When he looked around the room one last time, it was difficult to tell how many had taken down the address and how many were continuing to play childish games on their stupid toys. Some would obviously agree.
While Professor LaPaz had made some good arguments tonight, Cory often wished the man were a more dynamic speaker, like the Hollywood actor who had become the group’s main spokesperson. People paid attention to him. Why, he did not know. Somehow, the sheeple always seemed to trust Hollywood actors, the beautiful people, the celebrities. And that was even over a professor with multiple degrees. Nevertheless, he surmised that the professor had created a connection with these bottom-feeders, a few at least. And was it wrong to lie to them? Would they not be better off if they only knew the truth? He quickly dismissed that stray thought as being unworthy of him. He disconnected the laptop from the projector and went to locate the professor backstage to congratulate him on the speech. The professor smiled back and replied with a flourishing hand twirl and nod.
With the mild enthusiasm they had received from these neo-capitalists, these card-carrying members of the corporate-government alliance, Cory figured the organization had a decent chance of acquiring a few new members. And new members meant more money. It was always about the money, too. The evil money. But, the irony of using their own stolen wealth against them deeply appealed to him. He firmly believed in the cause, truly, utterly, justly. Anyone who did not was a simpleton too stupid to see the underlying motivation that drove the cause forward was an overwhelming love for life and an unwavering respect for the environment that was strong enough to prevent humankind’s utter destruction.
-4-
THE WELLHEAD
JESSE REMOVED HIS wide-brimmed hat and mopped his sweaty brow with the sleeve of his stained and tattered sheriff’s uniform. The shirt no longer fit him and now hung loosely from his thinning frame. He stank of dirt, sweat, and soured fear, but so did the thousands of others around him who had spent the day baking under the hot Texas sun. Still, he preferred the daytime and the suffocating heat, because when the sun vanished from the sky, the raptors came.
Over a year had passed since he had first heard them called raptors. They weren’t quite velociraptors, as his daughter had originally thought, but they looked a lot like them. The real velociraptors, he’d learned, were nothing at all like what they had depicted in Jurassic Park. He’d read that real velociraptors were much smaller, had feathers, and were not so bright. But these new creatures had been created by some genetic-engineering accident, or so the news reports had said. He didn’t believe it, though. That answer just didn’t square with what he felt was right. Whatever the case, these things had no feathers. They multiplied at an alarming rate. They grew big. They were deadly, swift, and had spread like locusts across the United States, Canada, and deep into Mexico. Some even said they had made it as far away as Europe, Asia, and beyond.
Escape from his Texas hometown had been a blur. A blind, sickening panic, filled with terrified screams, flames, deafening sounds of weapons fire, and clogged streets packed with wild-eyed faces begging for death. There were many terrible memories, but, above them all, one stood out, watching his father, Big John, as he was brought down by a large pack of the creatures. His father’s penultimate act had been to save Jesse and his family, and Jesse hated him for it. Deputy Henderson had also died, right there alongside Big John, with a bottle of whiskey in one hand and an empty shotgun in the other. After their costly escape, Jesse brought his family to the East Texas Refugee Camp, one of the last remaining sanctuaries providing protection from the ever-growing raptor menace. They were all he had left.
On the horizon, the sun looked like a festering wound as it sunk into a pool of orange sludge. Diesel generators fired up one by one, the sound merging into a drone in the far-off distance. Strings of light bulbs draped between steel poles kicked on and were soon clouded by swarming insects. Below the lights, scores of people waited in line to use an old hand-operated water pump.
Jesse could sense danger. He smelled it in the air. He coughed a few times, choking on the kicked up dust, gathering saliva. Then he spat. The sputum landed in the dirt and splashed into a starburst pattern next to his scuffed-up, steel-toed boots. A familiar Beretta M9 hung from a canvas holster attached to his belt. The gun was the same model he’d qualified ‘Expert’ on during a stint in the U.S. Army, which included twin tours in Iraq. His father had given him this particular M9. It was the same one Big John had carried throughout the first Gulf War.
Stretching to relieve his tense muscles, he checked his watch. It would be five more hours until his shift ended. Then he could collect the meager food ration allotted to his family and return to his temporary home on the other side of the camp, an eight-by-ten canvas tent in section Bravo he shared with his family. Being that Jesse was once a deputy sheriff, he technically retained the authority granted to him by the state of Texas, but that same governmental body had collapsed. Now, all the camp’s authority came from a grim-faced Marine by the name of Colonel Briggs. Tonight, Jesse had been ordered by the man to guard the single wellhead allocated for civilian use. It was the only supply of fresh water not locked away tight by Briggs. Normally, three men guarded the wellhead, but those other men had been reassigned to the perimeter fencing, leaving Jesse to handle the task on his own. He was not pleased by the situation, not in the least, but he would do the work he’d been assigned, as he had promised, and to the best of his abilities.
The people waiting to use the hand-operated pump had made a crooked line that snaked between the camp’s orderly rows of canvas tents, almost too many to count. A few waiting there were dressed in tattered suits. They appeared out of place. Numerous others wore blue jeans and T-shirts caked with mud and dust, sometimes blood. Everyone in line was holding some sort of container: buckets, milk jugs, plastic water bottles, and even old gas cans, which Jesse assumed had been washed clean. As he looked the people over, he couldn’t help thinking of the many nature shows he’d watched on TV. He used those fading mental images as a game to help tick away the long boring hours playing cop. He often pictured those standing in line as animals surrounding a muddy water hole. Some looked like gazelles, skittish and prone to flight. Others were hippos, slow and lumbering. A few appeared to be predators prowling the mix. He watched them with care. But, the ones that truly worried him were the hyenas. They were just scavengers waiting for the right opportunity to strike, and they always did so without mercy.
A man with matted black hair and a button-up cotton shirt, stained yellow from sweat, stepped out of the line and pointed his bony finger at Jesse. “You there, when’s someone going to get to opening up another damn well?” The man’s finger waved accusingly, as if he expected Jesse to do something about it.
Jesse said nothing.
Other voices joined the old man’s, chorusing a myriad of complaints, but too many were talking at once for Jesse to make sense of what was being said. The complaints continued down the line. Others mumbled insults or bobbed heads, agreeing with their neighbors. Jesse rose on the balls of his feet and arched his back. He pegged the guy accusing him as a wildebeest, moves with the herd, not brave on his own. He crossed his arms over his chest and assumed the stance of authority. With a learned and often-used scowl, he stared down the man. The guy was breathing in and out through flabby lips, which caused small white bubbles of drool to grow and shrink on his face. Beads of sweat coalesced on the guy’s forehead and ran down into his eyebrows, where they stuck there like dewdrops. Jesse glared at him, daring him to say something else, anything else that would give him an excuse to unload. He wanted the release, needed the release.
After a matter of seconds, the man blinked, and the bony finger he was holding up went flaccid. Jesse nodded, and the man faded back into the line. It was just as he’d expected. Taking a breath through his nose, he glared down the line, trying to maintain his stoic mask. His Eastwood face as Cheryl had called it. He dared anyone else to defy him. No
one did.
Time ticked by slowly, growing ever closer to the end of his shift. Yet, try as he might, he couldn’t relax. He was just too tense and had no way of relieving that tension. He had been living on little sleep and large doses of stress hormones for months now. The prickly feeling he’d first experienced in Iraq had become a constant companion, and it was getting more and more difficult to tell when he should pay attention to it and when he should just ignore it.
More time ticked by.
About two hours after the man had confronted him, a sudden disturbance down the line caused it to waver and then part. Jesse stepped up on a metal box near the wellhead to get a better view.
“Damn,” he whispered, stepping back down.
Two men were trading blows about fifty feet away. Most of the crowd was already shifting to encircle the two. A few pushed aside weaker members and shoved their way closer to the middle of the forming circle, shouting encouragements at the two fighters. Jesse made his way there. He stopped to place a hand on the automatic at his hip and forced his way toward the center. When he broke through, he paused and assessed the two men rolling about in the dirt. Each one was trying to pin the other against the ground. Neither of them appeared to be having much success.
Lion cubs, he thought as he drew his Beretta from its holster and thumbed the safety, took aim, and fired. The gun recoiled in his hand and ejected the spent casing into the encircled mob. The two who were fighting let go of each other, and the crowd soon came to a rumbling stop. Jesse had purposely missed the two, and instead placed the bullet precisely where he wanted it in the soft dirt near their heads. He stepped forward and towered over the two, pointing the pistol first at one, then the other, keeping his finger resting lightly on the trigger, ready to pull it again. A tiny puff of smoke swirled lazily out of the end of the barrel.
The two rolled apart, climbed to their feet, and began brushing off dust.
Jesse stepped closer to them, but remained distant enough so neither could easily lunge for his gun. “Who started this?” he asked calmly, professionally.
Neither man responded.
Great. He squeezed all his fingers on both hands except the one on the trigger in frustration and fell back on his police training. The first man was wearing a Save the Alamo T-shirt and filthy jeans. Brown dirt colored the guy’s matted, greasy black hair. The other wore a flannel shirt with the sleeves ripped off. His blotchy skin had been cooked pink by the sun. The pair traded nasty glances. Each seemed to be probing the other for an opening.
“So,” Jesse asked, “either of you two want to tell me what this is all about?” He knew he could shoot them both dead if he wanted to. And he did want to. He’d been given the authority to do so and was sure the camp commander would back him. Many in the camp were shot for far less. But they were probably fighting over something stupid, something trivial.
He picked the shorter of the two, the one in the Alamo shirt, and stepped forward to place the Beretta against the man’s greasy forehead. “Didn’t they all die at the Alamo?” he asked in a voice calm and level, but seething with undertones.
The man stared back at him with wild, bulging eyes. His nostrils flared with each breath. It was a look no man would have ever given Jesse’s father and been able to walk away from without something bleeding or, at the very least, dangling. The guy did not back down. He waited there defiantly, breathing hard, his mouth a red oasis surrounded by a caking of brown dust. Jesse pushed the barrel of his Beretta harder against the greasy man’s forehead, causing the end to dent flesh.
The guy still did not submit.
Jesse twisted the gun and kept it there. All he had to do was squeeze the trigger, just once. He wanted to pull that trigger and splatter the guy’s brains all over the crowd. He pictured himself doing so. The Beretta started shaking in his hand. He curled his lips over his teeth and bit down, trying to steady the gun. But, he couldn’t do it. Much as he may have wanted to, he just couldn’t bring himself to squeeze the damn trigger. The same thing had plagued him in Iraq. He could not take another human life. He had come so close, too, many times before. But to now kill a man for such a little infraction as fighting? Would he be able to live with himself?
With the self-realization, his anger and frustration vanished. He raised the gun and thumbed the safety. His hand steadied and he prepared to holster the M9. He could hardly believe he had been so close to—
Suddenly, violently, he was thrown to the ground. His hat was yanked away. Blows started raining down, forcing him into the dirt. Kicks landed, driving away his breath. He tried to curl into a ball, clutching the Beretta firmly against his body as if he were protecting a football. He glanced up long enough to see the man in the Alamo T-shirt. The guy smiled. It was an ugly, grim smile. Then the greasy man threw a kick that slammed into Jesse’s stomach, driving all the air from his body. Gasping for breath, he couldn’t seem to make his lungs work. He had no time to think and only a split-second to react. Instinctively, he flicked the gun’s safety with his thumb while others continued to beat on him.
A shot rang out.
The kicking and raining blows stopped as abruptly as they had started. His stunned diaphragm recovered enough to let him breathe, so he took a few wheezing, gulping breaths while those closest to him staggered backward on their heels and glanced around to see who’d been hit.
More shots followed the first. None of them had come from Jesse’s gun.
-5-
MERCY
THE STACCATO CRACK of isolated gunshots rang out, echoing throughout the camp. Those shots quickly merged into a disorganized barrage and joined forces with the mounting levels of fear. And, as if everyone realized what was happening all at once, panic broke across the camp like a crashing wave.
Forcing his way to his feet, Jesse gasped for breath. A man with yellow, straw-like hair grabbed for his Beretta, yelling, “Give me! Give me! Give me!”
Instead of getting the gun, the man received an elbow to the face. After delivering the blow, Jesse took a lumbering step away from the guy, struggling to regain his balance, reassuring himself he could still walk. Fortunately, his injuries seemed minor and nothing appeared broken. He’d been through worse. Steadying himself, he began moving faster. People around him backed away, gazing at each other like spooked rabbits unable to decide which direction to bolt. A skinny woman in a torn black Mötley Crüe T-shirt dropped an empty bucket and ran. Where she was going didn’t seem to matter. Only that she was going somewhere. It took only a second or two more before everyone else had turned tail and scattered.
Jesse watched them go. It was madness. Duty or not, he felt no obligation to stick around and restore order. His wife and daughter were on the other side of the camp. And, judging by the sounds coming from the distant gunfire, they were closer to it than he was. He took a few more awkward steps in the direction of his temporary home, working out a plan of how to get there. But his mind still rang from the earlier blows and was too sluggish to come up with an effective route. He would have to brave the fleeing crowd and figure it out along the way. He started at a slow jog, picking up speed until the area narrowed and caused him to slow. He shoved his way into the swarming mob, occasionally hopping on one foot and pushing off others, trying to rise above the crowd. Briefly, he managed to jump high enough to see there was no quicker way past. Renewed fear gripped him and drove him onward. Again, his anger flared, coming back like a familiar friend. Blurry, shapeless forms streamed past, jostling, bumping, and knocking him off course in their own desperate flights to safety. He redoubled his efforts and pressed against the tide of the crowd. But, by now, the flow was moving entirely against him. It was unrelenting. He was making frustratingly little progress. Still, he forced his way through the short-term gaps as they presented themselves.
Finally, he saw something he could use to raise himself above the crowd. He pushed his way toward it and climbed up the side of a hard-shell crate set next to a canvas tent. Both were serving to redi
rect the flow of people around them like a sizable rock in a fast-moving river. Standing on top, he used his arms to steady himself. An elderly man tried to climb up beside him. He reached out a hand to help the guy, but his grip slipped and the man fell. The crowd immediately swallowed the old guy up, sweeping him away with the flow. Swearing, Jesse shook it off. A string of light bulbs burned inches from his head, blinding him. He shielded his eyes against the glare and gazed out across the fleeing throng. A constant halo of buzzing insects pestered him, forcing him to breathe slowly through his nose. Far off in the distance, at the edge of the camp, bright halide lights attached to steel towers illuminated a chaotic horde of pale-white forms beyond the fences, hundreds of thousands of them, if not a million. More than he had ever seen in one place before. Inside the camp, he saw muzzle flashes. So, some of the things were obviously finding gaps in the perimeter.
The lights mounted on posts near the walls started flickering. They were about to go out.
Then they did.
Distant screams erupted, growing louder than before and mixing with the sounds of sporadic gunfire. While the creatures outside the razor wire topped fences were now impossible to see, the afterimages of all those teeming monsters chilled him. Dim emergency lighting inside the camp kicked on and cast the swell of people in red. They were fleeing for their lives, stomping and trampling on those who fell and were too feeble to get back up. He hopped off the crate and again joined with the crowd. Even from his elevated vantage point, he saw no clear route that lasted for more than a few seconds. He had managed to get a fix on the position of his family’s tent in relationship to the breach in the wall.
Raptor Apocalypse Page 3