going to work
It wasn't going to happen.
They'd die.
If those guys wanted a fight, that was.
Maybe they didn't want a fight.
John and Georgia would just have to wait and see what happened.
The man still seemed to be looking at something behind John. At what? A tree? An animal? Another person?
Then the man's head snapped back down and around, his eyes fixating right on John.
The man barked an order, inaudible over the rumbling of the military truck.
John's eyes scanned the men rapidly. They were moving into some kind of position, some kind of formation, as if they'd done this all before.
The truck stopped, but the engine kept rumbling.
No shots fired.
Not yet, anyway.
John glanced at Georgia. What would she want them to do?
Fight or flee. That was always the question.
Still no shots fired.
Why hadn't they just shot them?
But the men were moving out towards John and Georgia, taking slow, plodding steps. They were now in a line. Their weapons were drawn. Their eyes peeled. Their heads scanning.
The sight reminded John of a search party, when volunteers would get together and comb the woods for a body.
It was all very strange.
What kind of fighting position was this?
Why hadn't they just shot at John when the man had spotted him?
Georgia turned to him. "Get ready," she hissed. "We're running. After I fire."
"Wait, what? You're going to shoot?" whispered John, as quietly as he could. "Shouldn't I...?"
"No," hissed Georgia, her voice firm and commanding. "Run after I fire. Get ready. I'm shooting in five seconds."
The message was clear. John was to do as he was told. He didn't understand the logic himself right now, but that didn't mean it wasn't there.
He shifted his body, trying to position himself so that he could get up quickly.
This didn't make sense.
Wouldn't they just shoot them as soon as they popped up? Especially after Georgia shot one of them.
It seemed like a suicide mission.
It seemed like a horrible plan. A horrible idea.
John trusted Georgia, but did he trust her this much?
15
Grant
Grant opened his eyes to sunlight peeking in through the rudimentary window.
It was early morning.
His head hurt. Throbbing pain. A splitting headache.
Other parts of his body hurt, but his head was foggy and he couldn't identify what they were.
For a second, Grant didn't know where he was.
His mind jumped to conclusions.
Had he been kidnapped? Taken hostage? Someone intent on capturing the great leader of the most powerful militia on the East Coast?
Maybe.
Maybe not.
Then he saw it.
Something moving outside the window. It was a tree. A tree he'd seen before, its branches gently swaying in the breeze.
Then it came to him in a flash, and he realized where he was.
Grant was in the infirmary.
He turned his head, looking around.
He was in a rudimentary hospital bed, probably scavenged by one of his reclamation teams.
There was an IV running out of his arm up to a clear plastic bag. Some kind of saline solution, probably.
The militia wasn't short on supplies, not even hospital supplies. And it was all thanks to Grant's own initiative, sending teams out to scout the areas both far and near, searching for anything that could be useful.
"Nurse!" snapped Grant, his voice loud and commanding.
A flurry of tiny footsteps in the hallway. Someone was scurrying towards him.
Two heads popped in, appearing in the doorway.
A man and a woman.
Both nurses.
He recognized them as nurses. Real trained professionals from before the EMP.
They weren't messing around here at the militia camp. Grant wouldn't have stood for anything less than the real thing. He'd made sure that the nurses were real, that the equipment was as good as they could get it without electricity, and that there was even one real doctor.
"How are you feeling?" The woman snuck through the doorway and into the room. She acted as if she were doing something wrong, as if she shouldn't be there. She walked with a bit of a stoop, hunched over, her eyes downcast.
Grant understood well what was going on here. She was scared of him. And the male nurse was too.
Good. They had good reason to be scared of Grant.
"What happened?" barked Grant.
He needed answers. He needed them fast.
The last thing he could remember was that Wilson had betrayed him.
That bastard. After all Grant had done for him.
Grant would get him.
Grant wouldn't tolerate threats to his authority, whether internal or external. He'd squash them the way he'd always squashed them.
Wilson had served him well for a long time, but it was clear that he wasn't the man Grant thought he was.
It didn't matter, though. Wilson had done his job. There'd be another man to fill his place.
Knowing what he now knew, that Wilson was nothing more than a common traitor, Grant was glad that he hadn't kept Wilson informed of everything.
He was glad that he'd kept Wilson in the dark about Grant's more ambitious projects, as well as his more underhanded, but necessary, dealings. Grant had personally seen to dozens of assassinations. He'd handled threats, or potential threats, to his power, personally, without ever letting Wilson know.
Grant knew how to clean up after himself. He knew how to use others. He knew how to recruit a man for one part of a job, and another man for another part, keeping them all in the dark about the whole project.
No one at the camp knew as much as Grant did. And he liked it that way. It was going to stay that way. It was partly how Grant kept an iron grip on the seat of power.
"Well?" shouted Grant, as neither nurse answered him.
The male nurse had entered the room. His arms and hands were shaking. Actually quivering.
"You were attacked, sir," said the male nurse.
The female nurse stood behind him, as if he'd protect her from Grant.
"Give me the facts. Don't prance around it. Spit it out." Grant was nearly shouting. He could feel the anger building up in his chest.
He glanced down again, noticing that he still had on his own clothes.
There was a chair in the corner, by the window. His holster and gun lay on the chair. It seemed that the rest of his gear, his knives, his compass, and everything, had been laid out neatly by his gun.
"Your personal secretary, Wilson, is missing," said the male nurse, speaking haltingly, apparently due to nerves. "The man guarding the stockade is dead. Gunshot wound. Name..."
"I don't need his name!" shouted Grant. "Give me the rest. Quickly!"
"We presume that Wilson, or his accomplice, attacked you. Perhaps they acted together."
"Accomplice?" said Grant.
The word triggered a memory. Something he'd forgotten.
There'd been someone.
A man named Max.
The memory came flooding back to Grant. The information he'd gotten from his informant. Information about a power struggle.
"So they're together? Have you caught them?"
"Not yet, sir. But we've dispatched Unit B. They're working on it as we speak, I'm sure."
Unit B was supposed to be the crack unit. The unit that did the special missions. The unit that was under Grant's personal control.
"Working on it? What the hell does that mean?"
"They're working on tracking Wilson and the escapee."
Grant didn't like the fact that Unit B had been dispatched without his own personal orders.
"Who dispatched Unit B? All their orders are supposed to be cleared by me, if not given explicitly by me."
"Saunders, sir. He installed himself in Wilson's place, after Wilson absconded."
Grant grunted his disapproval. He had never liked Saunders. He was a weakling. Someone who never stuck up for himself. He was just supposed to be there as a placeholder.
Grant had never expected that anything would actually happen to Wilson. After all, Wilson had hardly ever exposed himself to danger. He was an office man. A clipboard man. A paperwork man. A man who should have died from old age.
And Grant certainly had never expected that Wilson would betray him.
His blood was starting to boil at the thought of it. He felt the anger in his stomach. The hot anger was in his chest too.
His whole body felt energized. Hot. Angry. Ready for action.
Grant glanced down at the IV. He reached down and ripped it out of his arm.
"Sir!"
The male nurse was over at his bedside in a flash, grabbing the IV. Apparently he was about to attempt to put it back in Grant's arm.
"You're dehydrated, sir. You need to replenish your fluids," said the female nurse.
The male nurse was coming at him with the IV.
Grant felt the anger rising in him. He formed his right hand into a fist and backhanded the male nurse with a single, powerful blow. The male nurse reeled and staggered backwards, colliding with the wall.
The male nurse regained his balance and stood there, stunned, the IV still in his hand.
In a flash, Grant was up on his feet.
It felt good to be standing up. Standing was the position of commanders. Lying down was for suckers.
Grant's brain was working in flashes. Flashes of insight. Flashes of anger.
In a single stride, he reached the quivering male nurse who clung to the IV as if were a life raft.
Grant grabbed the man's neck with his left hand. His fingers tightened all the way around the neck. Squeezing.
Grant's right hand formed a fist and slammed into the man's face. Blood on the knuckles. Blood on the nurse's nose.
The nurse's head swung back, smashed into the wall. His eyes rolled back. Unseeing.
Grant released with his left hand. The male nurse, unconscious, slid down to the floor.
The female nurse shrieked.
Grant turned to her, his body big and menacing.
He felt as if he took up the whole room. That's how he felt when he was angry. Good and powerful. Full of possibility. As if the world was his. As he deserved everything he wanted. As if he was always right.
It was riotous anger. Good anger. Just anger.
"If you know what's good for you," growled Grant, "get me the following men..." And Grant named a half-dozen last names. They were the best of the best. The men who Grant had kept off Unit B so that he could use them when he really needed them, when something really crucial came up. They were men who'd proven themselves. Not just their skill. But their willingness to do whatever Grant asked. They were men who'd gladly put their lives on the line for him, no matter what.
And, most importantly, they were vicious. The kind of men who took pleasure in extreme violence. The kind of men who got a kick from killing, and an even bigger kick from killing in the most brutal way possible. Grant had personally seen all of the six kill. And all six, under Grant's supervision, had brutally tortured prisoners. Grant had watched them dismember a man, one limb at a time, until he was nothing but a torso and stumps for legs.
Grant and the six had chuckled as they'd watch the man bleed out onto the dirt.
Those had been good times. The kind of good times that not every man could appreciate. Wilson, for example, had to always be kept in the dark about such matters.
It had been several weeks since Grant and the six had had their fun.
Well, now was there chance.
The female nurse stood there, quaking in her slip-on shoes.
"Well?" shouted Grant.
She just gave a meek nod, turned on her heel, and scurried away.
Good.
She'd get the word out. She was too scared not to.
The six would be ready.
They'd be seven with Grant.
Normally they worked on their own and brought the hostages back to Grant so that he could watch the fun.
This time would be different.
They'd be surprised.
But Grant was coming with them.
This time it was personal.
This time he'd relish in the hunt itself.
He was going to find Wilson and deal with him personally.
No one betrayed Grant.
Not without consequences.
16
Sadie
Sadie woke up with a start
Somehow, despite the situation she'd fallen asleep. She should have been on high alert. She should have been watching for an opportunity. Watching for more danger.
But it was almost as if her body and mind had been on edge for so long that they'd just shut down.
She'd had strange dreams. Dreams that Max and her mother had come to rescue her. Max had a pump-action shotgun instead of his normal Glock, and he was ruthless with it, although he didn't actually shoot with it. Instead, he used it like a baseball bat, swinging it in long, high arcs. Her mother, instead of her normal rifle, was at Max's side with a pickaxe that she played like a guitar.
What did it all mean, that crazy dream? Nothing. That's what it meant. Not a thing.
It was just her mind making up a story. And for what purpose? She didn't know. She'd never gotten to that lesson in school, apparently.
Her own education had continued, of course, but not in the way that it would have had she remained in school.
How long had she been asleep?
She didn't know, but outside it looked like late afternoon. What had the sun been like when she'd arrived? She couldn't remember.
Sadie tried to move, the way she normally would upon waking, and she suddenly realized that she couldn't move.
She couldn't move her arms. Or her legs.
Not only that, but she couldn't feel them.
They were completely numb.
The realization of that sensation made her start to freak out. Her mind started racing a mile a minute.
Could she move her fingers? Her toes.
She tried. But she couldn't feel them.
Shit.
Her vision was still sort of blurry, the way it often was when she woke up.
She looked down, craning her neck.
She was in a weird position, like a crab on its back. Sure enough, her legs and arms were bound tightly together by rope.
The memories all came flooding back to Sadie.
Shit.
She'd shot Terry.
His wife had tied her up.
And then what?
Sadie looked around, craning her neck more. It was one of the only parts of her body that she could still move. And it was uncomfortable to do so.
It was a little back room. Some might have called it a mudroom. There was a small window there. There was some junk against the wall, and some more junk on a steel shelving unit, the kind that you'd typically find in a garage.
What would her mom have done if she were in this situation? What would Max have done?
Look for useful things. Find some way to influence the outcome, and do that to the best of their ability.
But Sadie couldn't move. Not really, anyway.
She could move her back, wiggling it as if she were a worm.
Maybe she could move this way. Maybe she could worm her way across the floor, find something to cut the rope with.
It was worth a try.
It was a horrible feeling, having her feet, legs, arms, and hands completely numb. Like everyone else, she'd experienced the sensation of pins and needles, and the progression of that, that lead to numbness.
But this was something different. T
his was complete numbness. She really couldn't feel them at all.
Would she ever feel them again? Or had the blood supply been cut off for so long that she'd never regain feeling or use of them?
It was a scary thought, but Sadie thought about what Max might do if he were in this situation. He wouldn't have wasted time worrying about a possible future without even figuring out how to escape.
He would have made escape his priority. He would have used everything at his disposal.
Sadie wormed her away over across the room. She made it about six inches. It was tough going. She was exhausted already. How did snakes move like this? It seemed to take a huge amount of energy.
The little mudroom that Sadie was in was small. Very small. There was only about another two feet before she got to the steel shelving unit.
Sadie couldn't make out exactly what was on the shelving unit. Right now, it looked like some cans of paint. And something behind the cans. Maybe there were tools, or something that could cut the rope.
Sadie didn't have the slightest idea yet how she'd use a tool to cut the rope when she couldn't move her hands.
She'd figure that out when the time came.
The thing now was just to get there. Just get to that shelving unit.
It took her what felt like forever. Maybe in reality it was about a half an hour.
By the time she was just a couple inches from the shelving unit, Sadie was breathing very hard from exhaustion, and she felt even more exhausted than before. The feeling in her extremities hadn't come back. And now her back, for the first time in her young life, hurt her, and she understood what John was always complaining about.
Back pain sucked.
Just a couple more inches.
Sadie was going to do it.
She got herself ready for the last final push.
Then she did it, launching herself sideways towards the shelf.
She misjudged and launched herself too hard. She slammed into the metal shelves, her head knocking against a can of paint that was on the lowest shelf.
It hurt. But not that bad.
Her head flopped back, as if she was a rag doll.
Something on one of the upper shelves, that she couldn't see, fell off. She heard the things on the upper shelves knocking around as they destabilized.
Finding Shelter: A Post-Apocalyptic EMP Survival Thriller (The EMP Book 8) Page 11