The Departing (The End Time Saga Book 4)

by Daniel Greene

  Captain Boucher was a small man. He had a sharp chin and a glint in his eyes that said he’d seen enough violence.

  “You know that we will have no support out there.”

  Boucher smiled. “Shouldn’t be a problem. We’ve been all over the world. This is our backyard. I even got a few boys from along the river.”

  “That’s good. You’ll be on an island. Whatever advantages you have, use them.”

  “I read you loud and clear, sir.”

  Kinnick checked his watch. “Let’s try and link up every Sunday at 1800, central time. I know comms are extremely limited, but let’s try to keep everybody connected. We are going to be a long thin line.”

  “Yes, sir.”

  Kinnick hadn’t noticed the Air Force lieutenant colonel that had joined them. The man walked up to Kinnick and stopped. “Colonel Kinnick?” the man asked.

  Kinnick frowned. “Yes, Colonel.”

  “I have a message from General Daugherty, sir.” He stuck out his hand and a white envelope quivered in his palm.

  “Love letter?” Hunter said, pushing down the chew in his mouth with his tongue.

  Kinnick gave him a glare. “Not likely.” He ripped open the envelope by running a finger down the seam. He removed a thin white piece of paper and unfolded it.

  It was a short message, but its words were clear. He read the paper once and then again. He glared up at Boucher and Hunter.

  “Sir?” Boucher said. His eyebrows narrowed together.

  “‘Dear John’ letter?” Hunter said.

  Kinnick crumpled up the letter and threw it on the ground. “That man is a bastard. A fucking bastard.”

  Hunter bent down and picked up the piece of paper and his single eye scanned the page.

  “Must be a sick joke?”

  Kinnick’s lips twisted. “He doesn’t joke. This is the same man who launched nukes on our very own nation.”

  “Sir, I’m confused?” Boucher said, eyeing each man in turn.

  Hunter handed it to the captain.

  The captain read it quickly.

  Boucher frowned. “I’m not sure how to take this, sir? Is he asking us to kill Americans?”

  Kinnick stared out, watching the soldiers load the helicopters. “Per Executive Order 17766, all communities are to enlist in the defense of the quarantine territories or be destroyed as enemies of the United States of America.”

  STEELE

  Pentwater, MI

  A fire crackled before him. Shadow-flames danced across hanging beards, glinted along shiny bald heads, lit up braided goatees and long-haired faces alike. Men shouted and hollered at one another. Crushed beer cans lay on the ground. A bottle of whiskey was passed from man to man.

  On Steele’s left sat Thunder. He was a big-bellied man with a red bandana holding his long hair in place. A gray beard fell down to his chest. A grin split his lips as he laughed at a joke. He glanced at Steele from the corner of his eye.

  “What’s the matter?” His bulbous nose was even rounder from the jab that Steele had given him after the Battle of Little Sable Point. “Drink this.” Thunder handed him a bottle of whiskey.

  Steele held the bottle in his good hand for a moment. “You know,” he said before he took a long swig, feeling it burn down his throat and into his gut. Steele passed the bottle Tess, her hair slicked back on the top of her head, and she took a gulp and passed the harsh alcohol along.

  Thunder spoke from the corner of his mouth. “I know how this is going to go if we put it to a vote.”

  So do I. Steele scratched beneath his bandaged arm nestled inside a sling. His skin itched horribly where the bullet had entered his bicep and blown out the back of his tricep. The healing wound always felt on the verge of overheating even in the cold.

  He crunched numb fingers into a half-fist, feeling the pain of not using his arm in days. He nodded. “Less mouths to feed means more for us, but we need their support now. Jackson is close.”

  Thunder nodded. “Yeah, and you don’t ask an enemy to watch your back.”

  “Can we trust them?” Steele said, nodding to the bikers, “to watch our backs?”

  Thunder looked over, hurt on his creased features. “Last I recall, the pastor and his altar boys were dumping gasoline on you, ready to burn you alive. Not the other way around.”

  “I haven’t forgotten.” I could have been a pile of ashes blowing in the wind. “We need the Chosen if we’re going to stand a chance. You know this.”

  Thunder grunted in response, neither acknowledging nor denying Steele’s words.

  Steele watched the rough bikers. “We owe these men and women, but I need them in some sort of line. I need them to be dependable.”

  “Then give them a reason to be loyal. They came, didn’t they? And they’ve stayed since the battle.”

  Steele watched a biker with an eight of spades tattooed on his head tip the bottle of whiskey back. He started chugging. “For the food that we promised them, food that is rapidly disappearing.”

  The fire bounced on Thunder’s features. “Then let’s find them the food.”

  “But that doesn’t solve my problem with them.” Steele stole a glance at the Pentwater High School gymnasium. It loomed across the street from the fire station the group sat in front of. The gym was a tall, long brick building the shape of a rectangle. Steele could see the faint forms of armed men sitting outside the doors. Inside the gym were over two hundred of their enemies. How do we turn our enemy into our ally?

  The Chosen people. A faction of religious zealots that had come to destroy Little Sable Point and enslave its people in the name of God. Their elderly leader, known only as the pastor, had been captured as well. Steele’s forces had held on until the last moment, allowing Thunder to spring a trap, and it had caught their overzealous enemy off guard. Steele had lost plenty of people in the battle and had taken a wound that he might never recover from. He worked his fingers open and closed.

  Now, he must decide their fate, given the biker gangs didn’t administer their own form of apocalyptic justice.

  Two of the biker leaders were not laughing and hollering. They stared at one another, eyes never lifting from the other. A fight was in the early stages, brewing up beneath the surface.

  The young biker with the eight of spades on his jacket and head stood up tossing the empty bottle of whiskey. He pointed at an ancient biker with a trimmed white beard and a gears patch on his riding leathers. His hair was pulled back into a braided ponytail.

  Veins popped in the young biker’s tattooed neck. “Fuck you, War Child. That shipment of food was ours.”

  The old motorcycle club president looked like he was going to laugh but instead lunged from his seat. He led with his right hand and threw an uppercut into the younger man’s chin with a smack. They started lashing out at one another with fists. The others watched the fight with dull interest.

  Steele’s mouth flattened even harder. This group of men and women were as unruly as they were hard. Steele watched them fire fists at one another, flexing his damaged hand the entire time.

  Thunder spoke as they watched. “The young one with the eight of spades is Gat, and the Rip Van Winkle looking cat is War Child.”

  “Isn’t he a bit old to be called War Child?”

  “He wasn’t when he started running guns for the cartels.” Steele nodded. He readjusted himself in his seat, leaning his weight on his uninjured leg trying to take the pressure of the pellet-ridden one.

  Gat was getting the best of War Child until War Child pulled a long dagger from his boot. Guns were pointed in their direction. War Child stood back, holding the dagger in the air and huffed out a wheezy breath. Steele ran his off-hand over the handle of his handgun resting on his hip, but he left it in its home.

  The two men’s chests heaved. If they had allowed the rest of the bikers to attend the meeting, it would have been an all-out war between the two clubs. That was precisely why Steele had heeded Thunder’s advice and only calle
d the leaders.

  “That’s enough,” Thunder said. The biker club leaders holstered their weapons and the two took a seat on either side of the fire. Thunder sat back down.

  “I didn’t call this meeting so we could kill each other,” Thunder said. The leaders of the gangs turned his way. A large black man looked like he had just noticed Steele for the first time. The lone woman of the group, older with flaming red hair, regarded him like he was going to be her next pool boy.

  Next to her sat a man with a long black, braided goatee that reached the center of his chest. He smirked, black wolves dancing on his vest. “Why exactly did you call us here?”

  “I called this meeting on behalf of Sable Point’s Captain Steele. It was his plan that won the battle, so let’s hear what he has to say.”

  I’m not a captain.

  “You mean Tiny Tim?” shouted the large African-American man. He had matching crisscrossed hammers on his vest and arms. Steele gave him a hard glance. The thick man wasn’t phased by Steele’s gaze. He ground his teeth as the wounds in his leg painfully rubbed against his chair.

  “No, I mean Captain Steele,” Thunder said.

  Steele leaned forward in his chair and placed a hand on Thunder’s arm. “I got this, Thunder.” He looked out on the presidents of the clubs. “I am Mark Steele.” His arm felt like it was on fire in its sling. He wanted to run a hand over the scar along his scalp but held it in check. “We were lucky at Little Sable Point. I’m indebted to you for your help.”

  “We did it for Thunder,” War Child said. “Not some little hippie commune by the lake.”

  “When do we get what you promised?” shouted Macleod, his goatee wiggling like a black snake hanging off his chin as he spoke.

  Steele grimaced. Thunder had promised the bikers free reign on a food supply that wasn’t nearly enough for all the people. Our supplies will be gone in a week. Even faster if we have to keep feeding the Chosen. I don’t know how long we can keep up the facade of unlimited food stores. He was sure that this wasn’t lost among the clubs either.

  “You’ll get your food. Don’t forget we defeated a common enemy.”

  “An enemy we chose to fight,” Macleod spat.

  “Why we even keeping them around?” shouted the big African-American motorcycle club president. “They’re just eatin’ our rations.”

  “Jefferson’s right,” croaked the flaming-haired woman. Her skin was tan with the texture of a well-worn leather. Wrinkles surrounded her mouth and eyes from years of smoking and too much exposure from the sun.

  Steele raised his functioning arm. “Because there’s a greater enemy that bears down on us.”

  Gat spit in the fire, his tattoos reaching for the top of his skull. “The fucking infected. Screw you. We can handle those fucks.” He drew a serrated blade and pretended to lick it then flung it into the ground. The hilt of his knife quivered.

  “Don’t patronize me. We all know about the infected. Give me my share and my boys are gone,” War Child said. A chorus of agreement went up from the biker chiefs. Steele’s loose confederation of free motorcycle clubs was about to disintegrate, most likely ending with a bullet in his chest.

  “No, not yet.”

  The bikers quieted down and Steele could feel Thunder tensing at his side.

  Macleod laughed and he threw a thumb at Steele. “This guy serious?”

  “I’m dead fucking serious. Five days ago, we spotted a military convoy. They’ve gone rogue, but their guns are real enough.” He glanced at Ahmed and Kevin. They nodded in turn.

  The bikers looked around as if it were a joke.

  War Child laughed. “Who’s to say we don’t turn you over to them?”

  Jefferson smiled at War Child’s words, his white teeth contrasting against his dark skin. “We could watch them grind you up real slow. Ain’t that right, Red Clare?”

  The lone female leader laughed uproariously at the thought of Steele being ground up into pieces. “He’s too pretty for that.”

  Steele ignored them. “They don’t give two shits about you. Not these men. If they let you live long enough, you’ll be mere slaves beholden to their every whim. I’ll make you first in line with me. We’ll all be treated as equals.” All their eyes were upon him.

  “We already be our own bosses.”

  “Our colors bend for no man.”

  “I’m not asking you to forsake your colors or take mine. I’m asking you to ride together like you did against the Chosen. Apart, you will ride free and the dead will take you piece by piece, man by man, woman by woman, until you’re all gone. Together, we stand a chance.”

  Frank nodded from across the firepit. He’d been quiet tonight and he’d listened hard when Steele spoke. He knuckled a fist inside his other hand as if he planned on hitting somebody. His brown eyes were vengeful. When he started speaking, the other men and women grew silent. “I want revenge for what they done. Nader, Harry, and Sam didn’t deserve that kind of death. I’ll stand with anyone who wants to take the fight to them. I know you all would do the same for your clubs.”

  The bikers murmured amongst themselves. Mean, untrusting eyes looked at Steele and considered Thunder. Thunder had good standing with the club presidents, and Steele was sure if he wasn’t by his side that the biker chiefs would have left by now. At the worst, one of them would have tried to send him six feet under.

  Thunder leaned over. “All this ‘Don’t Tread on Me’ is good kid, but some of them don’t care about that. They want a guarantee. They want something they can see and touch.”

  Steele nodded. “You won’t starve again, but I need your support. I need your guns with me.”

  The War Child’s voice sounded like crackling paper. “We can scavenge on our own. Been doing it long enough now.”

  “You won’t need to scavenge. Food will be readily available where I lead you, and there will be fewer infected too.”

  Gat sneered. “Bullshit.”

  “If you follow me and we fight together,” he paused and gave Gat an extra glance, “I will take you to a place where there is food aplenty.”

  “Oh yeah, where’s that?” Gat said. The biker licked his lips, his tattooed face drawn tight over his skull.

  “Sounds like heaven,” Jefferson joked, looking out at the other bikers. The men and women chuckled.

  Steele made sure to hold their attention with his gaze. “No. It’s Iowa.”

  The bikers looked at one another.

  Red Clare’s voice rasped when she spoke as if it yearned for a cigarette. “Is this a joke?”

  Steele flexed his hand. “I want to leave tomorrow.”

  Macleod eyed his fellow biker leaders. “This fucking cripple wants us to ride to Iowa where he promises a safe supply of food forever? Never heard nothing more stupid.”

  Steele loosened his tomahawk on his hip.

  Macleod gave him a nasty curl of his lip and stood up, making himself more dominant. “And then he wants us to fight the U.S. military along the way?”

  Steele’s hawk flew from his hand. It did a quick half-rotation and stuck in the ground between Macleod’s legs.

  Alarmed faces bounced from chief to chief. Macleod’s eyes squinted fiercely, only anger emanating from them. Don’t do it, Steele thought. My left-hand draw is slower than it should be, but I won’t hesitate. Steele locked eyes with the man. Steele’s off-hand fell onto the handle of his Beretta M9A1 9mm pistol at his hip.

  Macleod’s smile faded on his black-goateed face and his arm slowly dipped to his side.

  Steele’s firearm was out of his holster. It felt slow, but it was fast enough. He lined up his sights on Macleod, and Macleod’s hand still inched its way to the handle of his gun. Steele kept the sights lined up on his center mass.

  “Any more questions?” He let his eyes bounce around the biker chieftains. “You can hold me to my word.” The fire snapped and the men watched each other in silence. Most watched to see if Macleod would try to off him anyway.


  Macleod’s eyes didn’t blink as if he were trying to drink in every inch of Steele’s person, making him disappear into his very own abyss. Steele let him stand in defiance.

  Next to Macleod, War Child erupted in laughter. The old biker wheezed in his laughing fit, slapping his knee. The other bikers picked up the laughter with him.

  War Child finished laughing and wiped the spittle from his mouth. “I’ll go to see what he does next.” His wrinkles creased and he shook his head in disbelief. “If he lies, we’ll kill him when we get there and take the Iowans’ food anyway.” He wheezed a laugh at the thought.

  Steele grimaced at the man’s words. I could be bringing greater danger than Jackson to the Iowans. He pushed the thought away. Anything is better than Jackson.

  Macleod grinned and pulled the tomahawk from the earth and raised his eyebrows. He flipped the hawk around a few times, judging the weapon. “Sounds like a ride in the park.” He tossed the hawk back to Steele. Steele snagged it out of the air. “You’re an ugly bastard, but me and the Wolf Riders are in.”

  “If there’s no food, I’ll break him up into little pieces,” Jefferson said.

  “What the fuck,” Gat smirked. He lit up a cig and spoke from the side of his mouth. “We’ll ride with Rolling Thunder until something better pops up, but what about them?” Gat pointed at the gymnasium.

  Steele stared at the dark building. “Tomorrow they make a choice. They join or they die.”

  THE PASTOR

  Pentwater, MI

  There were no lights on in the dark gymnasium. The only light crept in from the cracks beneath the emergency doors now chained shut. The heat from over two hundred men made the basketball court stuffy, and the air felt stale and used up like his followers.

  His men lay and sat all over the shiny court. They were the remnants of God’s great army, bloodied, tired, and broken. A righteous army who had victory snatched from their grasp by the devilish cunning of their opponent.

  Men coughed and the injured moaned in the dark.

  The pastor sat with his back slumped and his legs crossed beneath him on the polished wooden floor. His legs hurt. His back hurt. His entire body ached like he had the flu, but the ache came from not some ailment of his body, but from the depths of his soul. Why did you abandon us in the heat of battle, O Lord? Did we not follow your word? Did we not do your bidding?