EMP Aftermath Series (Book 3): Retribution

by John Winchester

  "What the hell is going on here? Grab those two," one of the Martin Hale men yelled. The group of men surged forward, clubs and bars in hand.

  Kenny pulled his Glock and fired a few hasty shots in their direction, causing the men to hit the floor. He turned and ran towards the back of the warehouse, hastily looking over his shoulder to see Amy running just behind him. He ran through a maze of old machinery, shelving, and crates until he found an access door on the side of the building and ran outside.

  "Come on, let's get to the horses," Amy said.

  He ran as fast as he could, pausing to fire at the pursuing men as they came through the door he and his mother passed through seconds ago. As they rounded the corner they saw their horses standing right where they'd left them. Kenny wasted no time. Launching himself into the saddle he spurred his horse on at a full gallop down the empty street. He turned to check that his mother was still with him and fired several shots to keep the men from pursuing.

  The pursuers fell further and further behind, unable to keep up with the horses.

  Some distance down the road, Kenny turned onto a side street and raced out of town. His heart pounded like a drum from the pursuit, but as he caught his breath and his adrenaline rush subsided, he had only one thing on his mind. Sarah. What did they do with her? Was she still in Huntington? A hundred equally terrifying situations unfolded in his mind. He pushed all of them aside and forced his mind to focus on what needed to be done.

  “Kenny? Are you all right?” Amy asked.

  He nodded mutely; his mind fully focused on the path ahead. He would follow the train tracks to Huntington. To the end of the line.

  Chapter 11

  At the helm of the Dawn ‘til Dusk, Captain O'Donnell gauged the distance to the approaching dock with an experienced eye. She spun the wheel hard to the left and cut the riverboat's power, letting momentum and the river's current carry the riverboat the rest of the way in a well practiced maneuver. As the boat gently sidled up to the dock, her crew tossed ropes over large cleats on its edge, then pulled the ropes taut and tied them off with a cleat hitch. The riverboat secure, the crewmen laid down a gangway plank and prepared to offload the ship's cargo.

  Captain O'Donnell went through a shutdown checklist and gathered her ship's logs and paperwork. She had a meeting today with her biggest customer. If she could renew the contract and secure a two year extension, there would be enough work in the pipeline to think about building a third boat, one with a newer and better designed steam engine. The first two were of her design, after all, and she was admittedly more of a tinkerer than an engineer. She needed a ship with a more efficient setup, one that would use less coal and reduce fuel costs. Coal had been abundant and dirt cheap last year when there were still numerous small railroad companies shipping coal to port cities on the Ohio river, all competing for the same business. Since the Appalachian Express Railroad Company had bought out all the competition and consolidated their shipping network, coal cost three times what it used to.

  Angry shouts down at the dockside distracted her from her work. Patty leaned out the window of the wheelhouse to see what the issue was. The dock master was shouting at her oldest son, Pete, and pointing at the moorings securing the riverboat to the dock. From what she could tell, he was telling Pete to let the lines loose and cast off, something about another riverboat due in at any moment.

  Captain O'Donnell sighed and grabbed her things. This was probably just another bit of drama cooked up by the dock master to justify the grift he demanded from ships entering his port. She didn't mind greasing the wheels to move things along more quickly, but the man was becoming a pain in the ass.

  She descended the stairs to the main deck and crossed the gangplank, interrupting the shouting match by stepping between the two men. "Gentlemen. What seems to be the issue here?"

  "O'Donnell, you've got to get this boat out of here. We've got another boat due in any minute carrying priority cargo for Anchor Riverboat. You're going to have to come back tomorrow," the red-faced dock master said.

  Anchor Riverboat Company. Just hearing the company's name was enough to put her in a foul mood. That bastard Tweed had been pushing every captain on the river out of business, creating a monopoly for himself. "I seem to remember reaching a friendly agreement with you last year to make sure we would always be welcome in Huntington. I'm surprised to run into an issue like this."

  "Don't get me wrong, Captain O'Donnell, we did have an agreement, but things have changed. I've got other arrangements now with bigger shipping companies. They push a lot of business through this dock, and when they say they need access, I've got to deliver. Just look around. Anchor has got tons of cargo on this dock. Come back--"

  "Speaking of cargo, I don't see any of my customer's cargo ready for loading. Know anything about that?" She asked, pointing at the staging areas in an asphalt parking lot just off the dock. The areas had large billboards noting which cargo was bound for what destination, the riverboat carrying the cargo, and the due date. All three staging areas advertised cargo being transported by Anchor Riverboat Company. None of it was marked for her ship. Something was definitely up.

  "I don't know anything about that. You'd have to talk to the market clerk. All I do is make sure it gets on the right boats," the dock master said.

  "What would it take to unload our cargo today? I've got contracts to fulfill. I can't keep my customers waiting, my word as a captain is at stake if I don't deliver on time. I always deliver on time."

  "It's not a matter up for discussion. You have to move your--"

  Patty opened the drawstrings of her purse and shook a few gold coins out into her palm, watching the dock master's eyes light up at the gold shining brightly in the sunlight. "Seeing as I'm already here, maybe you could find a reason that we can't move our boat just yet. We'll unload and be underway as soon as we can," she said suggestively.

  The dock master glanced around and then took the coins from her palm. "I, ah, I think we can make an exception. You're having some engine issues and can't leave the dock yet if I heard you right. I'll let one of the other boats know they need to make way." The dock master marched down the dock, harassing another riverboat.

  "What was that all about?" Pete asked.

  "You let me worry about that. See that the cargo gets unloaded." Captain O'Donnell walked into town, heading for the port's shipping clerk, Mark Schwartz. The title was misleading. He was in charge of the entire port, responsible for overseeing client contracts and ensuring suppliers moved their goods in a timely manner. He had over a hundred porters and dozens of security men at his disposal, as well as having complete discretion over how the dock was run. She'd worked with the man frequently over the last couple of years. He was impersonal and a bit standoffish, but if anybody knew what was going on, it would be him.

  A short ways down the street she entered the shipping clerk's office. The heat was stifling in the enclosed building. The clerk sat behind the only desk in the office, furiously writing in a notepad, his nose bent close to his work. He didn’t stop writing or look up from his work as he addressed her. "Yes? What can I do for you?"

  "How are you, Mark?" Captain O'Donnell asked.

  "Hot. I'm very busy, what do you need?"

  "I was just down at the docks, and my cargo isn't in the staging area. Can you tell me where it is?"

  "Who is your contract with?" Mark asked flatly.

  "Schneider Farms. There should be thirty pallets of tobacco waiting for me."

  The clerk glanced at her, and then opened a filing cabinet, flipping through a file folder. He pulled a piece of paper out and set it on the desk, pointing to the line reading O'Donnell Shipping, crossed out in red ink, with a signature next to it. "Schneider canceled the contract with you. That cargo has already been shipped by another ship. You don't have any cargo."

  "When did this happen? I've been shipping for them for two years. Old man Schneider never expressed any issues to me."

  "That's n
ot my business. Do you need anything else?"

  "Who shipped the tobacco?" she said.

  "That's not any of your concern," Mark said.

  "I can take a guess who did. Tweed is pushing me out, too, huh? The bastard's got three boats out there."

  Mark glanced nervously at the open door, as if afraid to be seen talking to her. "Is there anything else you need? I'm very busy."

  "No, I think I get the picture." Patty left the office and walked up the main street, taking note of more than a few dark glares cast in her direction from Tweed's porters. She ignored their stares and made her way to the Malden Salt Company's satellite office two blocks down the road. The loss of the Schneider's shipping contract wasn't a devastating loss, but it would cost her money. The trip wasn't a complete waste, though. She still needed to purchase salt for her fishery. It would occupy a quarter of the riverboat's cargo holds and would last the fishery for the next two or three months.

  As soon as she opened the door she knew something was wrong. The Malden Salt representative was not his usual chipper self, eager to carry on small talk. His cheeks went bright red at her appearance.

  "Captain O'Donnell. It's good to see you. Please come in and have a seat. Let me get you a drink" he said.

  "I don't have time for a drink today. I'm here to buy salt."

  "This is quite awkward. I don't know how to put this, but I'm afraid we aren't selling to the public any longer. One of our larger clients has made arrangements for exclusive rights to all of our salt production," he said, wringing his hands. "I'm sorry for the inconvenience."

  The harassment at the docks and the loss of the Schneider contract weren't big issues, but this was another matter altogether. Without salt, work at the fishery would slow to a crawl. Smoking fish took far longer and required more work than salt curing them. There wasn't another salt mine within a hundred miles of here. Without the salt, the future of her company was in dire straits.

  "What company bought exclusive rights? Do you know what this means for me? For all of the little businesses that purchased directly from you?" She asked.

  "I'm afraid that information is confidential, as part of the agreement. I'm tremendously sorry that--"

  "Forget it. We both know who has the contract. Why bother pretending? Tweed is going to sell the salt now and prices are going to skyrocket. Just like coal prices did. Tweed is going to bend us little people over the barrel until there isn't a dime left to squeeze out of us."

  The salt salesman looked down at the floor, unwilling to meet her glare.

  Patty stormed back to the docks. Upon arrival, her mood grew even darker.

  A gray haired cop had her son, Pete, pushed against the boat, holding him there with the end of his baton. Several of Tweed's porters stood behind the cop, staring down her son. As she approached, her crew began to pour off of the Dawn ‘til Dusk and surround Pete, their fists clenched, muscles tensing.

  Whatever the cause of this, she needed to put a stop to it right now. Tweed owned this town now. That much was readily apparent. There was no point in letting her boys get baited into a fight they had no chance of winning. If the fight happened, Tweed's men would go free, and her own would be thrown in a cell.

  "Officer, what can I do for you? Some of these boys acting up?" she asked.

  The cop turned to her, his eyes cold as ice. "Your men were starting trouble, giving these porters a hard time. I don't want to hear any more from your crew today, or I'll haul their asses to jail. Understand?"

  "Understood. It's the heat, Officer. They get too worked up when it's this hot out. As soon as we unload we'll be on our way," she said. Turning to Pete, she yelled harshly, "Get back on the boat! I told you to stay out of trouble!"

  The cop smirked and glared at Pete for a moment, then left the dock with the Tweed porters in tow.

  Once they were gone, she turned to her son, her expression softened. "Pete, get those last few crates unloaded and then get ready to cast off. We're getting out of here."

  "We didn't do anything at all, the men were busy--"

  Patty held her hand up and shook her head. "I already know you didn't do anything wrong. You don't have to explain. That cop was looking for an excuse to throw you and the crew in jail. Get them back to work, we're leaving as soon as the rest of the cargo is offloaded."

  "What about our pickup? And the salt?" he asked.

  "Just do as I ask," she said.

  Pete nodded and went back to work, a confused look on his face. He was a good second in command and knew better than to question her once she had given an order. He put the men back to work and then set about preparing the riverboat for departure.

  She knew he would hold his questions until later, when they were alone. She had questions of her own that needed answering, and soon if the family business was to survive.

  Tweed was pushing them out. The Dawn 'til Dusk was no longer welcome in Huntington, and she suspected it would be the same at the other port towns along the Ohio River for two hundred miles in either direction where Anchor Riverboat shipped. He'd already pushed everyone else out of the business and had now turned his sights on her.

  Ruthless and unethical, how was she going to compete with him? Her shipping contracts were gone. Cutting off her supply of salt was a smart move, a killing blow. He had left her with no way to make a livable profit with her boats.

  The cargo unloaded, Pete called out the all clear as the crew cast off the mooring lines and stepped from the pier to the riverboat.

  She put the Dawn 'til Dusk into gear and felt the powerful engine propel the boat forward against the river's swift current. She set course for home, glad to be away from Huntington with her crew intact. Whatever other nasty surprises Tweed had for her in the town would have to wait. She knew better than to hang around and fight when the odds weren't in her favor. They would steam home and use the travel time to think of a way out of this disaster. Her entire family depended on her to make the hard decisions, and at the moment she was hard pressed on how to proceed.

  Chapter 12

  Chief Bud Howell woke up drenched in sweat, his head pounding like a drum. He closed his eyes and tried to go back to sleep, hoping to sleep off his epic hangover, but sunlight poured in from an open window, hitting him square in the eyes. He rolled over and stuffed his face into a pillow. A sour smell met his nose, rank and unfamiliar. Gagging, he pushed himself up off of the bed, confused. His head was spinning, and he looked around, wondering where he was.

  A motel. A nasty, cheap, motel room. He couldn't remember anything that happened after leaving Mount Olive State Penitentiary and his meeting with Warden Metz. How he got here, he hadn't a clue. Some combination of riding an intelligent horse and dumb luck. Regardless, the cramped room was hot, humid, and had an unbearable odor that didn't help his nauseated stomach. Howell opened the door, shielding his eyes against the glaring sun. His eyeballs feel as if they would split in two, but it was better than the heat and the smell of the room.

  An elderly woman carrying an armload of towels and washcloths stopped when she saw him. "Good morning, can I get you anything?"

  "Water. Unless you have some coffee stashed away."

  "Coffee! I'd kill for a cup of joe," the elderly woman chuckled.

  "Just the water then," Chief Howell said. The dizziness had subsided, and he retrieved the leather bound notebook and stack of papers he'd lifted from Warden Metz's office. He took the items outside and sat down in a chair on the motel's porch.

  He flipped open the notebook, looking at the columns and rows of a handwritten ledger. It had a running balance on the far-right hand column, and a numeric amount under the 'shipped' column. There was no mention of what it was being shipped. There was only a date, an amount, and a sum of money. The total balance grew over time, and it had the appearance of a list of deposits. His curiosity grew. Was the warden getting paid by somebody for something? The amount of money was staggering, far more than a warden's paycheck. Whatever the old Warden Dods
on was keeping track of, he didn't want it on the record if his notebook was found. It was interesting but unhelpful.

  Howell set the journal aside and browsed the looted invoices. There were shipping bills, invoices for goods, bills for service rendered, payment receipts, and inventory statements from Mount Olive's vendors. The invoices spanned several years. Something interesting leaped out at him as his mind absorbed the details.

  A year after the EMP, the prison changed over nearly all of the vendors it did business with. This wasn't unusual at all at first glance. Many companies folded and went under after the EMP. New businesses hadn't sprouted up to replace the old ones for a year and a half in some cases. It was the new contract holders that caught his eye.

  The shipping contracts went to Anchor Riverboat Company and to the Appalachian Express Railroad company. There were services rendered bills from the Martin Hale Security Company, and more bills from a Bachman Detention Facility. Martin Hale was a new player on the scene, and he was unfortunate enough to have come across a couple of these so-called security men when the trading railroad began to employ two of them on their routes as protection. They felt more like hired thugs than law enforcement to him. He'd never heard of Bachman Detention Facility, and he knew damn near every state- and privately-run prison in West Virginia.

  Anchor Riverboat and Appalachian Express Railroad - Sutherland said they were Tweed owned companies. If he had to hazard a guess, Martin Hale and Bachman were as well. All signs of favoritism, but it wasn't the kind of dirt he needed to bring Tweed down for good.

  Setting the invoices aside, he picked up the stack of letters he found inside the leather bound notebook. There must have been fifty letters, and he quickly picked up on a recurring theme. All of the letters were inquiries about prisoners that should have been released once their sentences were complete, but had never returned home. Mothers, fathers, siblings, and wives, all inquiring about the location of their loved ones.