by Tara Ellis
The west coast of North America didn’t usually get hurricanes, since the water wasn’t warm enough to feed the storm. Every once in a great while, California could see the tail end of a typhoon sucked up from farther south, though that was nothing compared to what currently raged.
“Are the kids coming?” Margaret murmured, leaning into Edward. “I hope they aren’t getting too wet. I’ll need to turn the oven down so the turkey doesn’t get dry.”
Edward closed his eyes and tried to settle his thoughts. He’d rather deal with the storm than his wife’s failing mind. “No, my dear. The children are safe.”
There was a sudden lull in the howling, and then the atmosphere seemed to change as the air itself grew dense. In the shock of the silence, Edward looked down at Margaret’s frail form enveloped in his arms and knew they were on a precipice. He thought back over all the special phases of their lives. The births of their children, the countless holiday dinners, camping trips into the mountains. The death of a grandchild, and the marriage of another. The first time he held his great-grandson. A faint smile was tugging at his lips when the pent-up breath of the night was released, and slammed into their home with a force only Mother Nature could produce.
“No!” he protested, angry that of all the many trials they had overcome, it would be the sea, their refuge, that would claim them in the end.
Margaret screamed as the windows imploded and the roof began to lift, and Edward squeezed his arms even tighter to spare her as much as possible. The storm was inside then; cold tendrils of the night that reached out and embraced him in a deadly caress, tearing at his clothes to expose his flesh. The candles were instantly snuffed out, plunging them into an eternal darkness.
They were but one house of thousands in the path of the hurricane’s destruction, and it was only the first of many that would reshape the West Coast of America.
Chapter 11
GENERAL MONTGOMERY
Cheyenne Mountain Complex, Colorado
General Montgomery led the way through the secondary blast doors of Cheyenne Mountain, and then watched the expression on Corporal Dillinger’s face as the internal mechanism groaned until the rods slid into place, effectively sealing them inside.
“Ahem.” Corporal Dillinger tugged at his uniform and took a moment to gather himself before meeting the general’s inquisitive stare. “A very…interesting sensation.”
A rare smile softened the general’s features. He appreciated the honest reaction. Most attempted to shrug off the discomfort of being shut inside the granite bunker. It was much better, he’d come to understand, to simply accept the low-level sense of doom and heaviness as a part of the experience. “You’re at the mercy of the mountain now,” he said dryly.
The general had personally met Dillinger on the tarmac. The gesture was nothing more than a maneuver to briefly bolster the man’s feeling of importance and loosen his tongue. Although, Montgomery was looking forward to giving him a tour of the complex. He enjoyed strolling the numerous, cavernous rooms and didn’t have many opportunities to do it. “Have you had breakfast?” he asked, always the gracious host.
“Yes, sir,” Dillinger barked. “Before leaving Peterson this morning. Though they clearly still have some obstacles to overcome, I’d say they’ve got the civilian unrest under control. In that part of Colorado Springs, anyway.”
Montgomery scoffed in response. He didn’t need, nor did he ask the corporal for a report on the state of his city. He could have had Dillinger brought straight to the mountain the night before, and given him much nicer accommodations. However, the general saw no reason to provide the corporal any unnecessary reasons to inflate his already healthy ego. He made a point, therefore, of establishing right away that the lowly FEMA shelter commander wasn’t worthy of a port in the mountain. He could wallow below, and come only once beckoned. It made the current meeting more compelling. Dillinger was a grunt, and the general knew how to deal with them. It was all about posturing and respect.
After an hour, the general had led Corporal Dillinger through countless tunnels and rooms of various sizes. His personal favorite, the underground lake, had the expected effect, so by the time they left, Dillinger was noticeably silent.
As they ascended back the way they’d come, Montgomery waited, letting the minutes roll by until the other man finally cleared his throat. “Something on your mind, Corporal?”
“Well, sir, I can’t help but think that you had me flown all the way down here for something other than a tour.”
Again, with the bluntness. A corner of his mouth turned up; Montgomery glanced back over his shoulder. “One of the reasons I wanted to show you this facility is because my gut tells me you’re a man who appreciates parallels.”
“Sir?” Dillinger sounded genuinely perplexed.
“Take this bunker, for example.” Stopping, General Montgomery turned to face the corporal, his expression stoic. “Right now, we are standing in the heart of a mountain. A literal marvel of mankind’s ingenuity. It is likely the only place on Earth still functioning at such a capacity, and yet…” Twisting slightly, he lifted an arm and pointed at red words that had been painted on the wall years earlier.
Without power it’s just a cave
“You’re right, Corporal. I did summon you for a reason.” Montgomery folded his arms over his chest. “I’ve been impressed with your continued progress at the shelter, as well as your ongoing requisitions. I read the latest reports yesterday morning regarding the cattle and farms in the neighboring towns of Monida, and I wanted to talk with you about heading up a task force to implement the same strategy on a broader scale.”
Dillinger looked from Montgomery, to the red words on the rock, and then back at the general again. “Yes, sir. I’d be honored. And I understand.”
“Do you?”
Dillinger shifted his feet slightly but didn’t look down at them. Yes. He understood the game very well. “Without a show of increasing power now, we risk being reduced to nothing more than an army of aimless men, instead of an assemblage of warriors.”
Montgomery gave one curt nod in confirmation, while resisting the urge to correct the other man. Let Dillinger and his men think of themselves as warriors, if that’s what they needed. However, for the general and his crusade, it was more about becoming a sovereign regime.
“Tell me about the resistance you met,” Montgomery asked as be began walking again. “The report was vague.”
Dillinger waved a hand dismissively. “It was a couple of days ago. The owner of Duke Ranch is a pigheaded, obstinate man. Refused to hand over the requested cattle. It was unfortunate, really. No one had to die. It was over quickly and we’re now using the farm as an additional center of operations for the area.”
“Looked like a good spot for one on the map I have,” the general said with approval.
“It isn’t without its drawbacks,” Dillinger mumbled.
“Such as?”
“Those farmers have a strong sense of loyalty,” the corporal explained, as if that were a bad thing.
Montgomery knew that was the very reason why it was essential to establish military authority in that part of the country right away. Control of the livestock and farmland would be critical in the years to come. “They’re refusing to work?”
Dillinger nodded. “Most of them walked away instead of conceding, and there’s concern they might regroup and try to eventually take their property back.”
“We’ll have to make sure that isn’t an option,” Montgomery replied. “Let’s not discuss forced work camps yet, however. Let’s start by trying to reason with them. Offer compensation, in the form of shelter, food, and medication. A few weeks out there on their own, I imagine you’ll be able to entice a fair amount back without any further violence.”
“There might be another element to factor in,” the corporal said, and Montgomery stopped and looked back at him. He could tell that whatever it was, it warranted his attention.
“Yes
?”
“While we were searching the Duke residence, we found some maps,” Dillinger said, pausing to look up at the rock ceiling high overhead when the venting system moaned to life. “They were out in the open and had some very specific markings which I believe involves a rather impressively organized supply train called the Pony Express.”
“The Pony Express?” Montgomery chuckled, finding it humorous that Dillinger would think some vain attempt at running mail could pose a threat.
“Well, it’s a vague reference,” the corporal said gruffly, clearly disliking being laughed at. “We’ve heard of it on multiple occasions now, and it appears to connect no less than four or five different communities. A form of networking to share needed goods and information.”
General Montgomery canted his head slightly at the mention of information. He narrowed his eyes. “And you think this supply train could somehow lend assistance to our vagrant farmers? Help them to organize?”
“Perhaps,” Dillinger said, clearly relieved that the general recognized his train of thought so easily. “It’s already being seen as a sign of civilian success and is encouraging to the small communities that are scattered throughout the state of Montana and into Idaho.”
Idaho. Montgomery frowned. Not a state he wanted associated with civilian organization and accomplishments. “I take it there’s more to this?”
The corporal’s lip twitched and his nostrils flared. “Yes, sir. We believe this Pony Express is originating from a small mountain town called Mercy. It also happens to be home to one of the largest cattle farms in that part of the state.”
“Mercy,” Montgomery muttered to himself. “Early on,” he said, recalling the name. “We had some form of communication established with them. If I remember correctly, it has a population of barely more than five hundred and is deep in the mountains, isolated by a valley.”
“Yes, sir. But the resources would outweigh the disadvantage of being remote.”
Montgomery stared hard at the corporal. “I know I’ve read some reports mentioning Mercy more recently.”
Dillinger hung his head for a moment and scratched at his jaw. “It was included in my report, sir, about the rancher who gave us so much trouble at the shelter.”
The general raised his eyebrows.
“He’s Thomas Miller. The owner of the cattle ranch in Mercy. And, it’s also been under a self-imposed quarantine for nearly two weeks,” Dillinger continued. But I believe—”
“So, this is personal,” Montgomery spat.
The corporal’s head snapped up and his eyes narrowed. “No, sir. But it is about me having personal knowledge of the town, the kind of man Miller is, and that he runs a very successful ranch.”
“How successful?” Montgomery asked.
“At least twice the size of Duke Ranch.”
General Montgomery carefully considered the information as the ground under their feet vibrated slightly, another unsettling component of the ventilation system. “Conceivably large enough to warrant lying about a contagion to keep the military out.”
Dillinger smiled. “Yes, sir. I suspect so.”
His mind made up, Montgomery pivoted, his shoes squeaking against the granite, and began walking back up the tunnel. The corporal scrambled to catch up and walk alongside him. “Okay, Corporal. Get me proof that Mercy is the base of operations for this Pony Express, and that the quarantine is a charade, and I’ll give you the orders you want.”
“I’ll start right away,” Dillinger said excitedly. “I mean, after we’re done planning the next phase, sir.”
Montgomery stopped in front of the underground diner, aptly named the Granite Inn Dining Room. “We can hammer that out over lunch,” he scoffed. “I imagine it’ll be a simple matter of logistics and getting you the manpower you need. Walsh will see to that. You can head back tonight, if you like.”
Instead of being insulted by the quick dismissal, the corporal stood even straighter and gave a brisk nod of his head. “Yes, sir. I’d like to get back as soon as possible. Can I ask, sir, if the other helo is available? While I was happy to learn Malmstrom got one of their old birds flying, I can’t say I’m convinced it’ll stay in the air.”
“No,” Montgomery said unapologetically. “It’s needed for an important assignment.” As the corporal tried not to look put out, he decided to further establish the need to impress him. “And Corporal, for your pet project, I only want you using boots on the ground. No extra resources are to be pulled for this.”
“Understood, sir,” Dillinger answered without hesitation. “I’ve already got everything I need near Helena. A warrior knows how to be resourceful.”
Montgomery hated to admit it, but he did admire the man’s tenacity. Perhaps there was something legitimate to the corporal’s concern. It certainly would be nice to secure a thousand or more head of cattle.
“I’ll get you your proof in three days,” Dillinger promised, his demeanor unflinching. “And then, I’ll get you Mercy.”
Chapter 12
TOM
Sheriff’s Office, Mercy, Montana
It was a weird sensation, riding down the Main Street of Mercy on horseback. Other than when he’d been talked into a parade or two as a boy, it wasn’t something Tom thought he’d ever do.
At the southern end of town, he and Bishop made a stop at the sheriff’s office while everyone else continued on to the spring. It was still really early in the morning, but his mom said the sheriff was pretty much living at the station, so they figured he’d be there.
Sure enough, Sheriff Waters emerged from the back room with a steaming cup of coffee in hand shortly after the front door chimed, announcing their arrival. “Tom. Bishop,” he mumbled, lifting the cup in their direction. “Would you like some coffee? It’s good. You know, being the coffee addict that I am, one of my earlier concerns after the power went out was that I wouldn’t be able to brew a pot anymore. Why I’ve never used a French press, I couldn’t tell ya. Always took the instant packets when I went hunting. Anyway,” he continued after taking another long sip from the mug, “best darn stuff I’ve ever had. Thank God Mr. Sullivan had a couple of crates of beans in his storeroom. Although, I figure we’ll have to learn how to grow and make our own at some point.”
“Sure, Sheriff. I’ll take a cup,” Tom said, enticed by the smell and entertained by the dialogue. Though the sheriff hadn’t lived in Mercy for all that long, they had gotten to know each other reasonably well. The man had the unique ability to always be present in the moment. To slow things down and focus on what most others would pass over. Tom suspected it came from being a cop in a big city for so many years before he moved to Mercy.
Bishop held a hand up. “You know I don’t usually drink it.”
“Yeah, well, you’re an odd man,” the sheriff chuckled. “Come on back into my office, guys. I’m glad you stopped by. I wanted to talk with you, Tom.”
Tom followed the older man into the large room with a bay window that overlooked Main Street. It allowed in enough light to reveal a cot in the far corner, and a scattering of personal belongings on the couch and counter. Tom helped himself to the coffee, and then chose to stand since there really wasn’t anywhere to sit.
“Sorry about the mess,” Sheriff Waters muttered as he leaned on the edge of his mahogany desk to face them. “I usually tidy up before anyone comes in.”
“We’re not here to judge your housekeeping abilities,” Tom said with a grin.
“But we do need to talk about a few things,” Bishop added in a more serious tone.
The sheriff sat his mug down and crossed his arms while nodding his head. “I figured you would. Tom, we’re all glad you’re back, of course, and I hope you understand why we’re in need of your cattle. I’m sure your mom explained we’ve had her full cooperation?”
“She did,” Tom confirmed. “Honestly, I’m on board with the whole exchange plan, Sheriff. I saw enough out there to be able to say with certainty that the only way we�
�re going to survive and preserve our town is to do it together. Having said that, I want it understood that Miller Ranch won’t be a part of any forced participation.”
“Now Tom, the council—”
“The council knows nothing about your and the mayor’s plan to move to stronger tactics should the need arise,” Tom interrupted, his voice gruff. “I get where you’re coming from, Sheriff…I do. You can try and hide behind the excuse that it’s what’s best for the town all you want; it still comes down to why we fight to live and also how we do it. It can’t be at the cost of others’ lives or freedom. Not when we have other options.”
“Well, I’m glad to see you have all our problems figured out in the twenty-four hours you’ve been back.” The sheriff rose slowly and stretched his back, wincing. “That cot is doing a real number on me.”
Bishop and Tom exchanged a look, but remained silent as the lawman for Mercy mulled over his response while slowly going through the motions of preparing more coffee for the press. Dumping the old grounds in the garbage, he took the kettle off a tiny butane camping stove where it was heating.
It wasn’t until he’d poured the water and moved the pot aside that he finally addressed them. “Okay. I can live with that, and I suppose it was wrong of Patty and I to discuss such things outside of the council. You know me, Tom. A politician I’m not. I’m happy to leave the policy-making to others while I focus on upholding ’em.”
While Tom never thought the sheriff would offer much resistance, he was still relieved. They all needed to be on the same page to make things work.
“And Patty?” Bishop asked.
“Patty’s tired,” Sheriff Waters said bluntly. “Don’t judge her too harshly. You haven’t been here. She’s held up better than most would, with more weight on her shoulders than anyone should ever have to bear. She won’t disagree with you, Tom,” he continued, resigned. “You offer the council a way to keep us all fed this next year and Patty will be happy to go along with whatever your plan is. That’s all she wants.”