Collapsing World_Stolen Treasure_Book 3

by G. Allen Mercer

  Jeff put his hand on his friend’s shoulder, grief was not a motivator for survival, and they needed to survive. Jack and Lucy were with God, and there was nothing he could say, or any sermon that he could preach that was going to bring them, or the millions of others that had been slaughtered, back to the living. The only thing that he knew right now was that they all needed to survive.

  “Hey, listen, can you give me a lift over to the Tiller Farm, I want to check on Bob and his son,” he said, squeezing David’s shoulder.

  David looked at him for a second, the name Tiller sounding familiar, but with all the carnage and death over the last few days, it all was a blur.

  “You know, the ones with where the father and son were shot at the pipeline terminal the other day.”

  “Right, sure, no problem,” David agreed, as they both got up for breakfast

  An hour later, David drove the Bronco along the graveled entrance of the Tiller Farm. The farm looked different than from when they were here a few days earlier. The farm now looked less like a farm and more like a compound. David pointed at a window along the top of the barn. Someone was looking back at them with binoculars. "They have look-outs."

  “And enforced shooting positions,” Jeff added, pointing to the two sandbagged areas.

  Tasha could give a rip about sandbags or sniper guards around the farm, she felt a little uncomfortable around the farm as a whole; she wasn't an animal person, and the horses scared her. This was their second time to the place, and she was just thankful no one had offered to show her the barn.

  David rolled the Bronco past the sandbag enforcements, up to the house and shut off the engine. They all sat there for a second wondering what they should do.

  "I hope they know it's us?" Jeff noted as he cracked the door.

  "Wait, there's someone coming," David nodded towards the barn.

  "That's Joshua," Jeff said, and exited the truck.

  Bob Tiller's oldest son emerged from the barn and waved at the priest. He was sporting an assault rifle and walked with the attitude that he had already seen combat. He said something into his radio once he was sure that it was a face that he recognized.

  "Father Jeff," Joshua extended his hand to the priest.

  "Joshua," Jeff took the young man's hand and pulled him into an embrace. “How are you, son?”

  Joshua allowed the man to hug him and then pulled back to answer his concerns. He was leery of Father Jeff's traveling partners.

  “Ah, I really don’t know, Father Jeff. I guess it all really hasn’t set in.”

  "Unfortunately, I think I can understand. These are crazy and evil times. How are your father and brother doing?"

  Joshua was hesitant to answer, as he kept looking from the young black girl to the adult white man holstering a .40 caliber pistol.

  "Oh, I'm sorry," Jeff responded, noticing how Tasha and David held back. "This is David. He and I went to school together and were in the same fraternity. You know, back when dinosaurs walked the earth." Jeff tried to interject some brevity into the dark mood that hung over the farm. "He's an Auburn alum, same as you."

  That reference of his college pedigree seemed to convince Joshua. "Sir, good to meet you. Welcome to our farm," Joshua extended his hand and David took it. "War Eagle."

  "War Eagle," David responded back in kind. "I sorry to hear about your father and brother. Tasha and I got to meet your dad yesterday while you were out."

  "Oh," was all that Joshua could muster. While he was out the day before, he had killed several Chinese soldiers, helped rescue a woman, and blown up a water tower all in efforts to save his own life, that of a girl, her mother and their dog. In short, he had other things that he was doing at the time.

  "And," Jeff continued. "This is Tasha." Tasha shook Joshua's hand.

  "Nice to meet you. David rescued me, after my parents were killed on the first day of the attack," she said, knowing that there would be a few uncomfortable seconds to follow. But, she thought it would just be best to blurt out the facts. It is what it is.

  "Oh," Joshua said, again. "I'm really sorry. The world has kind of gone to crap, you know, all of a sudden," he tried to sympathize.

  "I actually hope that God has some sort of plan for all of this, because, well…”

  No one had a real response, except that David put his arm around the girl's shoulders and gave her a little squeeze. “He does,” the priest reassured her.

  She choked a word, but nothing else came forward.

  “Come on inside," Joshua started walking towards the house. "I know my dad will want to see you."

  As they were walking, a man that Father Jeff didn’t know, came out of the house and walked up to the group. He was taller than Jeff, tan arms, with a receding hairline and a broad chest. He carried himself with an authoritative, yet, knowing demeanor. Jeff figured him for former military.

  "Joshua, your dad said there is some more camouflage tarp up in the barn. We should toss it over their vehicle while it's still daylight."

  "Sure, thing," Joshua stopped walking and nodded with a look back at the new arrivals. "Oh, sorry, this is Captain Burrows. He's the one that rescued my brother and brought the Boy Scouts home."

  "I've heard some fast traveling rumors about you," Father Jeff said, extending his hand. "Jeff Class, I'm the local priest and part time sheriff's deputy."

  “Ian Burrows," he said, waving off the officer’s title.

  "I'm David, his friend,” David said, thumbing towards Jeff. "And just a dude trying to escape this hell.”

  “Roger, that,” Ian said, shaking the other man’s hand.

  "Um, I'm Tasha,” she said, extending her hand. "What he said."

  "Good to meet you all," Ian smiled a tired smile. "Oh, and Joshua, I think as a matter of record, it was actually your brother who rescued me first that is." They all laughed like they were standing around at a dinner party and things were normal.

  "I think I want to hear that story sometime." David offered. "But first, I've got our own tarp for the truck; I should have thought to do that anyway," he said, jogging back to the Bronco.

  "You guys go on in; I’ll help him," Ian offered, walking past the three to help with the tarp.

  Joshua led them into the house. "Hey, Mom," Joshua said, opening the door. "Father Jeff is here with some friends."

  Tasha raised her eyebrows at now being slotted under the label of friend.

  Violet Tiller came out of the kitchen and introduced herself to Tasha.

  "I heard about your visit yesterday, sorry I wasn't around to meet you all," she said, full of southern charm. "Where do you live, I don't believe we have met before. Do you go to County High with Adam?" She asked.

  "No, ma'am, I live in West End, near the city. I go to MLK."

  "Oh," she said, suddenly not computing the relationship. She looked out the window and could see David and Ian, but there were no others. "Are you with him?”

  "In a way, yes, ma'am. My parents were killed on the first day, and David," she glanced out the window. "He rescued me." She looked down at her feet. "I guess he still kind of is, because I really don't have any place left to go." She thought to herself that she needed a better explanation why a fifteen-year-old black girl was with a forty-something year old white guy traveling around in a beat to hell Bronco that used to belong to some presumed millionaires.

  "How are they doing?" Jeff asked, referring to the gunshot wounds suffered by Bob and Adam.

  “Father Jeff," Violet started, and choked back some emotion. "Adam's wound was a clean pass through, he'll be okay. He's asleep now. Bob’s a different story. Her face seemed to drain in color. I'm worried about him, Jeff."

  "Can I see him?"

  Nodding, she wiped moisture away from her eyes. "Josh, will you?" Joshua nodded at his mother and led the priest in to see his father, leaving Tasha and Violet alone in the living room. "Come with me, dear," Violet insisted, taking Tasha's hand.

  Tasha looked over her shoulder and c
ould see David and the new guy, Ian, still talking outside next to the covered Bronco. She was on her own.

  Violet opened a door and insisted that Tasha follow her down a set of stairs. Tasha followed her, and for the first time noticed that the stairs and the room that they were descending into were lit with electric lights. She took each step a little slower finding herself in awe of the light, and...

  "Is it air conditioned down here?"

  Violet giggled a little. "Yes, dear. We were prepared for what happened." She answered happily and stopped a few feet into the room, waiting on Tasha to make it all the way down.

  There were four other women in the room, and their conversation ceased once Tasha walked in. Tasha didn't know what to think, or for that matter what to say. She felt as if she was put on display; token black girl and all.

  "Ladies, this is Tasha. She’s on the run from the horrors of what is happening in the city; just like so many of us nowadays."

  Tasha noticed the smiles from the women disappear, to be replaced by looks of worry and compassion.

  Violet continued. "Her parents were killed on the first day. She’s traveling with a man that saved her life, and she is friends with Father Jeff at our church."

  Tasha was still unsure what to say, but that was quickly alleviated as the women each stood and made their way to her.

  "I'm Leah," the first woman offered. She was tall, blond, and looked strong in a wiry kind of way. "I'm so sorry for your loss." She put her arms around her and pulled her into a hug. She then pulled back to look at Tasha before smoothing her black hair back and hugging her again.

  "I'm Grace, her daughter. God, I'm so sorry for your loss. But, just making it this long means you’re strong. That's something that you can hold onto and use. No matter what, don't ever give up or compromise who you are." Grace hugged her and then looked into her eyes as if they were sisters, and they could speak some secret sister code. Tasha nodded, fighting the tears that pushed at her eyes.

  "I'm Mary," the next lady said, her face was hard and it looked as if she was holding something back. "We," her voice cracked. She cleared her throat and started again. “We've all lost someone in one way or another. I'm not ready to forgive them, yet. I'm so, so sorry."

  Tasha released her and crossed her arms trying to hold everything back. She was not at all ready to forgive anyone that was associated with killing her parents. Call it a human flaw, not to forgive immediately, but she wasn't even in the ballpark with the word forgiveness. She liked what Mary had said to her, but stepped back, trying not to let her own emotions swoosh over her like a wave. She couldn't speak, so she just nodded.

  "I'm Anna," the last girl said, her voice soft and warbled with her own emotion. Her face was bruised, and she had the remains of a black eye stretching across her nose. She put her arms around Tasha and just held her for a moment.

  Tasha held her for an equally long amount of time.

  Anna's hold was one of sisterhood, forged at a level of understanding that only these two seemed to grasp.

  "I also lost my parents on the first day," Anna admitted in a whisper.

  That was the straw that broke the emotional camel’s back for Tasha. She lost it, and both girls sobbed together. Within seconds, all of the other women came together to surround the new girl.

  Tasha, for one of the first times in her life, didn’t feel like a young girl. She did not feel like the daughter of a church maid, or a building maintenance man. She didn’t feel like a second-class citizen that had to take the bus or skip school to cover her mom at work just so they could make ends meet. She didn’t feel like a black girl in a world of white.

  She looked up from the group hug to find her God and say thanks. She accepted the hugs and the love and for the first time in days, felt like a human. A human that was accepted only because she was another human.

  CHAPTER 3

  "Have you been fully briefed?” Colonel Horn asked, after meeting the remains of the 'team' that had been feeding radiation readings to the Pentagon. He stood in front of the fireplace, with the others spread throughout the living room.

  "I guess, 'fully', is subjective, Sir," Clark answered for the group. Cooper was the only on missing because he was guarding the prisoner in the basement.

  Horn had intentionally left the ranks of his squad outside so that he could speak to these survivors in ways that were different from how he would address his troops. What he was about to say was not an order, or a directive, they were facts of a situation that would lead him down a path that he himself needed to go.

  "We were hit hard," Horn started. "It was two EMPs. Big sons of bitches," he said, not caring that the teens were still in the room. “They were big enough to chew through most of the military shielding that we have on our gear. I'm talking ships, tanks, helicopters, airplanes, and of course, computers and communications. If it was under the EMP umbrella, most of it got fried."

  "We knew they were bad," Ed spoke quietly in response. He never finished the sentence.

  "They weren't just bad, they were lethal in a way that required mathematical precision and calculation. Because of the EMPs alone, we estimate that over thirty million have died or are near death."

  "Thirty million? Thirty million?" Emma questioned with anger. "How the hell can thirty million people die in less than two weeks because someone turned out the freaking lights?"

  "Ma'am," the colonel said, respect thick in his voice. "It was a little more than just turning off the lights. They cut power, sure, but with power comes life support at the hospitals, air conditioning in the homes of elderly people, traffic lights, that cause instantaneous accidents. At any giving time, there are about 5,000 commercial planes in the air over North America. The math starts adding up, and those planes just don't fall into cornfields. Every major city had jet liners flying over hugely populated areas. Fires fueled by jet fuel and collateral damage builds and the numbers keep growing."

  No one in the group had really thought about just how much destruction had happened.

  Colonel Horn continued. "Just think, there are three million elevators in New York City alone, and most of those people are still there." He looked back at Emma. "Ma'am, power is the fuel of our modern society. Without power we have no internet, no communications, no way to clean water or move it, no gas pumps, or operating engines, no way to transport food and supplies, or even keep them fresh. We, for all intents and purposes, are dead in the water."

  "What about the nukes?" Ed asked. "What was the damage?"

  "Chief, it was horrific. Of course, you are some of the lucky ones," he looked at Clark and the others who had escaped out from under the Atlanta airport. "But to answer your question, we have a guess," he stalled, but there was no easy way to deliver the news other than to just state the facts. "Between the Atlanta and Chicago bombs, the guess is near twenty-five million as a direct result."

  The group let out a collective gasp, trying to swallow the cold facts of slaughter. Fifty-five million so far. Both Emma and Margaret looked as if they would fall apart, each holding onto the other for support.

  "There are two more parts to this," Horn continued. "After the EMP, the Chinese used Tomahawk type missiles to gas every military instillation from South Carolina to Texas. On the heels of that they gassed the port cities of New Orleans and Mobile, and landed their mechanized right onto our shipping docks."

  "Son-of-a-bitch," Dukes growled.

  "And that’s one of the reasons I am here talking to you right now." He let the statement hang in the air. He had just given the group a lot of information to digest, and he was willing to wait until they swallowed before asking them for what he needed.

  "Sir," Jack spoke up with a question. "Are the lights still on in China?" There was a distinct edge in his voice. Everyone looked at the boy.

  "Yes, son, they are," Horn answered, matching the edge.

  "Look, there’s good news. I know it might seem small in comparison, but, our boys were able to stop sever
al other bombings, including New York and D.C."

  "What did that get us, if we can't do anything?" Emma asked.

  "Well, we still have a functioning government, for starts, at least in the north east."

  That comment flew over most of the others heads, except those of Clark, Dukes and Ed.

  "What do you mean by, at least in the north east?" Dukes was the first to ask.

  Horn shifted his body before answering. "They gutted us like a fish, right up the middle," he raised his hand straight up in the air like he was slicing through an Alaskan King Salmon. "We are a country divided by a midline. Anywhere between where we are now over to the Rockies is a kill zone."

  "Kill zone?" Emma asked. "Perez said that term also."

  "It's where they are freely killing people without opposition," Clark said, his voice somber.

  Horn nodded in agreement. "They are marching in from the Gulf coast ports, and from the north, decimating Canada as they do. Over the last few days, while we have been struggling to get things working again, they’ve been flying sorties from drones to helicopters with one goal in mind," he paused and looked at Emma. "To kill as many Americans as possible in the Kill Zone."

  "What do they want?" She met his look, and wiped a tear off of her cheek.

  "Well, that’s the million-dollar question, but our intelligence guys think, and I happen to agree with them, that they want our resources. You know, oil, natural gas, the breadbasket, clean air and a chicken in every pot as far as I know. Shit, they also want to be the big dog in the world, and in order to do that, you have to knock off the current big dog."

  "Us," Penny voiced.

  "Yes, ma'am. Us."

  "Sir," Clark ventured. "What about the West? You said we have a government in the east, where does that leave the U.S. in the west?"

  "Specialist, it leaves the folks out West in a world of hurt. NORAD is still functioning, and is trying to coordinate defenses with the governors of the western states. From what we can tell, it isn't going too well. The big cities are just too spread out to form up. Everything out West is conventional, thank goodness."