Warlords

by William H. Weber

  John leaned in. “Go on.”

  “While the men are being worked to death to help support the war effort, the women are being forced into a breeding program.”

  “A what?” John asked, not entirely sure if he’d heard her properly.

  “A powerful company called BDI Shenzhen has sent personnel to occupied territory in order to help promote Chinese principles. The EMP and subsequent war will have taken a great toll on your population. The People’s Republic is trying to help repopulate these lands. To make them more... Asian.”

  “You’re trying to breed us out of existence?”

  “I’m not doing anything,” Huan protested. “The same has been going on in Tibet for many years. It is a slow process of diluting the existing genetic makeup.”

  As insane as it sounded, the more Huan spoke, the more John realized there were historical precedents for what she was telling him. The English in Scotland during the Middle Ages had practiced ‘le droit du seigneur’, translated roughly as ‘the lord’s right’, which enabled him to sleep with a peasant girl on the first night of her marriage. The idea was to dilute Scottish blood and breed them into a state of subservience.

  John could only imagine the countless numbers of camps that already dotted the states now under enemy control and the unspeakable horrors being perpetrated there.

  John had given explicit instructions that he not be interrupted, so when the sudden knock came at the door, he knew something was wrong.

  Ray poked his head in, a dour expression on his weathered face. “We have a situation.”

  Chapter 29

  Ray brought John over to the Pioneer Community hospital on Alberta Street where dozens of people were milling around the entrance.

  Oneida’s main doctor, a short, balding man with horn-rimmed glasses and a sweaty complexion named Dr. Trent Coffey, met them outside on the front stairs. His twenty-five-year-old son Daniel, also a doctor, worked with his father, but was likely inside seeing to patients.

  “What’s going on?” John demanded. “Ray told me there was a problem.”

  “We believe a cholera epidemic’s broken out,” Dr. Coffey said.

  “What do you mean, you think?”

  “Since this morning, we’ve had over thirty people admitted, complaining of leg cramps, profuse diarrhea and vomiting.”

  John put a hand up to his forehead to block out the sun. “How is it transmitted? Is this contagious?”

  “The method of transmission is through contact with infected feces. A fly that’s been contaminated only has to land on your food for it to spread. But it means that the water supply might be contaminated. Have your people been boiling the water after filtering it?”

  “That’s the protocol,” John said. “Although I can’t say for sure. Maybe some of them are cutting corners.” John turned to Ray. “Do you know anything about this?”

  Ray shook his head. “Not at all. I thought the same as you, John.”

  “Somehow the bacteria’s getting into the water supply,” Dr. Coffey said. “That must be the entry point, which means that either the sanitation department isn’t processing the waste properly or...”

  “That’s Dan Niles’ job,” Ray blurted out. “Let me have a word with his people. See where the runoff is being directed.”

  John considered this. “Where’s the town’s main source of drinking water at the moment?” he asked.

  “I believe it’s Ponderosa Lake,” Ray replied.

  “Then change it to Laxton Lake right away.”

  “Laxton’s a lot further away. Moving that much water without vehicles isn’t easy. Shelley Gibson’s people are going to have a fit.”

  “Then let them have a fit,” John barked, still on edge from his interrogation with Huan. “We still have horses, don’t we?”

  Ray nodded reluctantly.

  “Then put them to good use. I know Diane won’t mind diverting the ones she has from farming for an emergency. Besides, the last thing we need is an epidemic breaking out in our midst when foreign armies are only a few hundred miles away.” He turned to Dr. Coffee. “So you’ve got the infected quarantined?”

  “Those who’ve come forward with symptoms, yes. We’ve also set up special beds to deal with the effects. Cholera’s a messy disease, as you can imagine. But I’m afraid it’ll put a big dent in your work force if the problem isn’t addressed immediately.”

  John nodded, noting the urgency in Dr. Coffee’s voice. Oneida was currently a town of over two thousand people living in conditions comparable to the American Civil War. It was hardly a shock that cramped living and working conditions, mixed with fatigue from eking out a subsistence style of living, would eventually take their toll on people’s health.

  “What are you using to treat it?” John asked.

  Dr. Coffee’s eyebrows rose. “Right now, an antibiotic called tetracycline. It seems to be doing the job. I expect to run out of it within the next forty-eight hours, after which I’ll move to three hundred milligrams of doxycycline. These people are losing fluids fast. If we don’t get some clean water moved up to the hospital, folks are gonna start dying.”

  John was about to leave to issue orders when he remembered something Dr. Coffey had said at the beginning of their conversation. “You mentioned before that human waste might be leaking into the drinking water,” John said.

  “I did.”

  “But it sounded as though there could also be another reason for the outbreak.”

  Dr. Coffey shifted, adjusted his lab coat, which was covered in patches of discolored fabric. “There might be, John, but the likelihood is so remote that I decided to bite my tongue.”

  “Don’t hold anything back. The information could help save lives.”

  Reluctantly, Dr. Coffey agreed. “Well, if sewage isn’t mixing with the water supply it does leave one other possibility.”

  “Which is?” John asked impatiently.

  “Sabotage.”

  Chapter 30

  Back at the front, Brandon and Dixon busied themselves loading 5.56 rounds into magazines. The Chinese had launched three successive waves of armor at the American position and each time they’d been beaten back thanks in large part to the defending artillery and Abrams tanks. The few who’d managed to run that gauntlet and survive were taken out by Javelin missiles or the last line of defense, the AT-4 shoulder-fired anti-tank missile. Though not nearly strong enough to defeat the frontal armor of a main battle tank, they were more than enough to knock the treads off or destroy a Chinese ZBD-08.

  The ground on either side of the river was littered with burned-out vehicles and dead bodies. As for the Chinese paratroopers who had landed behind enemy lines, when the frontal assault failed, they had found themselves cut off and were quickly destroyed by Humvees mounted with .50 cals.

  The skies were relatively quiet now. The anti-air defense, a combination of M1097 and M6 Linebackers along with the older, but still lethal M163, had done their part keeping bombs from dropping on their heads.

  The all-clear hadn’t been given just yet, since it still wasn’t known whether there would be a fourth wave, nor how the other sectors had managed to hold up in the face of the stubborn Chinese assaults. All they could do now was reload and prepare for the worst.

  Dixon wasn’t saying much as he snapped bullets into his polymer mag. The death toll was rising with every fresh attack and even Brandon knew this part of the line would need reinforcements before nightfall or the enemy would break through. But that wasn’t all that was bothering Dixon. He’d told Brandon he was worried about the lack of American armor. The last of the Abrams near the front had been destroyed during that last attack. Even the Bradley Fighting Vehicles, largely designed to provide infantry support, had been thrown in to fill the gaps and were quickly knocked out. That meant the only thing keeping the enemy armor at bay were the Javelins and AT-4s.

  “One more push and we’ve had it,” Dixon murmured to himself. He glanced up at Brandon and threw hi
m an extra mag. “I didn’t know someone your age could shoot like that.” He was referring to the way Brandon had taken out a squad of Chinese troops as they disembarked from their troop carriers on the near side of the river.

  Brandon couldn’t help but smile. “I’ve had a fair amount of practice, I guess.”

  Gregory came in then, lugging another ammo can, breathing heavily.

  “Bring those to Keller’s M249,” Dixon told him.

  Gregory did so and, when he returned, collapsed with exhaustion.

  “You’ve done a great job,” Brandon commended him.

  “He’s running out in the open to fetch our ammo,” Dixon added. “That ain’t no small thing.”

  If Gregory liked the kind words, he wasn’t showing it.

  A shout rang through the trench, only partly muted by the gaping hole in the roof where an enemy artillery shell had made a direct hit. “They’re building up.”

  Brandon sprang to his feet and peered out across the river where a fresh formation of armor was amassing.

  “Don’t these guys ever run out of tin cans?” Dixon said, swearing under his breath.

  If they managed to hold off this attack it would be by the slimmest of margins.

  “Here they come,” Keller shouted, pulling the bolt back on his M249.

  The sound of chaos and explosions rang out from the rear. Dixon scanned the approaching armor, appearing mystified by what he was hearing.

  “They haven’t fired yet,” he said. “Where’s that coming from?”

  Over by the trench entrance, Gregory stood frozen. Brandon sprinted over to see what had stopped him in his tracks.

  When he arrived, the sight he found was utterly terrifying. Dozens of Chinese Type 99s were roaring in from the rear. They had broken through somewhere further south and were now encircling America’s last line of defense.

  When Dixon saw what was coming, he reached into his pocket and calmly pulled out a cigarette. “I’d offer you one, kid, but I don’t think we’ll live long enough for you to enjoy it.”

  •••

  The sight of so many American soldiers throwing up their hands in surrender made Brandon’s eyes fill with tears. Wet, hungry and exhausted after days of fighting, for many the choice was a simple one. Death might have seemed the more honorable solution, but living to fight another day was infinitely more practical.

  Chinese soldiers ran toward them, aiming their QBZ-03 assault rifles and shouting instructions no one could understand. One of their officers appeared and motioned for the men to lace their fingers behind their heads and form a line. Similar scenes were playing out all along the trench.

  Already, Chinese army engineers were laying the pontoons for the improvised bridge they were building across the Mississippi.

  “Efficient little buggers, aren’t they?” Dixon observed.

  The Chinese officer heard Dixon speak and stormed over. His insignia, a single chevron with a pair of crossed rifles above it, designated him as a sergeant. Thin, with the fresh face of someone Brandon guessed was in his early twenties, the soldier shouted and then buried the butt of his rifle into Dixon’s gut.

  The American let out a loud moan and sank to his knees. The sergeant kicked him in the face and was preparing for another blow when Brandon stepped between them.

  Other soldiers rushed forward, weapons drawn. The sergeant sent the back of his hand across Brandon’s face before shoving him to the ground as well. Salty blood oozed from Brandon’s lip. The sting was ferocious and Brandon’s heart was pounding in his chest, but the sergeant must have felt as though he’d made his point, because he turned away and stormed off.

  From the corner of his eye, Brandon could see Gregory standing at attention with the other prisoners. He was struggling to hold back the tears and Brandon couldn’t help but wonder now that the country was wide open whether their parents in Oneida would be next.

  •••

  The column of American POWs stretched for as far as the eye could see. Every hundred feet or so was a Chinese soldier in fatigues, yelling at anyone who stopped to rest or go to the bathroom.

  Before they’d left, each prisoner had been searched and stripped of weapons and valuables. Trudging along next to Brandon was Dixon. They’d stolen his cigarettes and a touch of his pride as well. A swollen left eye marked the place where that sergeant’s boot had met his face. There hadn’t been much bleeding, although he’d complained of a headache. Just ahead of them Brandon could make out the thin figure of Gregory. Once the opportunity allowed, he would move up to check on his younger friend.

  As they crossed the newly finished pontoon bridge, Brandon gave one final glance backwards, wondering what had become of all the troops in the rear. Had they escaped or were they not far behind?

  Hours passed as they marched through the night, south down Interstate 55 toward a destination none of them knew. Without any food or water, soldiers began to stumble. In some cases, they collapsed on the side of the road. They were given five seconds to get back up by the Chinese, who stood over them poking at them with their rifles. After the first Marine, a wiry soldier with thick blond hair, was shot for failing to comply, the Americans began scooping up their exhausted brothers in arms and carrying them along.

  With the first hints of dawn, Brandon began working his way up through the column until he reached Gregory, who looked dispirited and low on energy.

  “When’s the last time you ate?” Brandon whispered, suddenly worried.

  Gregory didn’t respond.

  Brandon nudged him and asked again.

  “Hey, whatcha doing?” Gregory snapped, noticing Brandon for the first time.

  Lack of food, water and extreme exhaustion meant Gregory’s system was starting to shut down. To their right was the side of the highway and Brandon slowly maneuvered in that direction, removing the t-shirt he wore under his uniform. The cool, early morning air bit at his bare chest. Soldiers around him looked on quizzically wondering what he was about to do. Up ahead was a patch of wild dandelions. Once they drew even with it, Brandon sprang off the road, dragging his shirt through the dew which had formed overnight and snatching up as many young dandelions as he could. An angry voice behind him shouted in a language Brandon didn’t understand. But he didn’t need to speak Chinese to know what the guard was ordering him to do. Glancing back, Brandon saw the enemy soldier advancing toward him, rifle drawn. Quickly, Brandon rejoined the line of POWs and shuffled back over to Gregory.

  “Here, eat these,” he told him.

  Gregory looked down at the dandelions in Brandon’s hand with confusion.

  “Your body’s starting to give up on you, so eat them, will ya?”

  “All right, fine.” Gregory took the weeds and ate them.

  “Now wash them down with this.” Brandon held his wet t-shirt over Gregory’s mouth and wrung it out, providing several precious drops of water. Brandon took the last little bit for himself.

  Within thirty minutes, the changes in Gregory were noticeable. His eyes were more alert and no longer looked dark and sunken.

  “Feeling better?”

  Gregory nodded. “Where did you learn that?”

  “It’s a little trick your dad taught me,” Brandon replied. “Dandelions are best when they’re young. The older ones taste bitter. Usually it’s a good idea to boil them to remove the bad taste, but we didn’t exactly have that option. You can also drink the broth after as tea.”

  “Sometimes I wish I knew that stuff myself,” Gregory lamented.

  “Well, maybe I can teach you some as we go.”

  A smile grew on Gregory’s face. “Really?”

  “Sure thing.”

  Brandon reached into his pocket and pulled out two mullein leaves and handed them to Gregory. It was the same species of plant John had taught him made great toilet paper in the wild.

  Gregory brought them to his lips to eat them. Brandon pulled his hand away, laughing.

  “Those aren’t for breakfa
st,” Brandon told him. “It’s nature’s toilet paper. I had a few extra I found on our way to Dyersburg and I have a feeling where we’re going these may come in handy.”

  After they headed east on State Route 18 for close to ten minutes, the edges of a camp slowly came into view. A sprawling open field was surrounded by a twenty-foot-high barbed wire fence encircling rows and rows of wooden barracks. Even from a distance, Brandon could see thousands of other prisoners behind the enclosure, busy building more of the structures. They hadn’t arrived at a place for POWs. This was a concentration camp, one which many of them would not survive.

  Chapter 31

  John was on Bank Street heading toward Oneida High School when the skeleton of the greenhouse came into view. They were building it on the football field and the impressive structure stretched from one goalpost to the other.

  He spotted Diane over by a stack of lumber they’d reclaimed from some of the vacant houses on the edge of town and the lumber store on Alberta Street. She looked busy as ever, directing the dozens of workers buzzing around her. Close by were hundreds of yards of plastic tubing they would use for the hydroponics inside.

  “You amaze me more and more every day,” John exclaimed, not entirely able to wipe the smile off his face.

  Diane stopped what she was doing and put a hand on her hip. “She’s coming along nicely, I must admit.” Her face settled into a frown. “Any word on Gregory?”

  John shook his head. “I’ve got Reese on it. I also sent a message up to the front for them to be on the lookout. If I don’t hear back, I’ll probably just head down myself on the train scheduled to pass through tomorrow. I’m sure they’re fine, honey.”

  Diane didn’t answer, but he knew empty reassurances would do little to ease her worry.

  “When do you expect to have this place up and running?” John asked, trying to divert her attention.

  “Soon, except we’re still waiting on Ray Gruber and the windmills he promised to build us.”

  “Don’t forget those windmills are for the whole town, Diane, not just for your greenhouse.”