Zach pulled a compass from his pocket. “We’re headed west, right? Well, we’re going the right way then.”
“Maybe the other way’s a shortcut,” Harvey said.
“Or a trap,” Dale said.
“Oh please,” Harvey quipped.
The bickering men looked at Reverend Phelps for guidance. “You’re the man with the map,” he said. “Show us the way.”
They continued down the two-lane street where cars and trucks sat motionless and abandoned in both directions. Harvey then suggested that they take a look inside the vehicles for supplies. The group seemed in agreement. Harvey took the initiative and leaned into a Pontiac Sunbird, finding a bag of peanuts.
Zach and Erin searched through the front of a Buick station wagon, while their kids looked in the back. Zach stuffed some quarters into his pocket from the dashboard. Erin looked under the passenger seat. The family came up empty-handed and moved on to the next car, a red four-door Corolla, just as drops began to fall.
The reverend approached a white utility van and opened the door. It had plenty of room inside. “Look, everyone!” he shouted. “We can all fit in here until the rain passes.”
The group assembled at the van with a few found items of note—batteries, half-empty Gatorade bottles, potato chips, trail mix, and a few bottles of water. Harvey walked up, proudly displaying an umbrella.
“Think I’ll just stay out here,” he said, pressing a button on the handle. The umbrella popped open as raindrops smacked its canopy.
Beatrice climbed inside as the others followed. Harvey paced near the van and then took notice of someone walking toward them wearing a hat and leather jacket.
“Looks like we have company, Reverend,” he said, tapping his shoulder.
Phelps turned and saw the figure getting closer as the rain began to fall. “Dale!” he said.
Dale was about to get in the van but stopped. “What is it?”
Phelps signaled up the road. “Looks like he’s back.”
They told Harvey and everyone else inside the van to wait as they went to investigate. The man was a mere fifty feet from them and advancing as if he was taking a stroll in the park. Dale pulled his pistol out and led the way as Phelps urged caution.
“Better to be safe than sorry, Reverend,” Dale said.
The rain picked up as they approached the man, clearly resembling the person from before.
“Mr. Jenkins?” Phelps said.
The man pulled a pistol from his side and aimed at them with a smile on his face.
Dale raised his Glock and suddenly felt a cold barrel jam into the back of his neck.
“Drop it,” a harsh voice behind him demanded. Dale heard the hammer of the rifle click and opened his hand. The pistol bounced on the wet pavement.
Phelps turned around to see the rifleman standing behind Dale. He then faced Jenkins, who had a gun pointed at him, between the eyes. “What is this about?” he asked in disbelief.
Jenkins held his pistol steady. “I told you the way to go, Reverend. And you deliberately disobeyed me. This area belongs to our men. We’ve claimed it along with everything in it. You’re officially trespassing.”
Phelps could feel his heart beating faster. He held up his hands defensively. “Our mistake. There was just some confusion with the group. We’ll go the other way now.”
The rain beat against Jenkins’s hard fedora. Phelps blinked rapidly as drops rolled down his forehead and into his eyes.
Jenkins scratched his chin as if to consider Phelps’s plea. “We’ll let you pass… for a small fee. How does that sound?”
The man behind Dale jammed the barrel further into his neck. “Get on your knees!”
Dale held his hands high and knelt slowly.
“Let’s talk about this, Mr. Jenkins, please,” Phelps pleaded. “We haven’t got much of anything. Our supplies have been stretched thin.”
Jenkins raised his .357 magnum. “The name’s Mayor Jenkins, if you don’t mind.” His barrel looked as big as a cannon.
“Mr. Mayor, I’m sorry,” Phelps said.
“Tell your group to come out,” Jenkins ordered.
Phelps carefully turned around and signaled to his frightened group in the van.
Jenkins leaned in closer. “And if one of them runs or does anything stupid, there’s going to be trouble, unfortunately.”
“What the hell is going on?” Harvey walked up first, still carrying his umbrella.
“Just stay put, old man,” he responded.
The rest approached, unsure of what was going on. Zach and Erin huddled together, holding their children. Beatrice latched onto Harvey in fear.
More men suddenly jumped out from behind nearby cars and surrounded the group, all armed and pointing weapons.
“Why are you doing this?” Erin asked, gripping her children’s hands.
Jenkins and his men offered only stone-cold silence.
“Look, we don’t want any trouble,” Zach added.
Dale was still on his knees. There were up to ten men surrounding the group—some kind of bizarre ambush.
The reverend attempted a peaceful resolution once more. “Gentlemen, I would ask that you allow us to go on our way. We don’t have much, but we’ll gladly give what we can.”
“And we plan to take it,” Jenkins said. He waved his men over.
They swarmed the group and yanked the backpacks off their backs, tossing them to the road.
“None of this is necessary. Please!” Phelps said.
Jenkins took a step closer to Phelps and pushed his magnum into his right cheek. Phelps shuddered and closed his eyes as the men tore through their backpacks, coming up short of anything of value.
“Ah, hell, Mr. Mayor. There ain’t nothing but baby wipes and clothes in here,” one long-haired, tattooed man shouted.
“I told you we didn’t have anything,” Phelps said.
“Not true,” one of the other men said. He dumped a bag out, revealing all the items they had taken from the vehicles.
In response, the men ordered everyone onto their knees—all but Phelps.
Jenkins lowered his magnum and paced in front of Phelps as rain soaked their captives. “I thought I’d seen it all,” he said, pausing. “Trespassing and theft. This isn’t good, Reverend.”
“We...” Phelps began. “We didn’t know.”
Jenkins swung his blunt pistol hard against Phelps’s face, knocking him to the ground. Beatrice and Erin screamed. The children shook with fear.
Zach jumped up, infuriated. “You bastards!”
One of the men stepped forward and clubbed Zach in the back with the buttstock of his rifle, sending him to the wet ground.
Jenkins stood over Phelps, clutching his magnum like a hammer, as the reverend lay there on his side, holding his face. He tried to rise from the ground, but the throbbing pain in his face was too much.
Jenkins noticed his struggle. “Stay down, Reverend. If you know what’s good for you.”
He looked up and nodded to his men. They shouted at the group to stand up, jabbing them with their rifles. Once on their feet, they led them off the road and up a hill. Phelps remained on the ground, paralyzed with pain.
“Where are you taking us?” Harvey asked.
Jenkins pointed to a small, dilapidated warehouse ahead and off the road. “A holding area where you can get out of the rain.”
Dale turned and looked back on the street where Phelps still lay—head in bloody hands. He looked for any sign of his pistol, which he knew had fallen somewhere in the road near Phelps. Maybe Phelps could find it, storm into the warehouse, and save them.
“What are we going to do?” Erin asked as they were pushed along.
“Pray for the best,” Zach said. He squeezed her hand gently.
From the road, where they had left him, Phelps struggled. His jaw felt broken and his vision was blurry. He couldn’t even move his mouth to shout. For the first time in as far back as he could remember, rage w
as building within him. But he was angrier at himself than anything. No matter how hard he tried he couldn’t even stand up. Not even when he heard the first gunshots.
One shot after the other rang out in rapid succession from the warehouse, followed by screams. Then silence. What had they done? They wouldn’t have just killed them all like that, would they?
Lying on his side, Phelps reached his shaking hand out, trying to brace himself. Up ahead, he saw Dale’s pistol lying in a puddle. He didn’t know why they had left him or what he could do. He searched for the answers, hoping something came to mind. He was no hero. What game were the men playing with him and why? He had to know what happened to his people. He turned away from the pistol and walked up the hill toward the warehouse, ready to face his demons.
Two Months Before
Monday, September 12, 2016
The microwave in Rob Parker’s kitchen emitted a lengthy, piercing beep—the frozen sausage patties were ready. A coffee pot bubbled to the top, with steam steadily rising toward the ceiling. A television was on in the living room with the local morning news playing at a moderate level. There was commotion all throughout the house. Still in his bathrobe with light stubble on his thirty-six-year-old face, Rob stormed into the kitchen, distracted and half-there mentally, searching for something of great importance. His eleven-year-old daughter, Kelly, followed him, and was on the brink of tears.
“I know I gave it to you last, Dad. You said that you were going to sign it.”
Rob went straight to the microwave and opened it.
“And I did.” Rob pulled the plate out of the microwave and set it on the counter. “We’ll find your permission slip before the bus gets here, I promise.” He slid on the tile over to the coffee maker and turned it off. “Now have a seat and eat your breakfast.”
On the table were two plates and two glasses of orange juice.
“I don’t eat those things,” Kelly said.
Rob looked perplexed. “Oh. Well, have some Froot Loops or something.” He went to the pantry, pulled out a box, and set it on the table.
“That’s OK,” she said, pushing the box away. “I’ll just get something out of the vending machine at school.”
“No. We don’t buy cereal so you can spend your allowance on candy at school.”
Already behind schedule, Rob’s day was off to a hectic start. The school bus was going to arrive soon, and he couldn’t find Kelly’s field trip permission slip.
His thirteen-year-old son, Josh, walked into the kitchen with his backpack over his shoulder and his iPod earbuds in place, watching Rob rifle through the kitchen drawers.
“You guys are still looking for that thing?” he asked, tossing his bag on the counter. He grabbed a sausage biscuit from the table and devoured it. Rob was too distracted to answer. Josh reached into the pocket of his jeans and pulled out a folded piece of paper. “Well, I’ve got mine. Better luck next time.”
“Don’t say that! It’s around here somewhere,” Kelly said, defensively.
Josh looked at his iPhone. “You sure about that?”
“Yes, I’m sure. Right, Dad?”
Rob slammed the last drawer shut pulled up a stool next to Kelly. “Now think real hard. Are you sure that I didn’t give it back to you?”
Kelly folded her arms. “If you did, I would have it.”
Stuck for an answer, Rob thought to himself, trying to play each step back in his mind.
Josh looked at his phone through bushy blond bangs. “Bus will be here in ten minutes.” He scooted out from the table, grabbed his backpack and left the kitchen.
“You could be more helpful here, you know,” Rob called out.
Josh stopped in the adjacent living room and turned to face them. “What do you want me to do?”
“Help us find this thing,” Rob said. “If your sister can’t go, you can’t either. How do you like them apples?”
Josh stared back. “You can’t do that.”
Rob leaned back on his stool with his arms crossed. “I’m your father. I can do anything that I want.”
“But it’s not my—”
Rob stopped him. “Start helping us look.”
Josh turned and stormed off toward his room, muttering under his breath.
“Dad, look,” Kelly said.
She was staring ahead, over his shoulder, wide-eyed.
He turned and could see it pinned on the refrigerator. Rob stood up and walked over. A small note had been placed over the slip from Mila, his wife, addressed to Kelly: Don’t forget your permission slip. Have fun! Love, Mom.
Rob snatched the signed permission slip from the fridge and handed it to her.
“Well… I guess that clears it up.”
Kelly held the paper in her hands, relieved, but wanting vindication. She then looked up at Rob. “I told you that you never gave it to me.”
Rob humbly bowed to her. “Accept my deepest apologies, fair maiden.”
Kelly ran out of the kitchen with the paper in hand.
“Don’t lose it,” Rob said jokingly.
He then went to the counter and poured some coffee into his Brooklyn Dodgers mug, contemplating his day. After the kids went off to school, there was much work to be done. Their field trip to the Metropolitan Museum of Art would last all day.
Josh walked into the kitchen, ready to go. “Kelly told me it was on the refrigerator the entire time?” he said.
“That’s correct. How’d you miss it?” Rob retorted.
Josh shook his head and walked toward the door when Rob called him back. “Wait for your sister.”
Josh stopped. “Ugh. She takes forever.”
Rob approached him at the door. “You need to look out for Kelly, you know,” he said, placing a hand on Josh’s shoulder.
Josh looked down and he began to shift impatiently.
Rob continued. “You remember what it’s like to be in sixth grade, right? New school with new people.”
Josh looked up. “She has the same friends from last grade, Dad. Just a different school.”
“That’s not my point. She needs you there for her. You’re her big brother. Understand?”
Josh nodded. Kelly emerged from the hallway and into the foyer wearing a pink hooded jacket under her backpack.
“You all ready?” Rob asked.
Kelly said “yes” and smiled.
“OK, gotta go,” Josh said, impatiently.
“Hold on, guys.” Rob leaned down and hugged Kelly. “Stick close to each other and enjoy the museum.”
He then turned to Josh and gave him a hug, despite his son’s futile resistance. “Remember what I said. Love you guys. Have fun today.”
The kids said goodbye and left the house. The sun was just rising as cars from the neighborhood street passed by—commuters going to work.
Rob waved to them and watched as they walked down the front lawn and onto the sidewalk to their bus stop at the end of the road. Once they were out of view, he closed the door. The house was quiet again, except for the television in the living room.
With the kids off, Rob decided to take a breather and sat on the couch for a moment, catching the morning hodgepodge of random topics on cable news. The economy was in the tank and there were new terror alerts issued from all around the country. The country was in trouble and had been for a while. Rob, like some other people he knew, was preparing for the worst. It was, in fact, his main trade.
He owned a shop downtown, Pro-Survival Gear, an outdoors camping and hunting outlet that also specialized in survival equipment. He catered to what the market demanded: reliable and affordable products for the self-sufficient individual. His target demographics were people commonly known as “preppers”—concerned individuals and families who strived to be prepared for natural disasters, economic turmoil, and societal collapse. They were realists who took the trade very seriously.
The young female news anchor on TV was itemizing the day’s news with images of the New York Stock Exchange and plu
mmeting Wall Street numbers filling the screen. Her commentary droned in the background.
The news was enough to make his head spin. There was little, he believed, the government could do to revert the disastrous course they were on with their frivolous spending. Because of this, he was certain of one thing: money would soon lose its value. Inflation was on the horizon and his family had to be ready. He gave it six months to a year before things got exponentially worse. Though he wanted nothing more than to be wrong.
He wanted his family to be as prepared as possible. He wanted his kids to possess the skills needed to be self-sufficient. To prep and plan effectively, it had to be a joint effort. But that was easier said than done.
Mila had her hands full at the local hospital where she worked as a registered nurse. With four years of school behind her, she still had her fair share of student loans to pay.
In his youth, Rob had established himself as a competitive marksman, when his interests soon shifted toward running his own business. Before then, all he did was drift through the country, taking odd jobs where he could. That was, until he met Mila and started a family in his thirties.
Nyack was a quaint town where there was plenty of nature and beautiful scenery. Moving there had been a dream come true. But the dream, Rob knew, wouldn’t last forever.
He took another sip of his coffee. It was time to get ready for work. The day was September 12, 2016—one day after the fifteenth anniversary of the 9/11 terror attacks, and as he contemplated the future, he found himself filled with dread.
Was the outlook really so glum? Was most of it in his head? The mood of the country was reflected in what he was seeing. His products were flying off the shelves: emergency food kits, water purifiers, camping equipment, flashlights, batteries, multi-tools, paracords, and other prepper basics.
He knew a community of preppers who had purchased land in the mountains along the Hudson River, close to where his own family maintained a small cabin for his family’s weekend getaways. They hadn’t been up there in some time. A travesty, Rob believed.
He heard Mila’s car pull up in the driveway. The time displayed on the television news said that it was 7:30 a.m. His store opened at nine. He’d have a little time to spend with her, maybe discuss going to the cabin for the weekend. However, after a thirteen-hour night shift, he knew that Mila probably wouldn’t be up for much talk. He went into the kitchen and cleaned off the table just as Mila walked inside.
End Days Super Boxset Page 41