The Departing (The End Time Saga Book 4)

by Daniel Greene

  The pastor opened his eyes. He clasped his leathery, knobbed hands together in front of his body. Even his fingers hurt as he interlocked them one with another. Everything hurts worse in defeat. Something will come. It is all in his plan.

  His disciples sat in a tight group around him. Bruised and bloodied, they had survived the battle. His second-hand man, Peter, sat with his hands under his chin, staring at the pastor with intensity. His blond curls dangled down his forehead, some matted to his head with sweat, the others still holding a bit of springiness in them.

  Greasy long-haired Luke sat beside him. He leaned backward, his thin arms holding him up. He was a cruel man. Not by chance either. The pastor had sensed his natural violence from the very beginning. Next to him sat blond comb-over Matthew, who looked more like a boy than a former banker. He definitely did not have the face of the slayer of hundreds marked by the beast. Others were there, all brothers in Christ. Thad, Thomas, and Anthony. Only his most trusted followers.

  “Let us bow our heads and pray for Brothers Gabe and Andy, true martyrs in our fight against the unbelievers. May the lights of their souls never be extinguished in the eyes of the Lord. Amen.”

  A quiet chorus of amens acknowledged him. He let them sit in silence for a moment to reflect on their fallen brothers of God.

  Anthony’s hook-nose flared and he broke the silence, clearly done with his reflection. “What are we going to do? My family is at Temple.”

  “God will show us the way. He has not forgotten us,” the pastor said. Hear us, O Lord. Do not forget your people.

  “How can you be sure?” Anthony said. He leaned forward, his bird-like neck stretching, and spoke quietly. “They slaughtered us out there.”

  “Even defeats are a part of his plan. Perhaps he is punishing us for our lack of self-control and discipline? Even God’s people are capable of such sins.”

  “We must escape,” Anthony hissed. He looked at the others. “There’s only a few at the door. If we jump them, they won’t be able to catch us all if we run.”

  Peter frowned. “No. There are hundreds of Gentiles outside. We will be gunned down.”

  The pastor lifted his chin. “Peter’s right. If escape was in our plan, God would show us a better way than that.”

  Anthony glanced at the door. “But my family.”

  “Those that escaped will provide for them. That is our way.”

  Anthony frowned, his face pained. “But those things out there. On top of those animals that have us trapped here.”

  “That is enough, Brother Anthony. There will be no more talk of escape until God has shown us the way.”

  “But-”

  “Enough.” The pastor breathed hard through his nose. “I find your lack of faith disturbing.”

  Anthony bowed his head and Luke sneered in his direction. Young men are rash. Old men are patient. It should be the other way around.

  “Forgive me, Father,” Anthony said in deference.

  The pastor held up a hand. “Do not ask my forgiveness for only the Lord can wash away your sins.” He lowered his hand and bowed his head. “Now, let us pray for the safety of our families at Temple. May they find comfort in God’s grace. Amen.”

  His men responded with another chorus of amens.

  “When Christ was on the mount, the devil tried to win him-”

  He was interrupted by a formidable dark-bearded man in a forest green jacket and camouflage pants. He bent low next to the pastor and whispered. “Pastor, please come. We need you.”

  The pastor’s eyes questioned his follower. “Brother Robert?”

  The man’s eyes were filled with grief. “Yes, Father.”

  “We are in the middle of our prayers. Why do you interrupt us?”

  Brother Robert’s eyes darted back and forth from his disciples to the pastor.

  “I apologize, Father, but one of our brothers is ready to move to the next phase.”

  The pastor nodded. “I understand. Tell him to hold on. I will be over soon.”

  Brother Robert gave him a weak smile, stood, and left.

  “Peter, you may come with me. The rest of you may continue your prayers,” the pastor said. His joints popped and creaked, as he stood tall. He had shrunk over the past few years and the weight of the end times seemed to make him even smaller. Even so, he was still taller than most. It gave him a more domineering yet fatherly look. He pushed on his lower back, hoping that it would straighten itself out.

  “Come,” was all he said to Peter.

  They walked around his men lying on the basketball courts. They weren’t cold but many huddled together. It must have been for the peace that being near a brother brings when being held at another’s mercy. A few of them cried as he passed. The devil has wormed his way into their souls and robbed them of their ferocity. He said a silent prayer. Fear not, brothers, for our battle with evil is not done.

  His walk ended at a man covered in a blanket. The man’s skin was almost yellow in the darkness, and sweat beaded atop his forehead. Brother Robert knelt on one side of the man. A bald man knelt on the other side. He wiped the injured man’s head with a rag.

  The pastor eased himself down until his leg gave out and his knee banged onto the floor painfully. My age is catching me.

  “Brother Adam.” The bald man bowed his head. He raised it again and his mouth twitched as he blinked.

  “Can no more be done?” the pastor said softly.

  Brother Adam shook his head. “I can’t do anything for him. They patched him up with bandages, but I think the wound is infected.” As if to explain himself, he hurried to continue. “I was only a nursing assistant. All I can do is make him comfortable without help.” He rolled back the blanket and peeled a bandage on the man’s stomach.

  The smell hit the pastor’s nose and he tweaked his head to the side. Brother Robert covered his face with his sleeve.

  “Oh, god,” Robert said.

  The pastor stared at the grotesque wound for a moment. “I see. Cover him.” Brother Adam replaced the bandages and pulled the blanket up over the man.

  “What’s your name, son?” the pastor asked softly.

  The man’s eyes fluttered open. His voice was weak. “Edgar.” He reached a hand out for the pastor and he took it. Edgar’s palms were damp and his skin clammy.

  “May God be with you, Edgar. Though you walk in the shadow of death, you shall not fear because he is near,” he whispered.

  Edgar’s eyelids dipped lower.

  The pastor bowed his head. “God, take this man’s soul into your custody. He has lived his life in your name. He has fought in your name, and he is coming to you a martyr for your cause. Forgive him for his sins for his work on Earth was just and true. Amen.”

  When the pastor lifted his head again, Edgar’s soul had left him. Brother Adam ran a hand over the dead man’s eyes, forever closing them. The pastor gently placed Brother Edgar’s hand across his chest and set the other on top.

  Peter helped the pastor upright by his arm.

  “Put him with the others,” the pastor commanded. A pile of dead lined the corner of the room. Every night bikers would come in and collect them. Another of his flock had gone on to heaven, his battle in creating God’s kingdom at an inglorious end. Brothers Adam and Robert picked up the dead man by his arms and legs and carried him away.

  Peter watched them leave. “We’ve lost so many.”

  “They’ve gone to a better place. God calls us home when he wants, Peter. Do not despair. Our time is coming.”

  “I will pray for them, Father.” Peter lowered his eyes. Men coughed in the background.

  We need your help now more than ever. “That’s good, my son, and I must rest. Walk with me to the bleachers.”

  They walked together to the bleachers and the pastor sat. Peter left him alone to his own thoughts.

  He clasped his hands in front of his body and rested his elbows on his knees, holding his hands to his head. Show us the way. I thought I
knew the way and you let us be crushed by the vile unbelievers. Give us revenge on them. Let us feed our holy fires with their corrupted souls. Grant us the chance for a glorious death in your name, Father.

  The rattle of chains banged on the emergency door and echoed throughout the gymnasium. They clanged against the metal doors, announcing to all the arrival of their captors. The pastor made the sign of the cross, his hand touching his forehead, his belly, his left breast, and then his right. He stood along with his men. Murmurs cut through his followers. He hoped Anthony wasn’t desperate enough to try something stupid and get himself killed.

  The doors burst open and light exploded upon the distraught people. His men covered their eyes and shaded them from the sunlight.

  Men covered with leather and tattoos, holding all manner of weapons crowded inside. They were the jagged salt of the earth. His men backed away, fearing violence at their hands, but the pastor walked through the crowds toward them. He stopped in front of their captors.

  A man limped inside, his arm in a sling, a tomahawk in his hand, and a wicked scar running atop his shaded skull. He has come to martyr me in front of my men. He smiled. I will soon stand by Christ’s side.

  Steele marched forward and stopped in front of the pastor. He looked up at him, his beard making his face longer than it should be, the hair wild and disarranged.

  “Pastor, come with me.”

  His men moaned in despair and shouted in the back. The pastor raised his hands in the air.

  “Chosen, do not fear for God is still with you.”

  Steele waved his tomahawk at him and limped out of the gym.

  The pastor followed and the bikers encircled him. The sunlight touched his skin, and even in the cold, it warmed him. Yes, Lord, you will set me free this day. His smile grew larger and larger as he walked, and he turned his face upward to the sky.

  KINNICK

  La Crescent, Minnesota

  Kinnick pulled back the flap of the woodland green command tent. He stepped inside not knowing what to expect. A short woman with black-hair stood at the far end of the tent, wearing the woodland Marine Corps Combat Utility Uniform. Her hair hung only to the neck of her collar, and her hands were clasped behind the small of her back.

  Two Marine captains stood up. The taller one that looked like an Olympic wrestler turned toward the short female. His voice was meant for a caveman and sounded like grunts. “Ma’am, we have guests.”

  Hunter and Boucher followed behind Kinnick coming into the tent. The woman turned to face them. Her face, stern but not unfriendly, gave one the impression she would give you an order and then clap you on the back for a job well done. An oak leaf rested on the center of her chest. She looked up at Kinnick with mocha-colored eyes.

  “Colonel, we’ve been expecting you.” She lifted a hand, fingers tightly pressed together, and pointed at a chair. “Please. Come in.”

  Kinnick stepped forward. “Major?”

  Her mouth never left its flat line. “Major Alvarado, sir.”

  Kinnick moved closer to the table and stopped. “I was expecting Lieutenant Colonel Eldridge.” It was not lost on him that the last time he went looking for a colonel, he ended up a hostage. She took his silence as if he had asked a question.

  “He was killed in action sixteen days ago.”

  “How?”

  Her jaw clenched as if anger simmered under the surface of her taut face. “Leading a combat patrol into La Crosse. He was separated from his unit and pinned onto the river. Tried to swim for it and didn’t make it. Cold water. Gear. Perhaps he was bitten before he went in, but he did not reach Barron Island.”

  Kinnick looked into her brown eyes. Or he was fragged by his men. Why was the light colonel leading patrols? “That’s unfortunate. I’m sorry for your unit’s loss.” He gave her a short nod.

  “So are we.” Her eyes glinted and her mouth stayed flat.

  Two more men entered the tent, a taller than average master gunnery sergeant and a youthful looking lieutenant.

  “Marines,” Alvarado said.

  Kinnick acknowledged the two Marines and moved next to the table. “Your outpost looks like it’s in good shape. A good perimeter.”

  “Yes, sir. We’ve found this place defensible. I’m not sure it was by initial design, but it has been adequate so far.”

  Kinnick peered down at the map on the table. “I didn’t expect La Crescent to be so small. About five thousand civilians here?”

  “Only about two thousand civilians now. Most of our success has been based on keeping the civilian population isolated from La Crosse on the other side of the river and not letting the Zulus cluster with regular mobile patrols.” She pointed at a map on the table. “We were fortunate to be training overland at Fort McCoy when this started. We’ve done a hell of a lot better than Camp Lejeune. They rushed us to La Crosse and sent us some small watercraft to work with.”

  “The SURCs?”

  “Yes, sir. Small unit riverine craft. They were a game changer. After a few weeks of almost constant fighting, we found that Barron Island was a much better setup for our outpost than the city streets. One entry and exit by land. Easy access to water with the SURCs as deadly transportation.”

  Kinnick gave her an approving nod. “A Marine’s dream.” He was impressed by her adaptable leadership.

  Her face was somber. “I wouldn’t call this a dream.”

  “A battlefield is chaos. Those that control their own and their enemies will emerge victorious.”

  She didn’t miss a beat. “Napoleon, sir.”

  “That’s correct, Major.”

  She looked back up at him as if she didn’t want to ask the question. “So what can Outpost Barron do for you gentlemen?”

  Kinnick nodded to his short Cajun Special Forces captain. “Captain.”

  “During our briefing, leadership told us you had a contingent of small watercraft. How many are operational?” Captain Boucher asked.

  She nodded. “We have eighteen operational SURCs. Each has a Ma Duece, a minigun, and is manned by a pilot and an additional crewman. The Marines on this outpost are all well-versed in small craft tactics.”

  Kinnick looked at Captain Boucher.

  Boucher smiled and nodded. “More than enough space for us. Hell, we only have five ODAs.”

  “I hate to do it, but we are going to need to split those teams in half,” Kinnick said.

  Boucher nodded. “We did it all the time in Afghanistan.”

  Kinnick could tell by the look on Boucher’s face that he wasn’t thrilled about splitting his units, but they were self-sustaining and able to operate off the grid for a long period of time. They are self-reliant, but they will need support and they will get none.

  For Special Forces units, their primary mission was to train and lead unconventional warfare forces or irregular guerrilla forces behind enemy lines. They played the game of war well, far from home and with little support. They had other primary missions—counterterrorism, special reconnaissance, and direct action—but mobilizing and building up indigenous forces was their specialty. They would ensure that the American civilians would keep up the fight until conventional forces could be mobilized. Kinnick was sure their journey would not end there, but they would be forced to fight the entirety of the conflict, perhaps indefinitely, but this was their wheelhouse, and he had no doubt they would perform to the highest standard.

  Major Alvarado stared at Kinnick expectantly. Her dark eyes transfixed him. “How many SURCs do you need?”

  “I’d say at least ten.”

  She glanced at Heath. “That will cripple my unit’s combat effectiveness.” Her tone was not one of a junior officer but of an equal that was not pleased. He entertained her questions because he knew he asking a lot. Their situation was dire as was hers, but he needed her cooperation.

  Kinnick stared down at the map. He let his index finger hover along the long blue line splitting the green on either side. “We will be dropping units along
the west bank of the Mississippi River to train the civilians to fight. It will be a massive effort by only a few men.” He looked at Boucher. “Albeit, very capable men.” He thought he saw a flicker of her eye narrow when he mentioned “men.” There were no women in the Special Forces ODAs, so he wasn’t making a jab at her, but he surmised that being told of the differences between men and women was something she had been subject to her entire career.

  “What civilians?” she asked.

  Kinnick looked up at her. “All of them.”

  Her brow furrowed. “With only five ODAs?” She paused, waiting a second for him to explain. “Not much of an operation.”

  Kinnick grimaced. “It is all we were given.”

  “We don’t have many Marines here.” Her eyes lowered as she thought. “Only three partial companies.” Alvarado’s eyes darted back up at Kinnick and his men. She clasped her hands behind her back. Her back was erect and unbent as if a spine of steel kept her upright. “I will send a company with you under Captain Heath.”

  Captain Heath smiled down at them. The massive Marine’s ears stuck out the sides of his head like short stumpy wings.

  It was Kinnick’s turn to smile. “We would be in debt to you.”

  She held up a crisp firm hand and twisted her head to the side. “You owe no debt. We fight for the same thing.”

  The Marines and soldiers stood silent for a moment contemplating the dire position their beloved nation was in. Their nation had been battered and broken and would never look the same, yet here they stood defending it to their last breath.

  “Mind you, Colonel. It’s not a full company. We started this situation with four companies of Marines. I’m down to about two and a half. You’ll get about seventy more Marines. Pieces of three platoons, meaning only two rifle squads per platoon. They should operate fine independently broken down into squads.”

  Kinnick looked at Boucher. “Let’s leave three ODAs split and two intact.” He eyed the small woman. “We will have the six rifle squads man the other craft.” He glanced over at Alvarado. “This will not leave you undermanned?”