by Kyle Pratt
Braving the Storms
Strengthen What Remains, Book Three
By Kyle Pratt
Braving the Storms
Strengthen What Remains, Book Three
By Kyle Pratt
Copyright © 2015 Kyle Pratt
ebook ISBN: 978-0-9969412-0-4
eBook Version 3.0 – February 2016
All Rights Reserved
Editors: Joyce Scott & Barbara Blakey
Cover Design: Micah Hansen
This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents either are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.
All rights reserved. No part of this book may be used or reproduced in any manner whatsoever without written permission from the author.
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Acknowledgements
I have no idea how many hours I’ve spent writing Braving the Storms. The life of an author is usually portrayed as solitary, but that has not been my experience.
Many authors say that their spouse is their biggest fan. My wife, Lorraine, is certainly that, but she is also my office manager, business partner and first editor. She has read every chapter of this book several times. Without her support I would not be an author.
I owe a huge debt of gratitude to the members of my critique group; Robert Hansen, Barbara Blakey, Carolyn Bickel, Debby Lee and Kristie Kandoll. They are more than fellow writers, they are friends and mentors, and they have taught me so much.
Finally, I appreciate my friend William Childress for beta-reading the manuscript and finding all the errors I made while trying to edit my own work.
Thank you!
Table of Contents
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
Chapter 14
Chapter 15
Chapter 16
Chapter 17
Chapter 18
Chapter 19
Chapter 20
Chapter 21
Chapter 22
Chapter 23
Chapter 24
Chapter 25
Chapter 26
Chapter 27
Chapter 28
Chapter 29
Chapter 30
Chapter 31
Chapter 32
Chapter 33
Chapter 34
Chapter 35
Chapter 36
Chapter 37
Chapter 38
Chapter 39
Chapter 40
Glossary
Also by the Author
About the Author
If you like what you’ve read
About the Newsletter
Chapter One
Rural Lewis County, Washington state, Sunday, September 20th
First Sergeant Fletcher spread the map on the hood of the Humvee and wondered where the gang might be headed.
The screen door of the nearby log home squeaked as Deputy Philip exited. He was only twenty-four years old and, Fletcher was sure, had not seen many murders. The door creaked again as Private Spencer, his skin deathly pale, followed the deputy out of the house.
“Anybody alive?” Fletcher asked.
Philip shook his head, took a deep breath and let it out slowly. “An older man and woman are inside, both dead. The gun safe is open, but empty, except for this logbook. It lists eight rifles and three pistols by make, model and serial number. It looks like the gang tortured the husband, probably to get the combination of the gun safe, and then killed them both.”
“How long have they been dead?”
“Two days, maybe three. The gang could be anywhere by now.”
The corporal walked up. “There’s no gas in the car or tractor. The gas caps are off so, I’d guess the gang siphoned it.”
“How much fuel do we have?” Fletcher asked.
“The gas cans are empty and none of the tanks are full. We have enough for today, but we’ll need more soon.”
Fletcher didn’t want to turn back. “They’re animals. I don’t think they know we’re hunting them, but if we don’t find them quickly, they’ll figure it out.” He drew a circle with his finger. “All the attacks have been in this area. We’ve been checking homes, farms, motels and such, but they could be camping somewhere.”
“They would need shelter, water and a place off the road where they can hide,” Philip said.
“There’s a hunting lodge here.” The pale private indicated a location on the map. “It was owned by a rich guy, but since he was from Los Angeles….”
Fletcher nodded. Los Angeles was nuked by the terrorists on the second day of attacks. The owner of the lodge was probably still in the city when it was destroyed. He looked at the deputy. “I think we should check it out.”
“It’s the best idea I’ve heard today.”
“Private, round up the rest of the men and let’s move out.”
While the squad of soldiers returned to the two Humvees, Deputy Philip tried to radio in the murders, but heard only static. “We’re out of range.”
Fletcher looked south. “The direction we’re going will keep us out of radio range. Do you want to head back to Hansen and report or—”
“No,” the deputy said. “I’ll drive to here.” He pointed to a small town on the map. “I know that’s in radio range. I’ll report in, get more gas and meet you at the lodge.”
Fletcher nodded and turned to the soldiers nearby. “Okay. Let’s saddle up.”
Two Humvees headed into the mountains south of Randle, while the deputy drove north toward the highway.
Since Private Spencer knew the location of the lodge, Fletcher had him drive the lead vehicle while he sat next to him with the map. Trees lined both sides of the road as they climbed into the Cascade foothills. Some of the land was national forest, some was owned by timber companies. Occasionally a house came in view. As they passed a meadow the first sergeant spotted a man, woman and several children baling hay and loading it on a horse drawn wagon. Perhaps they moved here thinking this was a safe place to raise a family. It probably is safer than most cities. He chuckled inwardly. We used to think the world wasn’t safe. We had no idea just how unsafe it could get. He sighed and studied the map.
A few minutes later Spencer said, “That’s the turn off. It’s about two miles up the gravel road near the top of the hill.”
“Stop here.” Fletcher had the drivers block the narrow road with the Humvees. The two squads hiked on either side of the private lane through a forest of mammoth trees. The sun was low by the time they approached the lodge. Just out of sight of the building, Fletcher took one squad and circled toward the back.
Using binoculars he observed the large two-story log structure with a wrap-around covered porch. Ancient fir and cedar trees surrounded the building, some less than a yard from it. Two pickup trucks and a Mustang were in a gravel parking lot on the south side. The only sound was the occasional chirp of a bird and the rumble of a small engine. He assumed it was a generator. Using the binoculars, Fletcher checked every door and window in view, but detected no movement.
When the soldiers were in place, covering all sides and avenues of escape, Fletcher shouted. “You’re surrounde
d by the military. Under the Martial Law decree, I’m ordering you to come out with your hands up.”
Only the rumble of the engine could be heard in reply.
“Come out now or we will use force to enter.”
The engine putted along without concern.
Crouching along the tree line the first sergeant moved and checked the last few windows. No one looked back at him. As he continued toward the backdoor the sound of the engine grew louder. Clearing a line of trees he spotted the generator under a carport-like structure. Next to it was a propane tank.
Looking at one of the soldiers he said, “Shut the propane off. Kill the generator. I’m going through the back.” He pointed to Spencer. “Have you been in the building before?”
“Once, years ago.”
“Congratulations, you’re our expert. Is there cover inside that backdoor?”
“Ah, there was a bar at the back. You know, where they served alcohol, but I was young and didn’t spend much time there. I think it was near the door.”
Fletcher frowned at the lack of intel. “Okay, you follow me. Everyone else keep watch. If anyone shoots at us, shoot back.” Then he sprinted to the back steps like an Olympian. As he put his weight on the first step it creaked and he cringed.
The generator, stuttered, backfired and died.
Silence reigned. Fletcher glanced at the rear windows, but saw no movement. Perhaps those inside didn’t hear him over the generator. “You’re surrounded by the military. Come out with your hands up. That’s an order under the Martial Law decree.”
Nothing moved.
He inched up the groaning steps toward the back door. Reaching the porch, he smelled death and worried that this wasn’t the hideout of the gang, but more victims.
Behind him the steps creaked again. He glanced sideways as Spencer crept up behind. Pointing he indicated the private should cover the door. Fletcher turned the knob. I wish I had a stun grenade. He threw the door open and darted behind the bar.
Spencer followed.
All Fletcher could hear was his own breathing and flies buzzing. Slowly he looked over the top of the bar.
The smell of death filled his nostrils.
He scanned the room. An oversized couch was against one wall. A large rug filled the center of the room. Pictures of hunters with deer, elk and bear dotted the walls. Several stuffed game trophies hung on the far wall on either side of a large stone fireplace, but nothing threatened or even moved. “Have the soldiers out back come in this way,” he said to Spencer. “Let’s clear the building.”
With his gun at the ready, Fletcher checked a door behind the bar. It led to a short hallway.
Spencer shouted from the porch, “Guys, in through this door on the double.” He stepped back in.
“Check out this hall.” Fletcher nodded his head in the direction.
The private coughed and spit and then disappeared through the door.
The first sergeant continued out around the bar, deeper into the room.
Four soldiers ran in, one after another. Several gagged and scrunched their faces as they entered.
Spencer joined them from the rooms behind the bar. “There’s an office and storeroom. It looks like a lot of booze is gone. The safe is open and empty, but no people.”
Fletcher directed the four who had entered to check out the east end of the building in pairs. “I’ll stay with Spencer and clear out the west side.” He then continued to the far end of the bar. As he moved away from the windows the room was darker. He thought about having someone restart the generator, but rejected it.
The smell of death and decay was stronger now. An alcove was off to his left. As his eyes adjusted to the darkness, Fletcher detected a shape.
Snapping his gun in that direction, the first sergeant shouted. “Hands up! Come into the light. Now!”
Nothing moved.
Spencer stood a few feet away with his weapon pointed into the darkness.
Carefully Fletcher paced forward. With each step his view became better. A man sat in the corner.
Chapter Two
Library Park, Hansen, Sunday, September 20th
Major Caden Westmore sat on the tailgate of the pickup as he read the last paragraph of the report. It’s coming and there’s no way to stop it. He slapped the folder down beside him and pressed his hand on the cover as if to hold the danger within. He was glad he was healthy and maintained the youthful assurance that he would remain so, but reason told him the future was uncertain. Millions would die in the coming months if the data in the report was correct. He wished Dr. Scott had waited to tell him until after the Harvest Festival.
The year had proved a hard one: Six cities obliterated by nuclear terrorism; the Chinese claimed they came to help, but it was a power and resource grab; amidst the turmoil the dollar collapsed; hunger and civil unrest grew. He spent much of the year battling gangs, terrorists and other Americans.
The cold winter gave way to a hungry spring, and then the long summer of work and waiting until the harvest. Thank God it has been a good one. There was hope that those who remained would survive the coming winter.
Music, smoke and the smell of barbeque drifted over the parking lot. His stomach growled. He inhaled deeply and smiled. More than one fatted calf had been sacrificed for this celebration.
Loudspeakers boomed the voices of children singing.
“Over the river and through the wood,
To Grandmother's house we go.
The horse knows the way
To carry the sleigh
Through white and drifted snow.”
Like the smoke that wafted to and fro, his thoughts now floated back to the Nebraska Medical Center report. It contained many medical terms that he was unfamiliar with, but when she handed him the report, Dr. Scott summarized it in two words: “It’s spreading.”
Caden looked across the parking lot toward Library Park. He’d come to know many of the people who lived in and around the town of Hansen over the last year. Together they had struggled through fear and tragedy to this day of hope.
Dr. Scott was still nearby, talking with his sister-in-law, Sue, as both women admired the baby.
“You want a beer?” Lieutenant Brooks, his XO, shouted from a nearby stall as he held up a bottle of homemade brew.
“Maybe later,” Caden replied.
Brooks took Lisa by the hand and the two disappeared into the crowd.
The grins that everyone displayed hid a multitude of tragedy. Brooks had been shot and nearly died. Caden’s brother, Peter, did die from radiation sickness after the Seattle blast, leaving Sue a widow.
Zach and Vicki Brennon, the auburn-haired brother and sister, crossed the parking lot smiling and holding plates of food. Six months ago their mother tried to kill herself … did kill herself, but it was a slow, lingering death.
“Over the river and through the wood
To have a first-rate play.
Hear the bells ring,
Ting-a-ling-ling!
Hurrah for Thanksgiving Day!”
It was only September, but it was a day of thanksgiving. The crops were in and food stocks were the best they had been since the panic of the attacks. Caden struggled to smile.
Maria walked up and looked at the folder. “What’s that?”
Not wanting to spread the depressing news from Dr. Scott sooner than he must, he answered, “Just a report Dr. Scott received on upcoming medical issues. That’s all.” True, but vague enough to hide the facts.
She sat beside him and, for a moment, he enjoyed her company in silence.
Maria leaned against him. “Remember when I said I didn’t want to marry you because I had to?”
Caden nodded wondering where this might go. “Yes. You said you wanted to know you didn’t have to marry me…that you could walk away.”
“Right…ah…well, I think this is that day.”
“Are you saying you’ll marry me or you’re leaving?”
She shoved his
shoulder. “Don’t be silly. I’m saying, if you still want to, I’ll set the date and we can get married.”
Caden glanced at the folder beside him. Perhaps it was best to enjoy life to the fullest. Then if the pandemic predicted in the doctor’s report did devastate the region, or some other tragedy occurred, he had lived life and there would be no regrets. He leaned over and kissed her. “When is our big day?”
The children’s voices drifted toward them once again.
“Come to the feast,
There is room at the table,
Come let us meet in this place.”
* * *
Sheriff’s Office, Hansen, Sunday, September 20th
“Are you kidding me?” Sheriff Hoover snarled the words. “After everything else, now we have a pandemic?”
“It’s a natural consequence.” Dr. Scott sat in the chair beside Caden.
“Natural?” Hoover walked over to the window. “There’s nothing natural about this.”
“With hundreds of thousands of people still in FEMA camps, refugees living rough where they can, malnutrition, latrines and poor hygiene…we’ve already seen dysentery in the local camps and Hepatitis E in southern California and Arizona. The CDC reported new strains of influenza earlier this year. Under those conditions, it was only a matter of time before a pandemic strain of flu emerged.”
Caden rubbed his chin. “What we really need to discuss is how to deal with it if it hits us.”
Hoover looked at the doctor expectantly.
“It is spreading. It’s only a matter of time before it gets here.”
“I have lots of threats that are already here,” Caden said. “Tell me what I need to do if this threat materializes.”
The doctor sighed. “Normally the CDC would be working on a vaccine. But Atlanta….”
“Was nuked by the terrorists. I know.” Thoughts of his then fiancée, Becky, shot though his mind. She had been outside of Atlanta when the attack came, but now she worked for Durant.
“Well, the University of Washington had a good medical center, but Seattle….” The doctor shook her head. “Well, you see the problem. The Nebraska Center is trying to organize a study—.”
“What can we do?” Caden asked.