End Days Super Boxset

by Hayden, Roger

  “No, those men are radical extremists,” Jenkins said. “But thanks for bringing them out of the woodwork for us.”

  The Patriot Riders shouted and fought as they were led out of the warehouse like common criminals.

  Thomas’s head swung around from the men to Jenkins, gesturing wildly, his eyes blazing. “You shot the very leader of the sleeper cells. Do you have any idea the sacrifice those man made so that we could capture Allawi?” Craig asked. He glared at Jenkins with an especially cold stare. “You’re not going to get away with this.”

  The Homeland entourage behind Jenkins began to move toward Craig, but Jenkins held them back.

  “Let’s be smart here. Omar Allawi is not worth the trouble. Your superiors, Calderon and Walker would like to see you back at the bunker. Where it’s safe.”

  Craig couldn’t figure it out. His mind was too disoriented to think clearly. But whatever had happened, it wasn’t right.

  “Let’s go,” Thomas said, leaning in. “We’re not going to win this here.”

  The agents loaded the Patriot Riders into an FBI cargo truck in the parking lot. In response, they struggled and called out to Craig for help.

  “You need to let them go,” Craig said to Jenkins. “They did nothing wrong. I contacted them for help. Many of them died fighting these terrorists.”

  Jenkins showed no emotion from behind the dark lenses of his sunglasses. “We’ll work that out later. Now come with us. You can even fly in the helicopter.”

  “No thanks,” Craig said. “I have a van. We’ll drive there.”

  Two men in suits placed their hands on their pistols.

  “Are you serious?” Craig asked, looking around. Thomas dropped his rifle and put his hands in the air.

  “Please,” Jenkins said. “Let’s do this the right way.”

  Thinking of his family, Craig complied. There was little fight left in him for the time being. He followed the Homeland group out of the plant as a convoy of government vehicles pulled past the gate and surrounded the plant.

  “They’ll clean this mess up,” Jenkins said. “You know, you could be a hero in all this. Come out real good.”

  Craig and Thomas walked past all the commotion and toward the parking lot where the helicopters were. The FBI truck with the Patriot Riders drove away as more vehicles with dark-tinted windows arrived. “The ‘cleanup crew,’” thought Craig.

  He remained quiet, considering the grand conspiracy he was now a part of. Would he ever know the truth?

  As they flew over the smoking plant, Jenkins informed them that they were going to the airport, where they would take flights back to Washington. Craig said nothing as he looked out the window watching the plains pass by. Sitting next to him, Thomas said little. Craig couldn’t help wondering what it had all been for. For a moment, just before they had attacked the water plant, it had felt like they were making a real difference and saving American lives in the process. Craig took solace in Rachael and Nick. He even thought of Husein.

  “Cheer up, Agent Davis,” Jenkins said, pushing his thick headset onto his forehead. “Everything is going to be okay.”

  “We’ll see,” Craig said, looking out the window.

  If there was a conspiracy, Craig didn’t know what to make of it. He thought of taking his family and getting away, if they would even allow it. But what of his country? Was it still worth saving? He glanced at Jenkins who had begun talking into the mic on his headset.

  Yes, Craig thought. It was.

  A small fire began to burn inside of him. He wasn’t giving up. He would get to the bottom of everything. He would never quit until his dying day.

  Epilogue:

  One Year Later

  The coming war with ISIS never materialized. A series of military air strikes decimated key ISIS targets across the Middle East and a foreign coalition was formed through the United Nations to strike back. In the end, they managed to push ISIS back to its initial strongholds in Iraq and Syria, and then it was business as usual around the world.

  Phase three—the ambitious sleeper cell plan to distribute water tainted with VX nerve agents never happened, and the public had never fully learned how close they were to an excruciating death through drinking water inadvertently supplied by the federal government.

  The national recovery effort happened gradually. The infrastructure damage to the power plants and sea ports was in the hundreds of billions of dollars. Oil reserves had been tapped, emergency personnel stretched thin, and the all-volunteer military force burdened with far more than it should have been tasked with. But somehow, the United States did not collapse. The country rebuilt, moved forward, and survived.

  A year later and there had been no more terror attacks. After that time, Americans began feeling a sense of normalcy again. ISIS, as far as most were concerned, had been defeated.

  Special Agent Craig Davis was honored in a quiet ceremony along with his partner, Agent Josh Patterson, Agent Brian Thomas, and Agent Riley Keagan (posthumously). They were given the distinguished FBI Medal of Valor. Keagan’s family was presented with the FBI Memorial Star.

  The agents were honored for their efforts in combatting terrorism. An investigation cleared them of any wrongdoing. However, there was a catch: they were to retire—with their pensions intact—and were restricted from speaking publicly about the event. That was the deal.

  Above all, Craig was considered at as a potential issue within the FBI. But he had surprised his superiors, Walker and Calderon, and accepted the deal. He would walk away quietly and all anyone would ever know is that the federal government defeated the ISIS sleeper cells with its tenacity, intelligence gathering, and resolute action.

  Craig soon entered the quiet life in the Maryland suburbs, outside the city of Rockville. The same house where he faced-off against Omar’s hit squad. The house—largely in shambles—went through extensive repairs all paid for by the bureau. And what of Abu Omar Allawi? His name soon faded and became as undistinguishable as any dead terrorist leader. The “invisible sheik” soon disappeared. For the country, life went on.

  Friday July 7, 2017

  After the fear of almost losing her parents, Rachael insisted that the family visit her parent’s home in Boston, Massachusetts one weekend a month. So far, they had kept good on that routine. They would be traveling to Boston, Massachusetts the next morning.

  Before their trip, they had a relaxing evening barbecue in the backyard. Rachael was on the phone with another school teacher talking about the cumbersome new grading and assessment policies that awaited them the coming school year.

  Nick and Husein kicked around the soccer ball as Craig sat in lawn chair cradling a beer with his feet up. Everything, for the time being, seemed to be in its right place.

  Calm on the outside, Craig’s mind raced with wayward disorder. Sometimes things would come out of nowhere and consume him—questions, memories, all the things he could never talk about. The FBI had placed him in a mandatory psychiatric program to keep him stable and adjusted to retirement life. Talking through his experiences helped, but there questions that would always repeat themselves. Should I have done more? Should I do more? Did I make a difference? Was it worth it?

  His psychiatrist had suggested writing down his thoughts, and Craig had taken him at his word. He had been writing about a lot. He took a swig of beer and looked up. There was calmness in the sky and Craig could feel it.

  ***

  After Craig and the family traveled to Boston the next morning, a twenty-foot moving truck roared down their road on Tilford Lane and backed into a three bedroom house recently sold, from across the street.

  Two Buick station wagons followed and parked on the side of the street. The moving truck beeped as it slowly backed in to the driveway as a group of young men got out of Buicks, carrying bags and luggage. They looked like normal-aged college kids, dressed in blue jeans, T-shirts, and football Jerseys.

  The moving truck stopped, parked about ten feet from the
garage. Two men walked behind the truck, opened the back door, and pulled out a long ramp affixed to the tailgate. Once opened, everyone began moving in and out of the truck, unpacking it.

  Eleven men in all, they spoke to each other in Arabic, laughing and joking around. Some of the neighbors took notice, but didn’t feel anything beyond annoyance. The residents enjoyed their peace and quiet. The new arrivals were young, rowdy males. What was becoming of neighborhood?

  As the men continued to unpack, Jamil, a lanky man with curly hair approached his friend, Sameer, the oldest in the group. His head was shaved clean, and he had a trim beard lined along his jaw and chin. They had traveled far from their hometown of Sahar, Yemen, entered the US on student Visas, and enrolled at George Washington University in DC.

  “What do you think, Sameer?” Jamil asked. They had been speaking English more and more to each other as a means to fit in. “Is this good? The area, I mean.”

  Sameer crossed his arms and looked around, watching the others unpack. It was going to be a long night. “Neighborhood is quiet enough. I like it. It’s perfect.”

  Jamil patted him on the back. “Good to hear.”

  “Yes, tonight we drink,” Sameer said.

  The two men laughed and went inside to join the others in unpacking and settling in. They had little knowledge of the house across the street or the story of the retired FBI agent who lived in it. They only knew that great things lay ahead for them and their friends in their new country, the United States of America.

  Grid Down

  Two Months After

  West of the Hudson River, the village of Nyack, New York, had changed drastically in the two months since losing electrical power. The once-busy downtown Main Street of local shops, coffee houses, and diners had become virtually deserted. Cars lined the streets, long abandoned—some with their doors hanging open. The normally idyllic town was absent its residents, who had simply fled in droves.

  The streets were deserted, and the sounds of vehicles, leaf blowers, and lawn mowers had been replaced with silence. Stray dogs roamed in packs. Shops along Main Street stood vandalized with their windows smashed in and shelves pillaged and emptied.

  Shattered glass was strewn across the sidewalks in a layer of tiny broken pieces. The sky was a desolate gray, much like the town itself. But only a few of months ago, the streets were bustling in this modest cornerstone of Rockland County, and in one brief second, everything had changed.

  That morning, a small group of outsiders passing through were on a desperate search for supplies. The four men, two women, and two children were far from home and hoping to reach their destination before nightfall. They heard that help awaited them there. Their leader, a Baptist minister, named the Reverend Allen Phelps, had remained loyal to a dwindling parish, promising to get them somewhere safe. With the guidance of God, he believed anything was possible.

  They had received a broadcast through an old emergency radio with directions to a disaster relief center, twenty-five miles from Clarkstown, their hometown. They had been on the road for one day, in search of assistance, tired, hungry, and nearing the end of the water supply in their canteens.

  “We’ll find help soon enough,” Phelps said, leading the group into downtown Nyack. His boonie cap shaded his bearded face. He carried a walking stick as his parishioners followed closely behind. Their shoes crunched against the broken bits of glass covering the ground.

  Harvey and Beatrice Wilson were a couple in their fifties. Behind them was Dale Ripken, a landscaper from Westchester County. And at the end Zach and Erin Brantley walked with their two children, Tyler and Sloane. They moved quickly down the street past the trash and vandalism saying very little. There were dangerous people out there. That much they knew.

  Reverend Phelps believed that they could very well be facing the Apocalypse. On September 16, 2016—the day of the blast that destroyed the power grid—many people had simply vanished. Phelps’s group had no idea what had happened to their friends and loved ones. They had no clue how far things had spread. And they had no idea what was out there. They were a vulnerable group, and Phelps knew what people were capable of, especially during times of crisis. Dale carried a .40 caliber Glock 22 pistol for protection, but violence was the last thing anyone wanted.

  The sky thundered. The clouds above had darkened. As they passed another shop in ruin, Phelps stopped dead in his tracks. Ahead sat a man in a lawn chair with his head tilted up and a black fedora covering his eyes.

  They weren’t sure what to think of the gray-haired, leather-jacket-clad mystery man before them as he made no notice of their presence. Phelps turned to Dale. “Let’s check it out.” He turned to the others. “Stay here. We’ll be back.”

  Glass crunched under their shoes with each step. The man in the chair made no movement. He was a tall man with long legs, wearing boots and jeans. He had some light stubble on his face and gray hair tucked into his hat. As they neared, the man moved his head, looked at them, and spoke.

  “Good afternoon, gentlemen. Welcome.”

  Startled, they both froze in place.

  “My apologies. We just wanted to make sure that you were OK,” Phelps said.

  The man tipped his hat at them with a smile. “I was just taking a little rest.” He then stood up from his chair and stretched. “But seeing how I’ve got visitors now, let me introduce myself. My name is Arthur Jenkins, mayor of Tartarus.”

  Phelps and Dale looked around, confused.

  “I’m sorry, where?” Phelps said.

  Dale pulled out his map. “I thought we were in Nyack.”

  “Oh,” Jenkins said. “We changed the name not too long ago.”

  Phelps went on and introduced himself.

  Behind his glasses, Jenkins eyes widened. “A pastor, aye? Welcome to my town, Reverend.”

  “And I’m Dale Ripken.”

  They shook hands as Jenkins looked behind him to their group waiting at the end of the sidewalk.

  “Who are your friends?” he asked and adjusted his glasses.

  Phelps turned around and held his hand out in their direction. “That’s my parish. We’re just passing through and looking for a relief center.”

  “Yeah, we’re from Clarkstown,” Dale added.

  Jenkins put his hands on his hips and looked upward, nodding. “Well, I don’t know anything about some relief center, but you’re welcome to stay in town. That is, if you have something to trade.

  Phelps and Dale looked at each other with uncertainty.

  “We don’t really know,” Phelps said. “Running a little low on supplies ourselves.”

  Jenkins seemed undeterred. “You know it’s a barterer’s world out there now.”

  Phelps scanned the area for others. “Indeed it is.”

  Jenkins stood at over six feet. They were skeptical of him and wondered where all the townspeople had gone. He then pointed to the road ahead, which forked in two directions.

  “The quickest way out is right down that road there and take a right at the fork. You’ll even find a park with a pavilion and everything. Some nice shelter from the coming rain.” Jenkins paused. “Where is this relief center located, anyway?”

  Phelps thought to himself. He was hesitant about revealing too much of their plans. “Somewhere close to the city, I imagine.”

  “New York City?” Jenkins said, astonished. “Heck, you couldn’t pay me to go near that place right now.” He examined the men and then smiled. “But don’t let me hold you up.”

  “Thanks,” Phelps said. He turned around and signaled to the group with his walking stick. They came forward and met up as Phelps turned to Jenkins. “You have a nice day.”

  “You too. Be safe out there,” Jenkins said.

  The group nodded and waved, passing him by. As they continued on Jenkins called out to Phelps.

  “Hey, Reverend!”

  Phelps stopped and turned. “Yes?”

  “You never asked me where everyone is. Aren’t you the
least bit curious?”

  Phelps look beyond the street corner where Jenkins stood among the ruins of Main Street.

  “I guess we’re just used to it by now,” Phelps said. “Good day.” He waved with his stick and marched on. Jenkins watched the group as they continued up the road. He didn’t take his eyes off them.

  Phelps moved quickly without looking back. A noticeable gap formed. Dale jogged forward to catch up. “I think maybe you should slow it down some,” he said.

  Phelps continued as his walking stick clinked against the pavement.

  “Reverend, please.” Dale moved in front of him, blocking him. Phelps stopped.

  Harvey and Beatrice caught up, out of breath. “Why are we moving so fast?” she asked.

  The rest of the group were just as curious.

  “Who was that man back there?” Zach asked, walking up. “What did he want?”

  The group slowly looked back to see if the man was still on the street corner watching them. He wasn’t.

  “We need to keep moving,” Phelps said.

  Thunder echoed through the sky louder than before.

  Harvey chimed in. “I say we go back and try to round up some food.”

  “Not with that man around,” Beatrice replied.

  Harvey waved her off. “Ah, he’s just a harmless weirdo.”

  Dale opened his map again. “Interstate’s the other way,” he said, pointing ahead to the fork in the road.

  “That man, Jenkins, said to take a right,” Phelps said, pointing with his walking stick.

  “Screw him,” Dale said. “That’s not what this map says.”

  He went left at the fork as the group followed. They passed empty vehicles and stopped at a nearby guidepost. Dale stopped and looked at the map, then back to the guidepost.

  The sign had an arrow for the interstate pointed in the opposite direction they were heading. “Something’s not right here,” Dale said.