by Taylor Kole
Looking up revealed a unified cloud. It covered the sky above him, and was near perfectly square. How strange. The massive coagulation of dust and humidity hovered above the road they traveled and continued on in the distance they were heading. God had sent His own sunblock.
Up and down the traffic jam, car doors opened, and people exited their vehicles, stretching their limbs.
Tim tugged his Wolverine boot laces tight, put his hand on the bed rail, and in one fluid motion, threw himself over the side. Retrieving his SKS rifle and backpack, he enjoyed the familiarity of the weapon he’d fired for nearly ten years, and the weight of the pack. He curled the bag a few times to strain his thin bicep, scoffed at the minimal bulge. It didn’t matter that he was skinny and easily winded. Muscles didn’t make the soldier; intelligent and bravery did. He’d teach Alan that lesson.
One step and he paused. A large machine that resembled a blue post office drop box, except painted in desert colors, sat alongside the road. The closest one waited a hundred feet from him, so he reserved judgment as to its purpose.
Pacing alongside the asphalt, the crunch of sand under his feet made him feel like a gladiator ascending a gated tunnel.
He peeked in vehicles as he passed, shared nods, or if a window was rolled down, a terse greeting.
A gap in the vehicles showed an identical machine to the one Tim previously noticed sat on the opposite side of the road. Mist poured from its “mail receptor.” Continuing to rack his mind, he reached one of the machines and stopped, his eyes following the stream upward.
Working collectively with other contraptions, positioned every hundred yards or so, the mist blended in the air, providing the exceptional coverage above them.
Holy smokes, he thought, fake cloud machines. Tim almost laughed. I’m in with some real players. Holding his hat with two hands, he searched the line of idling vehicles ahead of him. A security checkpoint waited two miles further on. Behind him, the trail of automobiles, of various makes and models, stretched into the horizon.
The white truck he’d been keeping an eye out for was fifty yards ahead of him. Picturing Alan all pissed off about something, Tim inhaled, adjusted his posture, and walked confidently toward the truck. The four-door, extended cab, dually one-ton, diesel V8, King Ranch edition’s back door opened as he neared. Seeing Alan’s abnormally hairy arm, which had reached back from the passenger seat to open the door produced grin, but Tim knew better.
Climbing in, he tossed the backpack on the seat, positioned his rifle on his lap, shut the door, and melted into the chill of air-conditioning.
“Careful which way you point that barrel,” Alan said.
Tim double-checked its direction; safe, as always. Alan’s hair, mostly gray, matched his beard, and was pulled into a ponytail. With a protruding belly and round limbs, Alan reminded Tim of a walrus, a really strong walrus without blubber. Tim had grown up jabbing the man’s stone-hard thighs, core, and shoulders.
“Been wondering if you hitched a ride on this trip.” Alan cracked the top to a Coca-Cola, passed it back. “Guess I can find a use for someone as scrawny as you.”
“Thanks,” Tim said as he took the soda. The can was bitingly cold. So much so, he kept swapping hands as if playing an Eskimo version of hot potato. He glanced over the aisle, looking for a cooler.
Alan tapped the middle console. “Built-in fridge. Men who’ve earned their stripes get these types of luxuries.”
Tim raised his eyebrows, sat back, and sipped carefully. He’d earn more than stripes. Just wait, he thought. I’ll earn more than a set of stripes.
“You got any idea what those machines do?”
Tim looked at the unknown driver. Part of his training included erring on the side of caution, so he stayed quiet.
“Don’t think the little squirt trusts you,” Alan said.
The driver forced air through his nostrils.
“Graham’s a mechanic from Dayton,” Alan said. “One of the Man in Gray’s men. A firm believer in our Lord and the evils around the world that work to lead the weak astray.”
Tim let that settle, and then replied, “I’m pretty sure those machines are making that big cloud to block our activity from whoever is up there watching.”
“Kid ain’t all dumb,” Graham said.
“Ah, even a blind squirrel,” Alan said. “Besides, he’s only half right. There’s a Man up there whose watchful eye can’t be blocked.”
Tim placed the Coke in a beverage holder. Alan would establish the hierarchy of the men under his command. He’d known Tim the longest, so Tim took his shot. “How about me for one of the leadership roles? A captain? Lieutenant, maybe?”
“Shit, son,” Alan said. “Can you even do a hundred push-ups?”
Graham peeked at Tim’s bare chest. No doubt he registered its hairless concavity.
“Given enough time,” Tim said.
Alan chuckled. “I need hardened men for the days ahead.”
“You need loyalty,” Tim said. “Who’s more dedicated than me? Who’s more willing to follow any order?”
“Kid’s got his head on right,” Graham said.
“He hasn’t reached manhood yet,” Alan said. “His father sounded just as noble at that age. Then the booze and pills took over. There’s weak blood in him.”
“Not in me,” Tim said. “I honor my temple. You could assign me as your second in command, and if, God forbid, you took a mortal wound, die confident things would move forward as you envisioned.”
“That ex-colonel’s already slotted as my number two. With a three hundred-man regiment, I’ve already picked out and notified my captains. You got the godly morals to be of use; I’ll give you that. Get down to the sergeants—you might make the cut.”
“Well,” Tim said. “No one’s more ready to kick ass.”
“Ha!” Alan smacked his wide thighs. “Sometimes I think bluster is the only thing keeps you from blowing away.”
“Honor to God, country, and family,” Tim said. “That’s my credo.”
Alan pointed at the time on the dash: one fifteen. “We should be settled by four. There’s a conference for the brass tonight at seventeen hundred. Find me there around then, and we’ll see if there’s a lieutenant willing to take you on.”
“I’ll be there.”
Minutes ticked by as the truck slowly advanced. The cool air provided by the air-conditioning made Tim feel complacent. He needed to stay battle-ready. Big things awaited him. He’d show Alan. “May I be dismissed, sir?”
“Yeah,” Alan said. “Find yourself some deodorant, and sunscreen.”
Tim returned to the heat. He’d be at that meeting, and get assigned a leadership role. His ascent to hero in the battle for humanity had been predestined since the beginning of time.
Being associated with Alan carried perks for Tim. One of the Man in Gray’s men had towed a small trailer out West. Seeing Tim wandering amidst the ranks, he invited the young man to share it.
Inside the beat-up fifteen by eight, his roommate presented him with a most glorious gift: a leather vest with the Lord’s Thorn emblem stitched onto the back. The word “Lord’s” arced across the top with the word “Thorn” horizontal at its base. In the center, the L overlapped the T to form a cross of sorts. The letters were tinted gold and bronze and wrapped loosely in a thorny vine. The bottom of the T morphed into a menacing brown thorn with a drop of blood on its tip.
Slipping the vest off the cupboard handle, its weight surprised him. An empty mark waited above the chest pocket. He already envisioned “Vanderhart” stitched on the front left side.
Beneath that, another patch would read “Sergeant.” On the right, the infamous underlined phalanx would signify his rank.
He slid one arm in, then the other, and felt anointed, protected.
He understood bullets passed through leather, but still, he imagined himself daring someone to shoot at him from twenty feet away and laughing at each errant shot.
This vest
represented more than a token of brotherhood; it signified a responsibility. Rumors circulated that they might be deploying for their first mission as early as tomorrow. A mission to secure a permanent base with armaments and natural defenses.
Two weeks ago, he’d been hunting turkeys, daydreaming of future events. Now he stood among a thousand like-minded soldiers. A portion of whom would be looking to him for leadership and answers. He was determined to fill that need.
On the way to his trailer, he’d noticed that the impromptu base supported a diverse crowd.
Outlandish bikers walked alongside men with thick glasses, closed mouths, and darting eyes.
He saw a group covered in tattoos that looked as if they’d recently been paroled, another dominated by polo shirts and sandals, casually standing as if waiting to tee off on the ninth green. He saw a surprising amount of Mexicans and blacks. Despite this contrast, everything remained orderly. This was a real band of brothers.
The vehicles were parked in a specific area about two hundred square yards. Those designated for transport were maneuvered to yet another site and emptied, with intentions of being reloaded. People bustled to their assigned tents and unpacked.
Originally, Tim assumed this would be their base. That would have suited him fine. Isolated in a desert, with a generous line of sight in all directions, the place offered advantages. Knowing they were moving to a more fortified location only bolstered his confidence.
Finding a mirror on the outside of a narrow door, he admired himself. The bare chest looked white trashy, so he’d wear a T-shirt under the vest. After changing, he smoothed down the vest and stepped outside, where he paused to take in the activity. The first person to see him—a bear of a man in his forties—glanced at the new vest and saluted. Tim swelled with pride and returned the gesture.
When the man walked on, Tim descended another step and, feeling lightheaded, realized he needed to let his endorphins cool down. The man who saluted him wore a plain white tee and carried a leather vest over his forearm. Testing his equilibrium with another step and feeling more in control, Tim trailed the man. They knifed through the tents and intersections of people until the burly man met with a group of guys with similar builds: middle-aged with bellies, beards, and tattoos.
A line of a dozen men and two women led to a burning barrel. His mark reached the front of the line and to Tim’s horror, tossed in the leather vest he’d been carrying. Yet before Tim could scream, a peer passed the man a new vest. As it wrapped around the sturdy frame, Tim recognized the Lord’s Thorn insignia.
Once adorned, brief hugs and hard congratulatory back slaps showered the man. As Tim watched, others tossed in their old cuts, some hesitantly, some with pride. Tim knew that for a militia member, even moreso a biker, their cut represented honor, and to burn one displayed a serious rite of passage.
Looking past the man, Tim considered his next step: arriving at a command tent for the biggest interview of his life.
The headquarters, a recently erected wooden roof on stilts, had canvas walls, able to be rolled up during the arid days to allow an airflow, and dropped down at night to ward off the chill.
With the majority of the pavilion open, Tim slowed his pace and surveyed the interior. Electronic devices topped tables. Men in vests already stitched with name and rank busied themselves.
He’d be there soon enough. For now, he had a second rumor to investigate.
A ranch house centered a forty-acre patch of desert land sectioned off by two-plank fencing. Behind the home, which should have been better guarded, sat a staggering sight. Seven well-spaced rows of mismatched helicopters stretched the length of a football field.
Due to the variety of shapes and colors and sheer numbers, it resembled a mega used-car lot of copters. Mechanics in jumpsuits leaned over open engine casings, others tweaked rotors, a few manipulated switches in cockpits. Two Ford Ranger pickups dispensed oil and other necessary fluids.
On the stroll back, he heard a half-dozen people speculating on the purpose of the aircrafts. Most believed they would ferry in the soldiers’ families after they reached the base. Tim thought that possible, but he thought it was more likely wishful thinking. Talk of reuniting with old ladies and kids annoyed him. He sympathized, but they had more pressing matters.
He actually listened when those in charge spoke. Those men had recently said that joining the Lord’s Thorn meant risking your life. Tim understood that meant death, which meant killing. A machine currently threatened God’s people. The group surrounding him had been assembled to stop it.
In an earlier speech, Alan indicated that their families and loved ones would arrive in Nevada one to three days after the first wave departed, and then follow the horde to its new base along the same time frame, yet questions persisted. After he wore those stripes, he’d listen for inquiries about wife and family and snap on the first man, help the private get his head on right. And if the man griped, or elevated backtalk to disrespect, Tim had never met anyone faster at applying an arm bar than himself. He’d break the first bone, earning him respect.
Checking his watch that doubled as a compass, and seeing he had twenty minutes, he thought it best to loiter around the main structure.
Remembering the field of choppers jacked his heart. With that volume of helicopters, the brass planned something much more spectacular than transporting women and children.
Chapter Thirty-Four
Staring at the written outline for his course of action, composed with scribbled notes on both sides of two pages, filled Alex with equal parts pride and dread. His solution to the pirated access points should prevent global war, but at what cost. He shook his head at the magnitude, necessary logistics, and moreover, the end result. He hoped Jodi Reister’s use of “unlimited budget” applied; he’d written one of the most ambitious schemes in history.
Without his plan, he predicted an end to society as we know it.
He checked the time on the cellphone. Ninety minutes until Inside Today aired. Every outlet hyped tonight’s edition as the most important of Rebecca Trevino’s career. It promised to put facts to the whispers circulating the world. With regret at knowing he’d miss the episode, Alex summoned his hosts back into the office.
Saving the world from collapse was on Alex’s agenda, and they’d need a miracle to pull it off. His plan would require immense effort, cooperation, and funding, along with the formation of a new governmental agency. The United States would jump at his proposal to form a new branch of monitoring, which left ten thousand hurdles to overcome.
Andrews entered, leaned over Alex’s shoulder, and peered at his notes. “What’s your idea to fix this? I have an excellent plan, if you’re ready for it.”
Alex flipped his notes face down. “Perhaps another time.”
“Well, bounce what you have off me before the others arrive. Maybe my pointers will stop you from looking like a fool.”
“I’m just going to wait until everyone’s present.” Alex felt uncomfortable about their close proximity, and said. “Do you mind backing up?”
“It’s your funeral.” Andrews plopped into the far chair and crossed his arms.
Alex’s goal was to avoid millions of innocent people having to host early funerals.
When the final three members arrived and sat, Alex placed his hand on the closed binder. “I have good and… complicated news.”
“Good news is a relief,” Willis said as he adjusted his glasses on his face.
“I’ve identified avenues we can exploit,” Alex said. His body tensed; the added density seemed to pull a billion molecules toward him.
“I’m sure you understand, every way we run this ends in disaster, unless we take drastic measures.”
“Do you have a plan?” Willis asked.
“I have a plan. It’s ambitious, but I think it’s the only way.”
The three agents shared looks. Each appeared ready to comment, yet withheld.
Alex breathed deeply. The work he�
�d have to do behind the scenes, without their approval, compounded his fear and uncertainty.
“After discussing the issue with Ike, I feel confident that whoever designed this had help from inside Broumgard. Someone either smuggled information out or assisted with hands-on. The good news is, the list of people with access should number fewer than fifty. I’m sure you’ll be able to root out the betrayer.”
“We’ll punish ’em harshly,” Agent Martineau said. Without his sport coat, the curly-haired man seemed even larger.
“When we started at Eridu,” Alex continued, “we housed the Lobby’s server in a twenty-thousand-square foot storage facility—an impressive feat for the amount of data being processed. Since globalization, we condensed the necessary hardware to ten cubic feet.” Alex paused to allow that marvel to settle, then continued, “Our R&D department has the sharpest minds in the field, and they believed we possessed top technology. What you’ve captured,” he tapped the binder, “seems to house the entire Lobby in a macroserver the size of a shoebox. I looked over the schematics. It still doesn’t make sense to me, but if it works, it’s remarkable.
“The other good news, beyond catching the guilty party, is that with this device, the load-in process will be time-consuming. When someone jacks into the Lobby with the setup, it will take no less than four hours to mirror everything and establish a viable connection. Perhaps a three-minute load-in time after that, which I imagine would be disorienting and draining, like an anesthesiologist slowly administering a sedative.”
Agent Martineau lifted his meaty paw. After Alex nodded to him, he said, “I’m eager to hear your plan a’ action, Mr. Cutler. It’ll commence the most important undertaking a’ my career, but… I just wonder, since I have you sitting here, if perhaps a greater understanding a’ how this whole thing works might help us out. I can’t figure where a person’s spirit is housed once they’re dead. Like, if a guy off’d himself while connected to that contraption, would he be in that shoebox? And if we pulled the plug, we’d end his life? Or is he in a main server? Or is he copied a thousand times to each of those dump sites you referred to?”