by Joel Shaw
“Yahoo,” he exclaimed as he shifted into gear. The truck rocked violently from side to side as he drove across the pitted parking lot toward the warehouse and the train.
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Chapter 36
Aaaaagggggggghh, thwipth, pufft, pifft...spitting sediment from his mouth, Jordan rolled away from the shallow grave, bruised and sore but alive. His body armor had shielded him from his stupidly discharged three-round burst. The result of his blunder almost scared him to death. When the distorted bullets ricocheted through one of the tomato-paste missles causing it to explode into a fine, red mist that covered his face like a mask, then hammering on his chest like a ten-pound sledge hammer, expelling the air from his lungs with a WOOSH causing him to stumble backward away from the arrow’s deadly trajectory but not clear of it. The razor-sharp arrow sliced the hair on the back of his neck a little too deeply. The profuse bleeding that followed, belied the nature of the thin laceration. He thought his injuries mortal and passed out.
Coming to some time later to, he discover that he had been buried, like the top layer of a cake, face down on top another man. A dead man. Once he realized his predicament, he began his fight for survival. He arched his back and, summoning all his strength, made one tremendous thrust upward with arms and legs. He was surprised to feel the dirt fall away so easily. Laying in the dirt beside the grave, he could see that he and his companion had been buried no more than eight inches below grade.
He grinned, imagining that, what with the bleeding neck and the tomato paste shower, they must have thought he was dead or dying. If the lazy bastards had bothered to take his pulse they would have realized that he was alive. The fuckin’ hillbillies couldn’t even kill a guy properly. He grinned. He was looking forward to rewarding them in kind.
“Goddamn farmers...” he grimaced as he stood, brushing himself off, assessing his injuries as he gingerly toggled his limbs. His chest felt like it was on fire. He examined his bruised ribs, feeling for but not finding a fracture, he was relieved, knowing that they would heal in a matter of days. The little finger on his left hand was broken or dislocated. His swollen right ankle was sprained. He couldn’t see the wound to his neck and dared not touch it for fear of infecting it with his filthy hands. It hurt terribly and the amount of blood on his collar was worrying. He tossed his bullet-proof vest aside and pulled up his shirt. His torso looked resembled a sack of smashed plums. All in all, he thought he had fared well. This wasn’t the first time he had been left for dead, and likely wouldn’t be the last. He monitored his heart rate while tying his doo-rag around his neck to stop the bleeding neck wound. In spite of his injuries, he was determined complete his mission. If only the fucking hillbillies would stay out of his way.
His impulse was to seek immediate retribution...put a couple of the hillbillies six-feet under to discourage any further interference. It was a tactic that had worked in the past but this was different. These locals were completely unpredictable. He focused on his surroundings, watching and listening. He could hear a motor in the distance but did not register the rarity of the sound and thought nothing of it. There were no immediate threats. In fact, nothing moved save the flock of Ravens that seemed to be spying on him, crying out every time he made a move. The train appeared to be unmolested. It was as though everyone had gone home to take a nap.
“What a bunch of suckers,” he laughed.
He limped through the warehouse, noting the array of crates and parts for the portable water-bottling plant strewn on the floor. It was clear they were having trouble assembling it. He surmised that someone forgot to pack the assembly instructions or they had been lost...whatever, he was sure he would be able to figure it out given enough time. A working portable water-bottling machine could be easily traded on the black-market.
He deliberated for a few minutes then decided not to dedicate time and effort to revenge. There were too many variables in this small town, too many unknowns. His gut was telling him to get while he could still walk. He stuffed two full water bottles into each cargo pocket and cracked the seal on another, draining the bottle with one long swig, tossing the empty aside, he drank another until his thirst was satisfied.
He thoughts turned to Sheila; Sister and Whistleblower. Their bond had been shattered the instant she had threatened to go to the press and reveal the true nature of the EScouts of America. It was she who spoiled the plot to kill Senators Jackson and Rothstein, both ranking members of the Intelligence Committee, who were relentlessly seeking the truth about the EScouts organization and the invasive devices referred to as Emites.
She dropped the dime. She was the traitor. The day after her call to the Washington Free Press, both Senator’s died when their chartered aircraft crashed into Lake Erie. The following day a squad of Black Swans arrived at the Tyler FEMA facility looking for Sheila. In fact, the Black Swans had paid him to look the other way while they “removed the threat.” Paid him off with a couple tons of government surplus communications equipment and installed him at the soon-to-be-built Tyler Dehydration Station which was the perfect place from which to recruit the next generations of Scouts.
They promised to eliminate her quietly after she answered a few questions. He knew what they meant. They would enjoy her assets. It was no secret, just a way of doing business. For years he thought she was dead and gone. His plea for Amber’s aid in finding his sister was a ploy to motivate Amber, give her a sense of purpose on her journey. It was an effective ruse; he had used it many times, especially with the young women. They sat in the cavernous Dehydration Center, having just witnessed the death of a loved one, left to sort out the rest of their lives, the youngsters were easy to spot and even easier to lure unknowingly into service for their country. His lair behind the Tyler Dehydration center was the perfect induction venue. Promise them a good nights sleep and some clean clothes, water and food. How could they resist?
The vetting process began as soon as the candidates walked through the doors of his Quonset hut. His staggering collections of memorabilia served as a catalyst, never failing to trigger intense childhood memories within the candidates as they oooohed and aaaahhed their way from one collection to the next until finally spotting the singular object, the special item that whisked them down memory lane like crack in a pipe. Eighty percent of the candidates were first drawn to the bin laden with Sat-Com devices. All the fantastically popular wearable devices such as bracelets, rings, glasses, nose rings, hats, socks, ad infinitum, that appeared on the market before the blackout. The BlackOut slammed the door on data exchange, like a black hole, the Look-At-Me Generation was peering at dead displays, but they hadn’t forgotten.
He knew they were hooked once he heard them call out gleefully that they had found the one item that looked just like such and such from so and so. Then, they would tell their cute stories and he would listen, nod and smile with faux sincerity, waiting for them to reveal the place of their birth...if they knew.
The ones that did were sent willingly back to the region of their birth where they would be the most productive and arouse the least suspicion. Many of the newly orphaned children knew nothing of their birthplace or their place of birth was in a now restricted Colony. In such cases, it was up to him to sell a new destiny, instilling within each of them an unshakeable trust for him as provider and protector. A purveyor of hope.
The promise of a mode of transportation other than walking and the impending adventures that would follow usually clinched the deal. Go find your family kid...on this two-wheeler...wearing these clothes. Few declined the opportunity.
The fact that Amber had chosen a destination up North had saved him the bother of having to sell the idea. He needed more EScouts up North, and few were willing to go due to the numerous circulating rumors about cannibalism along the impassable Canadian border.
Amber was eager to travel. It was a simple matter to suggest a route that would be most useful to he and his clients. He wanted her on the back-back roads, activating the many sensors a
nd surveillance systems that had been installed years ago to monitor the pulse of the Midwest, feeding much needed data to the cloud, where it was cherry picked by various oversight committees huddled in opulent, underground Colonies in and around Washington, D.C.
That was his mission. Send E-Scouts across the country on rare electric motorcycles, easy targets, sure to attract attention, both good and bad, wearing clothing and using gear integrated with the latest E-Mite devices. The random data gathered was invaluable, it provided all interested parties with a national barometer to monitor. Sketchy as it was, it was better than nothing.
If a Scout stumbled on a tribe of vigilantes whom were actively disobeying Federal Restrictions and Protocols and/or conspiring against the Government or were attempting to reconstruct networks of communication, the streaming data coming from the E-Scouts would sound distant alarms, leaving the Scouts unmolested and free from suspicion.
Eventually the appropriate response would be implemented. If the scout was caught up in the ensuing Termination Events, so be it. They were discarded with the rest of the trash, never understanding the important role they played in the Government’s ongoing efforts to partition North America.
Many of the E-Scouts would find their place in a community or clique of like-minded individuals and settle down. Once embedded in their chosen communities, the spawn of the self-replicating E-Mites embedded in their clothes would be activated and jettisoned, allowing them the freedom to move about the environment unseen and undetected, seeking and recognizing strategic locations where ‘human interactions’ were likely to occur, they would park and observe, all the while streaming data to the Cloud.
Amber wasn’t supposed to find Sheila. She was supposed to query and ply her way north through every little town and village asking questions, making friends,poking her nose into things that were none of her business, passively gathering intel.
He could not have anticipated the unfolding events. Amber’s unbelievable luck caused her to stumble head on into Sheila. Who was dead...or so he was told, many years ago.
When he first saw Sheila’s image on his monitor, he recognized her immediately. She was hot...in a wild sort of way from her flaming hair to her red tactical boots. He had no intention of “getting to know her.” He had every intention of killing her. He was not bothered by conscience. Killing is an art and must be practiced. But someone had fucked up and missed practice. Now he had to act. Shut her up. Goddamn this whole fucking mess. He kicked the dirt in disgust. The Ravens caw-cawed their approval.
The embedded E-Mites in Amber’s clothes had suddenly gone off-line. Temporary Denial of Service episodes were common and expected, but it had been over twenty-four hours since any data from Amber had uploaded. That was unusual. The E-Mites required body heat to function. They would reactivate only if she put her uniform on. What was taking so long? He hadn’t planned for this contingency and he had no back-up plan. He had no way of knowing where she was or what she was doing. He thought for a few minutes. The hillbillies stuck together like family. Families live together. It was likely that all of them shared a house somewhere in town. Town was about three miles distant. He had no intention of walking that far with a sprained ankle. A sudden inspired thought caused him to smile. He was going to take the train.
He limped east, following the tree-line until he came to the spot where he had stashed his backpack. He first checked to make sure the locomotive’s gear-lever was safe in the zippered side-pocket before hoisting the pack to his shoulders. He picked a stout branch from the forest floor to use as a crutch and retraced his steps to the train, munching on an energy bar while moving slowly, wary of trip hazards and further random attacks.
The treasure train was the prize. As curious as he was about the contents of the train, he knew it would take hours to inventory them. Better to take care of that after he had put a few miles between he and this nightmare of a town. He mounted the locomotive and initiated the cold-start procedure before pushing the green START button on the console. The massive turbo-diesel cranked a few times before firing, spewing a cloud of black-soot from its exhaust stack as it rumbled awake.
He placed the gear lever in position and toggled reverse, easing the locomotive backwards until the steel coupler knuckles engaged with a slam and locked. He jumped from the cab and scurried from car to car checking brakes and connecting airlines as needed before returning to the locomotive. He reached for the gear lever; it was missing. He lost his mind.
“You bastards,” he screamed. He pummeled the console with his fists until they were bleeding then stuck his head out the cab window and screamed profanities until his larynx was inflamed, scaring the bejesus out of Milton who cowered inside a locker clutching the lever in both trembling hands a mere ten feet away.
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Chapter 37
Amber opened her eyes, yawned and stretched. She felt refreshed. That meant she had slept for a long time. At once she was worried that she had missed out on something. She rubbed her eyes, trying to focus on the day through the dirty, double-hung windows.
She heard a movement and turned. Faye was dozing, seated in her rocking chair, the quintessential nurse waiting for her patient to recover.
Amber reached out and touched Faye’s calloused hand waking her.
“Well, well, the princess is awake,” Faye said softly, “how are you feeling, sweetie?”
“ I feel...I’m not sure...I’m sore and stiff and hungry.
“I don’t doubt that. From what Sheila told me, you two had quite an adventure yesterday, but you survived and you’ll be fine. Stay right here, I’ll get you a cup of Chamomile tea and a biscuit.”
“Sounds good,” Amber waited until Faye left the room before making an attempt to rise.
“Ohhh, my...” She grimaced as she fell back into the down comforter.
Faye instantly appeared at the door. “I told you to stay put. You have a couple broken ribs, honey. You will have to take it easy for a couple weeks and let your body heal. I mean it.”
Amber groaned, “A couple weeks...how about a couple of years? I’m not in any hurry to go anywhere.” She relaxed and closed her eyes. The last few days had been a whirlwind of activity. So much had happened she had lost track of time. She tried to remember the day or date but nothing registered.
“What day is it, Faye?”
“I’m not sure, Amber. I don’t pay much attention to such things these days. It’s the middle of May, I know that for sure.”
“Where’s Sheila?”
“Can’t tell you that, either.”
“Well, what have ya’ll been doing while I was sleeping?”
“Sleeping.” Faye grinned.
“Oh.” Amber said dreamily. Sleeping was a wonderful invention, or whatever. She wondered if Faye would let her stay. She wondered if Sheila would stay, too. She wondered why Jerry hadn’t paid much attention to her. She thought he was cute. She wanted to see what his penis looked like when it was hard. Sheila said she had sucked penises. Amber shivered at the thought. Yuck. Rather suck on a Possum’s nose than one of those...thingys.
She giggled to her self, inhaling deeply the aroma of the freshly laundered goose down. She imagined that a Swan would smell like this...a White Swan...not the other kind. The thought of the Black Swans caused her to sit up quickly, then she howled and yowled from the excruciating pain, gasping for air between outbursts.
“Gosh darn it young lady,” Faye returned, hands on hips, scowling at Amber.
“I told you to stay put. Now, I think you understand why.”
Amber nodded in synch with her sobs. She understood completely.
“You could accidentally puncture a lung if you aren’t careful. Do you want that?”
Amber shook her head no.
“Good. Sit still eat your biscuit while your tea is steeping. I’m going to talk to Harold. Poor man... I think he has finally lost his mind...”
Amber stared silently at the ceiling nibbling on the biscuit, wond
ering how one could lose one’s mind.
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Faye found Harold in her bedroom. He had pulled the chaise lounge across the room, positioning it at right angles to the north-facing window so he could be comfortable while watching the advancing weather system. Specifically, the ever-changing cloud formations.
“We haven’t seen clouds like this in a decades,” he said as Faye touched his shoulder.
“Have you had any sleep lately?” Faye rubbed his shoulders and neck with her strong hands.
“Are you kidding? With all that is going on? I should sleep? No. No sleep for me.
This advancing front might indicate the end of the drought. Even if it doesn’t, it will be damn nice to feel a raindrop on my head.” He extended his arms over his head enveloping Faye with a hug.
“How about you? Have you had any sleep?”
“Me? Goodness me, yes. I can’t go long without my beauty rest. I slept for half a day...just about...I feel pretty good, considering all that has happened. But you...you knucklehead...have me worried.”
“Me? You worried about me?” Harold was mystified.
“I’m fine...I’m a scientist, Faye. That’s the difference between you and I. I’m after the facts, you...you are after...me?” He face sported a boyish grin as he tweaked her nipple.
“Ow...you rascal you.” She reached between his legs and gave his penis a twist. Harold squealed and rolled off the lounge onto the floor. Faye was on him in an instant pulling at his belt with her teeth.
“You ready for this Mr. Scientist?” Her Cheshire grin and gleaming eyes sparkled as she drew him into her mouth.
“Yes, in fact, I am.” Harold shuddered as Faye massaged his throbbing cock with her tongue. He pushed against her warmth.