Of Sudden Origin (Of Sudden Origin Saga Book 1)

by C. Chase Harwood

  To create this inferno, the US and Canadian air forces, and their allies, had bided their time. They won their debate with the politicians and pushed off D-Day for three days while they waited for a cloudless and unseasonably warm Nor’easter to buildup. With the help of the warm wind, their job was made that much easier.

  For Jon, Nikki, Steven, Teddy, Amanda and Ben, it began with the sound of what seemed like a distant freight train backed by the illusion of a midnight sunrise coming from the wrong direction: west.

  The roar of the flames arrived so quickly that they barely had time to grab their guns and clothes and run to Ben’s beach camp. They stood together in awe as a rain of firefly-like embers announced the front edge of the conflagration. The hot bits of floating wood spun about in violent circles as air was sucked from the East, only to crash into the western breeze like a wave rebuilding on a beach. The effect was to replenish the flames with fresh oxygen while a vast cloud of smoke blotted out the stars like a great black blanket sweeping across the sky.

  Then the trees of the North Islet began catching flame. The pines lit up like gasoline soaked torches, exploding one after another and scattering their embers like wind shattered dandelions. The weak and the dead foliage toppled, dragging the fire to their neighbors, while heavy showers of embers set the ground cover alight.

  Jon yelled out, “Into the water!”

  No one needed more coaxing than that. They grabbed stones to fill their pockets and then held on to bigger rocks to weigh them down. They waded as a tight group out into the western lagoon until the taller men could only breathe with their heads tilted back. Jon and Nikki stood close to each other, while Steven and Ben held the children. Frequently, they had to douse their faces as hot bits of flotsam landed on the water, sizzling and throwing up tiny spouts of steam. With each movement of their heads, the roar in their ears alternated from dull and water-filtered to blazing and fierce. Searing gases swirled, bringing tears to their eyes and forcing their lungs into harsh fits of coughing.

  Jon yelled to no one in particular, "What the fuck else could happen?" He began to think that his ceaseless optimism; that they could survive no matter what, was really just foolishness built on a string of luckyish circumstances. Their gear and provisions were being returned to the elements while their ammo reserves cooked off in their shelters like firecrackers on Chinese New Year. The core of the forest glowed like a great iron forge and they knew that there would be nothing left to salvage. Even Ben’s shelter on the beach glowed with kinetic reduction.

  The Bayliner lit up next and the acrid concoction of cooking fiberglass and melting vinyl swirled through the air. The toxic fumes occasionally overwhelmed them, causing hacking convulsions and the brief inhalation of water mixed with ash and floating charcoal. Then the boat’s dock line burned through, letting the fire ship adrift, spinning its way toward them. They watched with astonishment as the molten plastic dripped and poured off the boat’s gunnels, sending jets of white and black smoke out of the water.

  Jon said, “On three, everyone hold their breath and duck”. He counted out the seconds, dragging the last one out, “Threeee, Now!”

  They plunged their heads under water and crouched as the boat floated by above them, the dripping plastic making zip, zip, zip sounds as it hit the water.

  When it was safely passed and the children were kicking their father and Ben with the panic of lungs depleted, they raised their heads only to be met with the distinct sound of a helicopter, a very powerful sounding helicopter, somewhere above.

  This night sky was no place for a helicopter. As the flames reached hundreds, even thousands of feet into the atmosphere, their sparks and embers reached ever higher and mixed with great black clouds of smoke. In a swirling and violent cauldron of super heated air, burning mountaintops gave rise to even higher sheets of flame and this concoction boiled and twisted until it reached several kilometers, all the way up into the troposphere.

  Chief Winters and his co-pilot Warrant Officer Poole were well trained to fly in zero visibility conditions, but the thermal gusts pushed their aircraft around like it was just another of the billions of hot glowing embers. They desperately fought the controls while agreeing to search for a safe place to put down. The Black Hawk had a maximum ceiling of 19,000 feet, and as such there was no cabin pressure system to provide a safe escape to a higher altitude. Too toxic to bother taking along for the rest of the trip, the scientist’s had left their hazmat gear back in Florida. As the craft violently heaved up and down, the scientists and pilots found themselves choking for air and gagging back vomit. They needed to put down in a clear space now or they would all pass out and die a fiery death.

  With ground penetrating radar and night vision equipped helmets, the pilots could peer through the smoke onto the ocean of fire below and found that the land directly beneath them was interrupted by a large lake.

  Winters chose an area near a burning island with two lagoons. As he brought the craft into a hover – hover being a relative term - the wind blasted in fierce twists, and despite their advanced optics, the smoke and embers reduced the pilot’s sight to near zero. Winters hoped and prayed that the nearer lagoon might be shallow enough to set down in.

  It was then that Admiral Remrick’s second error in judgment bubbled up to the surface: As the theater commander for the Southern New England portion of the re-invasion, the Admiral had personally intervened on the pilot choice for this mission. He overrode the Army Colonel under him in charge of Army AirCav Operations, and insisted on Winters and Poole. As Army National Guardsmen, these pilots had not yet seen any actual combat missions. Both had been slated for Pakistan, but had been kept home when the pandemic broke out of Miami. Even then, the two pilots had been held in reserve. Other than ferrying refugees, they had limited experience with anything out of the ordinary. As far as Remrick was concerned, ferrying a handful of scientists a few hundred miles was pretty routine. He needed experienced combat pilots for the invasion. The team’s original pilots, Axelman and Frick, who had flown in every kind of crazy situation possible, were kept behind for just that mission.

  As he descended, Captain Winters did have the presence of mind to order his co-pilot to send out a May Day over the radio. Unfortunately, they were in the middle of nowhere, descending into a densely forested area. Though the range of their radio was as much as 600 miles, that distance could only be achieved at a greater altitude than their current position and required more normal atmospherics. The radio was also designed to work with a directional satellite relay, but the density of smoke, flame, ash and embers made that ability moot. Lieutenant Poole was calling out, but nobody was listening.

  Using the Black Hawk’s internal PA system, Winters calmly asked the scientists to open one of the side doors and to be ready to jump if necessary.

  Below all of this the tiny group in the water watched the Black Hawk descend right on top of them. Jon Washington found himself yelling out, “You’ve got to be fucking kidding me!”

  They all screamed in unison with no time to get out of the way.

  As Winters hovered over what he guessed might be three feet above water, a last gust pushed the aircraft sideways, dipping one wheel into the lake. The effect was as if a giant hand had grabbed the wheel and yanked down with a sharp tug. The helicopter heaved over on a tilt, blades driving into the lake, and then crashed face first into the rocky shore, rotors shattering, scattering composite bits and pieces hundreds of yards. The craft came to rest upside down, its broken tail hanging in the lagoon.

  Winters had been killed instantly, the angle of the crash perfectly lining up the windshield and avionics with several large boulders. Poole was a mess, but breathing. The scientists in back found themselves in various forms of disarray, hanging haphazardly, still strapped into their seats. A piece of shattered rotor had skipped off a rock and ricocheted through the open door, killing William Warner, whose head was nearly severed off - the ten pound ball of bone, brain and flesh dangling by
only a few tendons. Like a freshly slaughtered goat, his corpse bled out all over the ceiling. Rick Decker held his shoulder and screamed in pain.

  Outside, the initial blaze had used up the bulk of the island’s more volatile fuel, and the fire had settled down to a steady, less threatening rhythm. Jon, Nikki and company looked on in astonished relief that they hadn’t been crushed.

  Nikki said, “We have to help them.”

  Inside the copter, Robert Tran was the first to unbuckle his flight harness. He tumbled to the blood soaked ceiling and helped Susan, then got Aaron and Christy free. Decker was a different story. He threw his head back and forth while gritting his teeth in pain. There was no visual evidence of injury, but the man was clearly overwhelmed with something. As a group, they propped him up as best they could, unbuckled him and lowered him to the ceiling.

  Decker grunted out, “I broke my shoulder or something.”

  Tran crawled forward toward the pilots, a quick glance telling him all he needed to know about Winters. Poole groaned through a bloody, smashed face. Tran unbuckled the man’s harness, using his own body to cushion the pilot’s fall. The army flyer barely acknowledged the change in position. Then something caught Tran’s eye - movement outside the window. It was human. His first thought was that they’d landed in a nest of Fiends.

  “There’s someone moving out there. Maybe more than one.”

  Everyone forgot Decker and Poole’s pain and spun around looking outside. Tran grabbed Poole’s 9mm Pistol out of his survival vest and chambered a round. Then a person outside spoke up. It was a woman, “Hey! Anyone alive in there? You’re leaking fuel!”

  Susan took immediate command. “Out. Everybody out! Grab the samples and notes!”

  Robert threw open the door facing the island and found himself looking at an odd assortment of people. The woman was wearing a heavy leather coat, her hair tucked under a rolled bandana. A man with a scruffy beard stood waist deep next to her, dressed in motorcycle racing gear. Beyond them were two more men and a couple of kids.

  Tran didn’t waste a second. He shoved a Pelican case at them. “Take this!”

  Nikki said, “No time. You gotta get out!”

  Tran ignored her, grabbing another case from Christy and shoving it at them, “And this”.

  The far side of the helicopter suddenly caught fire and so did the water around it. Aaron barreled past, clutching his briefcase to his chest, and wading away as fast as he could. Christy and Susan hopped out next, each carrying a piece of gear. Decker stepped out, bravely holding another Pelican case with his good arm. Then Tran grabbed a hold of Poole, sliding him across the bloody ceiling toward the door, brushing past Warner's severed head.

  Jon yelled, “Come on man!” as Nikki herded the rest away from the burning hulk.

  Tran jumped out and with Jon’s help, heaved Poole into the water just as the helicopter became fully engulfed. Tran couldn’t believe that in the middle of all of this, in a part of the country that was supposedly ruled by Fiends, that they had descended amongst a bunch of survivors. Then the helicopter exploded and they all ducked underwater as hot debris crashed down all around them.

  CHAPTER THIRTY-SIX

  Decision Time

  They huddled in the water as a group while they waited for the fire to die down enough to move to the beach. Lieutenant Poole died within minutes of being dragged from the helicopter. They removed his survival vest, weighted his flight suit down with stones, and let him slip under the surface. Ben Watson offered some appropriate funereal words and included his congregation back on the Big Island in the eulogy.

  Susan, originally trained as an MD, determined that Decker was suffering from an anterior dislocated shoulder. “Rick, you’re probably hurting less now. Those are your endorphins at work. It would be better if you were lying down, but we can do this standing. It’ll just hurt a bit more.”

  “Hurts a lot now,” said Decker through gritted teeth.

  “Well, sorry in advance.” She turned to Jon, “Will you stand behind Rick, Mr…?”

  “Washington. Of course.”

  She grabbed Tran and pulled him close. "I need strong arms for this." She put his hands onto Decker with her own, “Here goes. Slowly bend the elbow ninety degrees like so and hold it across his belly. Good. Now with your right hand, hold his shoulder stationary. Mr. Washington, keep pressure on the back side of the shoulder.”

  Decker huskily whispered, “Okay, that hurts more.”

  Susan stepped back out of the way. “Now, Robert, you’re going to keep the elbow bent and open the arm as though you’re opening a door. Ready? Now slowly, slowly.”

  Tran twisted Decker’s arm out and away from his body. Decker howled in agony.

  Susan said, “If it worked, you should feel relief.”

  Decker gritted his teeth, “Didn’t work, didn’t work.”

  Robert looked helpless. "Sorry, man. Sorry."

  “Robert, close and open the door again. Keep it real slow”

  Robert did as instructed and then yelped, “I felt it!”

  Decker sighed with relief and carefully took his arm back from Tran.

  Susan said, “Good, now Rick, slide your hand in between the buttons of your jacket like Napoleon and let it rest. Robert, is there some pain medication in that survival vest?”

  As Jon participated, he noted how fully distracted everyone was with the procedure. The world was burning down around them and the small group was fixated on a dislocated shoulder.

  Tran searched the vest, which had auto inflated when Poole had hit the water. There was a small radio, various signaling devices, flashlight, water dye/shark repellant - which got a few smiles of amusement - and assorted other small utilities. The emergency food and water rations noted that it could be stretched into a five-day supply for one person. There was a basic first aid kit and a compact foil blanket.

  Tran gave Decker two ibuprofen. They would husband the rest.

  Surprisingly, given the nature of their meeting, there was little chitchat. Perhaps all of them had witnessed so many things out of the ordinary, that this was just one more instance; no more worthy of comment than any other fantastical moment during these hysteria filled months. They also knew something else – they were a long way from being done with it.

  When the fierce flames had reduced the island’s timber to a low and even blaze, they waded back to shore and warmed themselves by the fire burning at the edge of the southern woods. Noxious gases had them all breaking into coughing fits and they mostly breathed through their wet shirts.

  When the flames died down further, Susan explained who she and her fellow scientists were and their mission. Nikki and Jon offered a few words on their history, as did Steven for his family. Ben kept to himself.

  Aaron spoke up, “You think we could get somebody on that radio?”

  Nikki recognized the model, “Standard military issue, waterproof, good for maybe five miles depending on what ground you’re on.” Her instinct and training subconsciously directed her speech toward Susan. As the lead government scientist, she was sort of the default leader for all of them. “We’re best off keeping the battery fresh until we find ourselves in a situation where we might use it. I’m a recently decommissioned, well, actually re-commissioned Marine, ma’am, that’s why I’m offering my opinion.”

  “Call me Susan. It’s good to know that we have your skills among us, Nikki.” She looked at the others. “Anyone with an opinion on how to get ourselves out of this, is welcome to speak up. As far as we know, we are all that’s human between here and Canada. Any idea how far we are from the border?”

  Ben said, “About a hundred and sixty miles to Quebec. Border’s closer of course, but the new wall is across the Saint Lawrence.”

  “That’s better than I hoped. There will be a search and rescue operation. Our absence has, I’m sure, already been noted.”

  Nikki looked down at the ash-coated water then returned her gaze to Susan. "Forgive my pessimism,
Ma’am, er, Susan, but I can say from experience, that unless they’ve got an idea of where you went down, we’re but a few specks in a sea of burnt trees. In Sudan, if a plane went down and the whereabouts was sketchy, just as often as not, the JEM or ICU would nab our pilots before we could find them."

  “So what are you saying?”

  “Don’t count on a ride. We don’t know how many infected may have survived this fire, but we’d be smart not to draw too much attention to ourselves. We keep a low profile; try to walk out of here. We find a highway - a hundred and sixty miles is a seven, eight day hump on a flat road.”

  Ben said, “Route 201 is just east of here. Probably take us a day, day and a-half’s walk to get to the Moscow dam. Firebreak’s not far. Leads right to it. Dam’s right next to 201. The other way is to follow the Dead River north, but that’s iffy country. There’d be a lotta places we’d have to swim for it. Can’t say how long it would take.”

  Jon said, “What happened to not drawing attention to ourselves? We’ve been avoiding the highways. The Fiends are all bunched up there.”

  Nikki said, “It’s a matter of weighing odds. I think this fire has changed that equation. Besides, we’re more likely to get spotted by friendlies walking on the highway. We take the woods, assuming the fire dies down, and we’re exposed for another week, probably two with little chance of being rescued. Heck, on the highway maybe we’ll find a working car or two.”

  They looked at their food situation and found that their catch of the day lay burnt and black on the rocks near Ben’s camp. It was still edible and would at least provide dinner. The rest of the food cash had been consumed in the boat fire. They would share the pilot’s survival rations in the morning before they headed out, and hope that the town of Moscow could provide something for the rest of the trip. Assuming that the huge forest fire surrounding them had moved on and would allow for foot travel, they would begin their journey at first light. For clothes, they had what was on their backs. There would be no blankets or shelter for the night. They had four weapons between them: Poole’s Beretta with a spare clip of ammo, Jon’s Smith & Wesson with two clips, Nikki's SCAR L with a second 30-round magazine taped to the one mounted to the gun, and finally Ben’s Remington twelve-gage with five slugs and six rounds of buckshot.