American Blackout (Book 2): Slaves Beneath The Stars

by Tribuzzo, Fred

  “The boy was like a young actor in a movie. You expect him to remove the fake intestines and get ready to head home after a long day of acting, maybe get together with friends. Well, he could have had that life, except he took the wrong path. Like the girls, his goals were admirable—wanting to experience life’s riches. He went after power, and the girls went for sensation and possessions. But today those girls climbed down from their stakes in the field and went after their creator. Start of a new religion, a very nasty one.”

  “Ajax keeps popping out of hell,” Cricket replied.

  She wondered if the scarecrow “on fire” would climb down from his stake and go on the hunt. She shivered and gripped the wheel of the Barracuda and stared at the narrow road, and saw a man running toward them. She hit the brakes, and Predator Jones was out of the car when several more men and women came running up the road.

  They weren’t armed, and they simply gave the muscle car a wide berth. Predator pointed the gun, and no one seemed to see it. They just ran past, taking quick looks inside the car. Even more people were running through the woods.

  One man took a moment to explain. “They’re destroying everything. Turn around. They’ll crush you like a bug!”

  A man and woman, arm in arm, with torn clothing, blood on their faces, stopped and pleaded to be taken far from the river.

  “We have money,” the man said, staring at Cricket.

  “I’m sorry,” she said. “We’ve been fighting these savages for months. There’s nowhere to run. Find others you can trust. You’ll have to stand and fight.”

  “Are you crazy?” the woman spoke. “We woke up to monster machines and an army of goons ready to crush us. A lot of us had guns. We fired back for about two seconds and then ran. A lot of my neighbors got murdered, raped, while their houses got ransacked and then obliterated. You going to war with a pistol?”

  They didn’t have time for the woman’s story, watching people pour through the woods. Many cursed and cried on the move. Some shouted to take the Barracuda.

  “Let’s go,” Predator said. He climbed in, and the battered couple shuffled off the road. “Hilltop families can take some in, but I’m afraid there won’t be many gentleman handshakes. Scared, hungry people will overrun us.”

  “They’re headed to the eastern side. That’s an easier climb. Our place should be safe.”

  Predator shook his head. “Don’t count on it. Let’s get closer without driving into the mouth of the dragon.”

  Lucy had been nicknamed “the Dragon Kid” by the other slavers. The diminutive, flat-chested gymnast could scale the largest man in a nanosecond and blind him and remove his ears. She could escape up a tree to the envy of other slavers, and disappear and return as the gymnast from hell. Ajax’s placing her in charge was reason enough for most of the slavers to accept her promotion.

  One captain—“There’s always one,” Ajax had sighed days earlier, talking to Lucy—now turned his back on the “queen for a day,” as he put it. Holding on to a slave leash fastened to the neck of a young woman of high beauty and high price, he began giving orders to his lackeys. When he turned back to Lucy to deliver more abuse, she was gone. He pulled his gun out and began searching the trees.

  The other slavers drew close to their tents, giving the captain and his crew of three, plus their catch, plenty of room. An arrow from the forest nailed the pretty slave through the mouth. Both slaver and slave stared in horror, and the man began firing randomly. He was quickly answered by his compatriots, who shot to death the captain and his men.

  Lucy appeared with her long bow and walked up to the fallen aggressors and slit each throat. A cheer went up as Lucy dropped the bow, somersaulted several times, scrambled up a tree, and disappeared into the forest.

  Cricket and Predator heard more warnings, more curses from the fleeing residents who lived along the river. Some children appeared to be without any adults, and one group had formed a long line, holding hands, like in the old child’s game of Crack the Whip. Cricket thought the kid on the end was ready to fly off into oblivion, but he stubbornly held on.

  They heard what sounded like construction in the distance, but this was deconstruction. The rumble of beasts on the prowl brought to mind a Jurassic Park moment for Cricket. But this didn’t promise to be a sweeping new vision of a great moment in creation with a John Williams score anointing the dinosaurs’ resurrection.

  This was the anti-life brigade freed from prison. They brought the sound of walls splintering, of the spines of buildings being torqued and then snapped explosively. The sound of metal shredding filled the air as Cricket and Predator Jones came to the end of a street where a pair of ravaging machines a hundred feet below were on the hunt. Closer to the river, earthmovers, enormous dump trucks, and bulldozers crashed into homes, dragging along the wreckage until plowing into the next house. From the valley of destruction was a street wide enough to allow the beasts to start their trek upward into the forest and toward the Hilltop families.

  In addition to the clouds of dust and the noise of the enormous bucket of a bulldozer half buried in someone’s home, they also heard gunfire, a half mile distant, and saw the movement of dozens of men surrounding the large machinery. The two nearby monsters at the bottom of the hill had left a trail of destroyed homes in their wake.

  Cricket dug into Predator’s backpack and pulled out the two-way radio.

  58

  Monster Mash

  They parked the Barracuda on a side street alongside a Victorian mansion. Evergreens hid the front porch. Cricket checked the frequency and radioed Fritz. After receiving only static, she walked into the street and tried again, surprised to see a woman in a rocking chair on the spacious wraparound porch.

  Cricket turned to her companion, who had been watching the steep road that led up from the demolition below. “Predator,” she called softly.

  “Talk normal,” the woman in the rocker said. “Those idiots can’t hear a thing. Can’t see us either.”

  “Ma’am, what are you doing here?” Predator Jones asked.

  “It’s my home. The hubby’s making breakfast. His turn. If you’re looking for a room, they’re all available. I suggest the one overlooking the rivers and city. You two seem to like that view.”

  Cricket said, “There are savages in monster machines right below your street.”

  “And you expect my husband and me to run for it?” She laughed. “I’m full of arthritis, and he’s just six months since his quadruple bypass. We spent our adult lives saving for a bed and breakfast, and twenty years ago we found the prettiest place east of the Mississippi—eight thousand square feet. Restoration done to historical code. Now you two look like you need a break. Have something to eat, take a look around. You may want to return when the world returns to normal.”

  The screen door opened, and a man came out with a tray full of fruit and bread, talking like he had been keeping up with the conversation all the way from the back of the house.

  “Be glad to take you for a tour as long as Edna’s with us. She adds a lot to the experience. Keeps me honest with the house’s history and all that. But we need to start soon. Now’s when I can get around. By late afternoon I’m pooped. I’m retired Navy.”

  Cricket tried Fritz once again and heard his voice. She moved down the street, radio to her ear.

  “ETA thirty minutes. Mustang makes one pass, and the C-130 drives in from the north. Head back to farm. How many savages?”

  “Maybe fifty. We counted six big machines close to the river. They’re slaughtering everything in their path. Machines and savages are grouped close together, ready to have their picture taken. We’ll get back to the farm. A lot of people moving onto the Hilltop. Check their direction. We may have more problems over the next twenty-four hours.”

  She raced up the porch steps. Predator Jones was having tea with Edna and her husband, whose name was Howard.

  Cricket said, “The action starts in thirty minutes. We need to get back
to the farm.”

  “Love to watch the gunship from the porch,” Predator said. “Everything below will be sawdust and flames.”

  Cricket shook her head. “It’s not safe here. Especially when they start coming up the hill.”

  “A lot of good folks down there,” Edna cautioned. “I don’t want my town carpet bombed. We’ve got fabulous landmarks, too—the basilica and clock tower at the courthouse.”

  “Understood,” Predator said, “but so far the escaped prisoners riding their toys are staying in a tight formation. They’re not expecting what’s headed their way. C-130s got precision strike capability, smart bombs, saved from the EMP attack by shielded hangars. Somebody was thinking. But Cricket’s right, we need to get moving. We got room in the back seat of the Barracuda.”

  “We’re staying here,” Howard announced, and Edna reached for her husband’s hand. “I’m wondering, how the hell did they get those big machines running?”

  “Owners hardened the electronics in the days before the EMP attack,” Predator said. “The solar flare really got their attention. They acted fast to avoid losing their investments.” Howard seemed to accept the explanation.

  “Let’s stay focused, folks.” Cricket ran to the edge of the hill to check on the progress of hell’s denizens. One monster earthmover idled at the bottom of the road, pointed uphill, leading to the couple’s B&B. She noticed the steepness of the road’s southern side, full of scrub brush and fragile, small trees.

  Cricket was getting ready to head back to the porch when she spotted what looked like a body tied to the side of one machine. She knelt and retrieved Sister Marie’s binoculars from her backpack. She confirmed two men, bloody and very dead. One man had both arms missing.

  Predator was at her side. “What is it?”

  She glassed the nightmare. “Dead bodies are tied to their machines—oh, my God, there’s a young man! Very much alive. Tied to a dump truck. I’ve got to get to him.”

  “Let me see,” Predator said, squinting into the binoculars. “Cricket, there’re too many. Let’s check with the bed-and-breakfast folks.”

  On the porch they explained the young man’s plight. Edna and Howard listened, sipping black tea. Edna looked up and gave Cricket a beatific smile that said all would be well. Howard aired his idea.

  “I was an ordnance expert in the Navy. Mr. Predator says you have C-4. I suggest you blow up our rental house two doors down. Let the neighbors know what you’re up to, if they’re still around. Those maniacs will see it, hear it, and get a real kick out of it. Might believe it’s a rival gang or some such thing. Divert their attention long enough to save that young man.”

  Cricket and Predator nodded in agreement with the plan. “We’ve got grenades as well,” Cricket said.

  Predator eyed her. “This is not fun and games, Miss Cricket. I’ll cover for you. But I’ll be really pissed if you get killed and I’m stuck with a broken heart to my dying day.”

  Cricket hugged her partner.

  “We all get killed someday,” Edna added. “Can’t let that young man die that way. Get a move on, girl, if your hubby’s arriving in the Mustang soon with bigger surprises to follow.”

  “On my way.” Cricket bounded down the steps.

  “Stay hidden until the house goes up,” Predator cautioned.

  She ran to the top of the ridge and followed a crooked line of trees that extended to the bottom of the hill. She watched only where she was headed—the enormous dump truck with its human ornament.

  Luckily the boy was on the side of the machine with the ladder that reached the cab. He wouldn’t be harmed until the driver plowed through a house and scraped the boy’s life out of existence, or a bored savage decided to use the kid as target practice.

  Time had run out—Cricket sensed she was no longer bound by minutes. She was on God’s time and moved without second-guessing herself. The nearest machine was close, moving toward a garage. Its bucket raised to brain the structure. She was at the bottom of the hill, hidden by a flipped-over Ford Explorer, when the explosion came.

  Several men belted out a war cry that welcomed real competition, pointing at the smoke hanging over the ridge and the debris pelting the hillside. They didn’t have a visual on the destroyed home, but Predator had focused their attention, firing from the ridge before tossing a grenade that exploded halfway down the hill. The escaped prisoners answered with a flurry of gunfire. Several had started to climb the hill when another grenade unleashed hell, downing two instantly and leaving one bitterly cursing his fate.

  Cricket came up behind the dump truck slowly aiming for Howard and Edna’s road. She made a dash for it and climbed the ladder. There was no time to carefully look for shooters. With her subcompact in her right hand, she climbed the ladder, passing the boy, who stared in amazement, bound with hauling straps—one end tied to a hook and the other end tied to the ladder. The boy had enough room to stand on a small step plate jutting out from the mechanical monster.

  The cab window was down, and a brute twice the size of any man she had ever seen was at the wheel singing some ditty. In one motion she swung the door open, lost her balance, fired, missed, yelled something, and the man dove for a gun on the seat. In his panic he knocked the gun onto the floor, and it bounced under the seat. Cricket shot the man as he headed out the passenger side. One round struck the back of his head, and blood sprayed the cab ceiling as he fell dead from the truck.

  In the driver’s seat, Cricket was nearly atop a Cape Cod with a backyard fence and doghouse. She braked, turning the wheel hard left, aiming for an earthmover now headed up the steep road. Cricket stomped on the gas pedal and the monster truck thundered forward.

  She’d have just enough room on the left to come alongside and hopefully slam the other monster off the road and down the steep hillside. In the side mirror she saw that the young man was still alive, and she rolled the window down and gave him the thumbs-up. He cried out some gibberish, and Cricket ignored him as she gained on the earthmover.

  A large arm came out of the cab window ahead, waving on Cricket. She glanced in the enormous sideview mirrors and saw that no one was on her tail. Most of the prisoners were still firing at the invisible shooter at the top of the ridge. A few were belly-climbing the hill when another grenade brought an end to their mission.

  The earthmover was near the top of the road, where the drop-off was the steepest, when Cricket came up alongside and body-slammed the machine. She glimpsed the angry driver, accelerated, and crashed again into the side of the earthmover. The driver swiveled his head rapidly—he was falling off and she was following, her truck losing its footing. She cranked the wheel hard left, and a long second bloomed before she finally gained the road and saw the earthmover’s underside come into view, a bull elephant with its legs to the sky, tumbling downward.

  In the right-side mirror she saw that the driver had jumped clear of the dead earthmover and was firing madly. A second later the top of the shooter’s head went sailing like a Frisbee. “Thanks, Predator!” she yelled out the window.

  At the top of the road, she brought the truck to a halt, shifted to neutral, and set the brake.

  She swung down to the boy and untied his hands.

  “Can you reach the ladder?” she said. “I don’t have the strength to carry you down.”

  He still looked stunned and took a moment, looking over his body, expecting to see the blood flowing from numerous bullet holes, like in the old cartoons. But he was intact and finally nodded yes.

  Giddy, Cricket said, “You survived a lot today. Good for you.”

  He was smaller than her and she straddled him, untying the straps. From the cab she did her best to balance him as he reached for the ladder. A quick glance and she spotted two prisoners at the bottom of the hill pointing at them, taking aim. Luckily, Predator was taking aim, too, and the men soon crumpled.

  Near the last rung the boy slipped and fell, and so did Cricket, who futilely reached for him. They both plumm
eted the last several feet to the ground in a “ball of assholes and elbows,” as an old friend from the local airport liked to quip about those outstanding moments of unplanned slapstick.

  “Get up!” she said, dragging the kid to the front of the machine for cover.

  More shouting and more shooting up and down the hill as Predator came running. She started to drag the kid toward the B&B, and he whimpered, “Never gonna make it.”

  “C’mon, we already made it.”

  The sound of the Mustang’s six flaming guns filled the air, courtesy of Fritz, who was strafing the prison crowd near the river. Moments later he roared overhead, diverting the savages’ attention to the north. The handful of men at the bottom of the hill fired into the air. Two attackers who had started up the hill quickly retreated. She left God’s time and felt again the weight of long seconds before the next angel of vengeance arrived quietly from the south.

  Predator appeared and helped Cricket pull the kid to safety.

  “Thanks, Mr. Jones!” Cricket gushed.

  “Well, I guess I’m lucky both arms work so well. Good rotator cuffs.”

  “I mean blowing away the two fiends and the earthmover driver, ready to shoot me and the kid.”

  “I did the fiends. Can’t take the honor for the driver. But I’ll say a prayer for the stranger who did. There’s a lot of brave people still around. You take the boy to the house. I got one more thing to do.”

  He got in the dump truck, turned it around, and aimed it for the bottom of the hill, and then climbed down the ladder and jumped the last couple of feet to safety.

  Cricket and Predator didn’t hear the C-130 gunship’s arrival until it began its sledgehammer pounding of the thugs and machines closest to the river.

  Tracers galore. Cricket didn’t know the names of all the plane’s guns, but the cannons and mini-guns made the ground tremble.