A Haunt of Jackals

by G. R. Carter

  Sy barely had time before Tucker pointed it down the street, raised the barrel to a slightly elevated angle and pulled the trigger. The night lit up as the shotgun roared. “That’ll keep ‘em wondering,” he said.

  Truck engines roared to life behind them. Sy and Tucker jogged towards the sound, looking over their shoulder every other step. Sy half expected to be shot in the back, he fought the urge to panic and run. Tucker seemed cool. The man showed no signs of being scared, Sy wondered if that was really just an act.

  Tucker jumped up onto the running boards of one of the trucks, holding on to the big metal frame of the side mirror with his left hand, shotgun pointed out with his right. Sy didn’t bother to jump up, he just jogged next to the truck. Less than half a block later, they turned into the school’s parking lot.

  They’d stashed their people in back of the high school’s main building in a clump of trees where no one could see them. But as they pulled up to the building, Sy could see the whole group clustered near the front entrance.

  Ancient brakes squealed as the trucks came to a halt on the crumbling asphalt. The engines stayed on as a couple of men scrambled up into each truck’s flat grain bed. They grabbed ahold of the metal sideboards with one hand, then reached down to help pull up each person one by one.

  Sy was joined by Jeremiah—still reeking of diesel fuel—standing a few feet out from the front of the trucks. Their eyes searched the dark street and lot ahead for any sign of the men Tucker had spotted earlier. “Tucker already grabbed a couple of men and headed towards the football field; wanted to figure out who might be coming at us from that direction,” Sy said over the engine noise. “Said to load as many into the grain trucks as possible, get them out of town a few miles where’d they be safe for a while, then send one truck back for him and the rest.”

  “You takin' them?” Jeremiah asked.

  “Naw, how 'bout you take 'em out there? Your family’s with them. I want to stay here, cover Tucker's back.”

  Jeremiah nodded and checked the loading. Confident everyone who was going was on board, he jumped into the passenger's seat of the lead truck. “We'll be back to get you,” he shouted.

  Sy just gave him a wave, eyes pointed away from the headlights that came on as the truck rolled down the driveway.

  The eastern sky was taking on a different hue. He'd spent what felt like a lifetime in the dark, literally the longest few hours of his life. Now that the sun would make its appearance soon, he suddenly wished for just a little more time without it. He felt very alone, and very exposed.

  He heard the sound of footsteps running in his direction. Sy pushed closer into the unkempt bushes in the front of the school, trying to conceal himself. Closer and closer the runner came.

  “Hello!” he shouted. “Hello! Sy Bradshaw, you here?”

  Sy sat for a moment. This night, now morning, refused to be anything but bizarre. The young man—Sy could make out his face now—slowed to a walk as he approached the front of the school. He put his hands on his knees, panting from exertion. Then he stood back up and put his hands above his head to draw in more breath. Sy could see a rifle slung across his back. He was also able to recognize the tactical suit worn by neighbors who worked at the prison.

  “Sy Bradshaw!” the young man called again. In frustration, he kicked at something on the parking lot, then turned and started to walk away.

  “I'm here,” Sy finally replied without revealing his location.

  The young man spun on his heel and looked up and down the bushes. He didn't reach for his weapon, so Sy finally stood. “Who might you be?” Sy asked. “Since you seem to know who I am.”

  “Oh thank God,” the young man said. “My name's Orson McCoy. Man I thought when I saw those trucks pull away I'd just missed you. Red Morton sent me to find you.”

  “Red Morton? You mean you ran here all the way from the prison to find me? Wait…how'd you find me here?”

  McCoy gave him the brief synopsis, including their run-in with Bohrmann's squad.

  “Bizarro world, man,” Bradshaw said as the story unfurled. “Just gets stranger and stranger.”

  Bradshaw looked down the road where the trucks disappeared, then back towards the football field where Tucker and his men had gone. A thought struck him. “You said that Bohrmann guy had a funny accent? Like how?”

  “I don't know. He said 'mate' quite a few times. And he called the Sarge 'Yank' a lot.”

  “And you said they were looking for someone at my lodge?”

  “That's what they said. Mean something to you?”

  “Yeah, maybe. I got a guest staying there talks the same way. He's an Aussie.”

  McCoy nodded like he thought that should make sense, though he'd never left Illinois in his life except for the occasional trip to the other side of the Mississippi River.

  “Listen, McCoy. I appreciate you telling me about Mrs. Watson. I'll try and get a truck over to you, but they belong to Burton Tucker. Don't know how keen he'll be to drive back into town. We had a rough time getting out.”

  “Understood. I'll let him know. And if I see those Aussies again, I’ll let them know I saw you.”

  Bradshaw thought about that for a minute. Darwin King was a mysterious figure. If this Bohrmann fella was looking for him, how could they know what their intentions were? There was a moment of fear as he thought about his sister and little Max back at the lodge. If bad men were coming to hurt King, would they hurt Kara as well?

  The coincidence was too great, but if the Aussies were already on the way to the lodge, he'd never catch up now.

  “Yeah, okay,” Bradshaw said. “Hope to see you soon.”

  Chapter 31

  Burial Site of Benjamin Casey, Sr.

  Ridgeview Hunting Lodge

  Rural Brown County, Illinois

  Night Two of the Great Reset

  Darwin King knew right where to look for JR Casey.

  He approached Ben Casey's gravesite slowly. He had assured Kara Bradshaw Ben Casey’s eldest son would never hurt anyone; that had been more a wish than a certainty. Considering the man's state of mind when Darwin had last seen him, and JR's willingness to attack Kara, he wasn’t really sure what to expect.

  JR sat cross-legged on the ground, staring at the fresh dirt of his father's burial site. A small fire danced on top of the mound, flames consuming something slowly, one page at a time.

  King stared at the dancing yellow tongues of fire, finally realizing what was burning. He dashed to kick it off the mound. “JR, you fool! What have you done!”

  He took his foot and stomped on Ben Casey's leather-bound journal. By the time the flames were out, only about half of the paper inside remained. “Idiot! What were you thinking?”

  “Screw you, King. You're a liar just like my dad. You both been lying me all my lifffffffe.”

  The missing words and the long f sound in “life” made King realize JR was drunk, or stoned, or both.

  “We're bunch a hundred miles from home, stuck in a scene from Deliverance, nothing but hillbillies all around,” JR slurred. “Got nothing left.” He fell over on his side, sobbing.

  “You worthless SOB. You've got your father's legacy, his company, your wife…and more important, you got your son.”

  JR didn't answer, still sobbing.

  King wasn't done with him yet. “Come to think of it. Maybe you shouldn't still have that son to ruin. Reckon maybe I’ll kick you out of here. But little Trey can stay, maybe be around some real men for a while.”

  JR sat up. “You can't talk to me like that,” he said. “You've got no right.” He seemed to search for the right threat. “I'm going to sue your ass when I get back.”

  King laughed at him. “You got no idea what's going on here do ya, ya bloody drongo?” At the same time, with one boot he was still trying to make sure any hot embers were extinguished on the precious journal. “World's gone cockeyed, and here you are burning the one thing might get us a look at what happened. All cause you'
re a spoiled brat.”

  “Stop treating me like a child. I'm not a child, I’m a man, you need treat me with respect. Your business depends on mine.”

  King's laugh turned more sinister. “You got no idea about my business. In fact, you got no idea what your father's real business is either. He never told you the whole lot. He didn't trust you enough to tell you. He knew you were weak, that you'd lose it all or worse. Now here you are, provin' it.”

  “What are you talking about,” Casey asked. He attempted to shake off the stupor fogging his mind. “I've been involved in this business since I was a kid.”

  “You been involved in what he wanted you to see. He and I got dealings together all over the world.”

  “I expect you to make a full account…” he spit something out of his mouth and cleared his throat. “I expect you to tell me everything, in writing, right now.”

  “Bloody moron,” King said spitefully. “First off, I'd never tell you anything about my business. And if we all live long enough to hear your father's will read, you'll find out he doesn't want you involved in his, either.”

  “You threatening to kill me?” JR said in shock.

  “No, fool. You realize the world's on fire right now?”

  “The cities will be fine, Darwin. Just because this little podunk town is out of power doesn't mean the world's coming to an end.”

  “The local prison is overrun. Inmates have taken over. Once they get done looting the town, where do you think they're coming next?”

  JR waved his hand, still uncoordinated and woozy, “It's almost morning. State police will be here. National Guard probably. They'll get the electricity working… ” He pointed a spiteful finger at King, “Then you've got some explaining to do. Soon as this thing,” he held up his sleek looking wristband, “comes back on, my attorneys will be all over your ass. You shouldn't have told me all that. Now I’ve got you for fraud, extortion…who knows what they'll come up with.”

  King looked up at the gradually lightening sky above for guidance from a being he didn't really believe in. “You just don't get it. No one's coming to help, JR.” The last syllable drawled in frustration.

  “Riggghhhttt,” JR said sarcastically. “If that was the case, your little girlfriend wouldn't be inviting the entire neighborhood over for a party. Seems to me she's using all the extra food dad bought for our gathering to help promote her trashy little lodge. And by the way, where were you today? You should have stopped her from wasting all that money.”

  JR paused, trying to form his next thought. “Wait a minute… You went somewhere they've got electricity, didn't you? You found a working phone, or email… ” JR staggered to his feet. “That's why you left! You went to tell your people dad was dead! You're making a move on my company…I bet this whole end of the world thing is a ruse. You been feeding me a line of bull so I’d be distracted. You backstabbing… ”

  JR didn't get the insult finished before King slapped him down to the dirt. “I've had enough out of you,” he growled. When JR tried to get to his feet, King hit him again. “Stay down until I figure out what to do with you.”

  He ran through scenarios in his mind, trying to decide what to do next. Finally, he said, “One last favor to your dad. I'm going to take you back and get you sobered up. Maybe I can get you to see things a little clearer if your mind's not fried.”

  King reached down to pick JR up and help him back to the lodge. As he grabbed his arm, he failed to notice what JR held in his opposite hand.

  A flash made night disappear for just a moment, followed by a pop and intense pain in King's chest. His legs buckled, but he fought to stay standing. Pain radiated through his body, made worse each time he tried to breath. One arm raised to find something, anything to hold on to, to remain standing. If he gave up and fell now... Strength sapped from his muscular body and he finally went to his knees, unsteady, and terrified of the darkness creeping into his sight.

  “Why…?” he gasped as he fell onto the cool earth below.

  JR stood above him, still smoking pistol in hand. His eyes were filled with tears of rage. “You can't take what's mine,” he said through gritted teeth. “No one takes what's mine.”

  Chapter 32

  Brown County High School

  Outskirts of Mt. Sterling, Illinois

  Night Two of the Great Reset

  Sy Bradshaw’s feelings about night slipped away as the morning sun laid bare every dark corner of the town he'd grown up near. He was perched on top of the Brown County High School building, scanning the area for any approaching threats.

  Orson McCoy stood next to him, performing the same task. The young prison guard squinted in the daylight. He caught occasional movement here or there but nothing he could discern with the naked eye. Plumes of black smoke rose from a dozen different spots, the largest billowed from where the prison sat just outside of town.

  “A haunt of jackals,” McCoy said quietly.

  “How's that, Orson?” Sy asked.

  “Oh, nothing. Just a verse from the Bible. Book of Jeremiah.”

  Sy gave him a questioning look. “That's not one I remember from Sunday School,” he chuckled.

  “Most people wouldn't. It just always stuck in my mind. I don't remember the exact verse or anything. Just something about a place being so desolate after God got done it with no one would ever live there again.” Orson shrugged, “Seeing all the fires, all the killing last night, it just brought that verse to mind. ‘A haunt of jackals’ just seemed appropriate.”

  “Well I hope you're wrong about all that. I'm prayin' for a way to stop this.”

  Orson smiled. He squinted again when someone or something ran across the street, several blocks away. “What I wouldn't give for a decent set of binoculars,” he said.

  Sy nodded in reply. “Got twenty sets at the lodge. Never thought about needing them when we left last night.”

  The last two words hung in his mind. Leaving the lodge seemed like a year ago. His life had changed dramatically in those few nightmarish hours.

  “You sure you don't mind us all coming to stay at your lodge?” McCoy asked.

  “Nah. Be good to have some extra hands around. We got a lot of folks need taken care of until things get settled. Lot's of work to do.”

  “Won't mind that,” McCoy said. “Anything but standing here waiting for trouble.”

  Sy nodded again. Each second that ticked by made him feel more exposed. There was only a handful of people left to evacuate: himself, McCoy, a few guards…Red Morton and Burton Tucker were somewhere on the ground below, talking strategy and next steps.

  “Can't believe Red got Old Man Tucker to go back for Mrs. Watson,” Sy said.

  “Yeah, Sarge can get anybody to do just about anything. He got us through last night. Still not sure how.” McCoy stopped and motioned to Bradshaw. “Hey, Sy, what do you make of that?” He pointed in the direction of the Dot Foods plant a few hundred yards across an open field south of the high school. From where they stood, they could see the back dock doors, where semis used to come in and out every minute of the day.

  Sy and McCoy watched tan six-wheeled trucks maneuvering on the open asphalt truck yard. Men in some sort of uniform were running around, too far away for much detail, but clearly acting in concert with one another. “Army?” Sy asked incredulously.

  McCoy was already down at the edge of the roof, calling out to Morton and Tucker. “Sarge, looks like the National Guard is here!” he shouted down.

  Morton looked at Tucker, who just shrugged at him. Morton ran to the corner of the building and looked. “I'm going to go check it out,” he yelled, then started jogging across the field towards the gigantic warehouse ahead.

  He stopped twice during the run to walk and catch his breath. He knew men were watching him now from the truck parking lot ahead. He waved his hands above his head. The thought crossed his mind that whoever was there might take him for a threat. Or worse, the men up there might be the threat. But he’d s
pent the night taking calculated gambles, and this looked like the closest thing to a lifeline he'd seen since their nightmare began.

  “Hello!” he called out. “Sergeant Red Morton from the prison!” He received no reply from four men in identical uniforms watching his every move. Each had a large-caliber weapon in their hands, and each of those weapons was pointed in his direction. He repeated his call, kept walking then repeated the call again, all the time keeping his hands at his sides.

  “That's close enough, sir,” one of the young men called out to him. “Please stay where you are.”

  “I've got civilians who need help, son,” Morton replied in his best command voice. “I'd like to speak to your commanding officer.”

  “Afraid that won't be possible, sir,” the young soldier said. The last word didn't sound as respectful as it should have.

  “And just why not, exactly?” Morton said with an anger he didn't bother to hide.

  “There's a prison break. We've been ordered to treat everyone as hostile until our mission is complete.”

  “No kidding, soldier. I'm in charge of the prison guards. We barely made it out of there with our lives. Your mission be damned, we've got wounded people to look after!”

  Morton noticed two of the soldiers glance at each other. They were doing the math in their head, trying to figure out if they were going to get in more trouble for keeping this very angry authority figure away, or more trouble for letting him in. It was a private's classic no-win situation.

  “Please just stay right there, sir. I'm going to send someone back to inform our CO. Can we work together on that, sir?” The sir sounded a little more respectful this time; the young soldier was hedging his bets that Morton might just be someone to take seriously.

  Morton struggled with the anger of it all. Syn zombies, crazed inmates, guards who had betrayed their own. It was enough for a lifetime. He wanted to march right past the soldiers and give whoever was in charge a piece of his mind.