by J. L. Bourne
“Did the drone get facial recognition before it crashed?” the one called Tom asked, nearly crying.
“Yeah, clear view, but the guy was wearing a hat and baseball cap. It might be him, or another lunatic gun nut holding out in these hills. We should just fucking firebomb the whole place,” the SUV guard said.
“Fuck, Corey, I’m telling you right now, I’m going to track this piece of shit down; I’m going to fucking make him suffer for this,” Tom said.
“Listen, you go back and check on the facial recognition. I’ll . . . I’ll load Brutus up. You shouldn’t have to,” Corey replied.
The murderous canine lover headed back to the SUV, leaving me behind with Corey, a man that had no idea I was a snake in the grass three meters away holding an M4 carbine to his chest head. He, like the dog, was wearing body armor.
The moment I was waiting for.
Corey slung the gun across his back and grunted as he put the dog’s corpse over his shoulder.
“Stop right there and don’t fucking move, or it’s over,” I commanded.
Corey began to slowly turn to face me.
“I wouldn’t,” I said.
He froze in his tracks.
“Hey, Corey . . . did you take an oath as a federal law enforcement officer before all this happened?” I asked.
He didn’t respond.
“Answer or it’s all over.”
“Yeah, I did,” he said, his voice cracking.
“So what was I supposed to do? Was I supposed to let that dog kill me?” I said angrily.
“Listen, drop the gun and you won’t be . . .” Corey said before he was interrupted.
“It’s him!” Tom screamed from down the hill at the SUV.
“That’s right, it is me, Corey. Turn around. Look me in the eyes,” I ordered.
He turned to face me, his face rapidly cycling through hatred, fear, and rage.
“In two hours, this place will be crawling with feds and a lot more dogs. We’ll find you and I’ll shoot you myself. Count on it,” Corey said.
I raised my carbine to Corey’s head in response.
“Killing me is a capital crime, you piece of shit!” Corey shouted. “I can kill you right now for pointing that gun at me! You fucking idiot! Civilians shouldn’t have ever been allowed to own guns in the first place!”
I shot him in the right knee.
He dropped to his left knee and cried out at the top of his lungs; I waited until the dog lover came to his rescue.
As soon as Tom broke the clearing, I shot him in left knee, making it hard for either of them to help each other move later. Twin shrieking wails competed for airtime as I took their guns and left them to hug it out in the tall grass.
I returned to where I hid my pack and pulled it from under the old truck, replacing it with the two M4s I reverse-confiscated from the two thugs. Might come in handy. I also took the full mags with me; they’d do nicely in my kit.
—————
I rushed from the cache under the rusted truck and over to the SUV that was still running. The men continued to cry out from atop the hill, so I figured I had some time. I pulled on the vehicle doors. Locked. I could tell from the glass that the windows were bullet resistant. The thickness of them refracted the view of the inside like an aquarium. Striking the hood with the butt of my rifle, I could tell that and the fenders were armored, too. The tires were run flat type, so unless I wanted to work on this thing with a cutting torch and a sledge, I wasn’t going to kill it anytime soon. I left it running and entered the woods behind the old church.
Final turn.
I was on the heavily wooded path to my bunker. Shrouded by shadow of the nearby mountain, this area still had snow on the ground. Nothing had disturbed the path I was on, at least not for a few days. I did see signs of deer, but thankfully nothing else. My pace quickened alongside my heart rate as I moved. I still had some work to do before I could approach. I made wide arcing turns for hundreds of yards in odd directions. I knew where the streams were in this area, and I made sure to cross them back and forth and travel up and down the streams to evade the dogs that might be coming behind me. Satisfied that I’d done everything I could to slow my pursuers down, I started making my final approach to the shelter. Nothing, not even pepper or any other bullshit, will stop a tracking dog. They’d eventually find the shelter if they put enough manpower on the problem.
I approached from the north, reaching the high pond bank where I’d made nightly radio calls to Rich in the days when this darkness began.
I didn’t dare turn on my radio now.
I missed Rich. And those bastards still had him.
The high banks of the pond reminded me of a small meteor crater as I walked around its rim to the southern side and down the pond embankment.
I couldn’t see the shelter.
I rushed over to where we buried it and nearly tripped over the hatch. Jim had hidden it well; he’d planted some indigenous bushes all around the thing and repainted the exhaust pipes and access hatches in a camo pattern that blended in perfectly with the area.
I knocked on the hatch, at first not noticing the large hardened lock attached to it. He clearly wasn’t here.
I searched for any sign of Jim, but it looked as if the place had been abandoned for a while. No tracks, no sign of food prep or anything. The five-gallon shitter bucket was empty, too.
I checked the lock again for a note. Jim had left me one this way before. Nothing. But when I went to flip the lock over and look at the backside, I could see something written on the side of the hatch, very faint as if scratched with a small pencil. I had to get down on the ground and beam it with my flashlight to read it.
JACK
That was our camping liquor cache behind the old oak tree, buried in a cooler, not far from here.
I hid my pack and moved quickly to the spot where we used to camp. It wasn’t long before I could see the old ’55 Chevy pickup hood sitting on the ground next to our fire circle. I went behind the tree and moved the rocks and dirt aside, revealing the old cooler where our whiskey used to live.
I was disappointed to see the cooler empty, except for a piece of paper and the shelter lock key.
“You can’t drink paper, Jim,” I said aloud.
Unfolding the tattered sheet, I read the word “pneumonia” in Jim’s handwriting.
I sat there in shock, thinking the worst. My cousin must have caught pneumonia and died somewhere up here in these hills. I began to whimper, and sadness overtook me for quite some time.
I was alone in the woods we grew up in. Even the sun was making efforts to abandon me in light of the news of Jim’s demise.
Sullenly, I walked back to the shelter with the paper tucked inside my shirt pocket. Back at the hatch, I dropped to my knees and opened the lock. I slung the hatch open and the smell of charged batteries and stale air hit my face. Defeated, I slithered into the opening like a lethargic snake and scooted down the steps and through the door to the living space. I knew that this area would be crawling with feds tonight, if not early in the AM tomorrow, but I didn’t care.
Jim was dead.
What did anything matter? I feel ashamed to even write this right now, so I’ll probably end up ripping the pages up and burning them, but I am thinking it. I miss everyone.
Good-bye.
CAPTAIN CAVEMAN
0200
Can’t sleep. Haven’t heard any helicopters or vehicle engines.
The place is cleared out. There are some essentials here. Case of water, half a dozen cans of food, a couple boxes of 5.56, but there were a lot more supplies when I left for Newton County. I wonder where Jim took it all. Fucking pneumonia.
I had it once. As a matter of fact, I was with Jim when I caught it. We were twelve years old when we finally worked up enough courage to explore the cave at the edge of the property. We were scared when we entered with our old incandescent bulb flashlights and roll of kite string. We must have gone a mile int
o the cave that day. We ran out of the string we were using to backtrack as we explored. I still remember seeing the lantern marks, initials of lovers torched into the rock a hundred years ago. My parents used to tell me stories about kids getting lost in the cave, never to be heard from again. They didn’t want me in there and had no idea I wasn’t listening.
We somehow lost track of time exploring the vastness of the cave, and when we finally made it back to the entrance, it was dark outside. I started feeling weak just as soon as I was heading back home. By the time we got home, Mom didn’t even grill me on our whereabouts or why we were covered in head to toe with clay (and bat guano). I was that pale. Mom put me to bed that night with a 100-degree fever. I was admitted to the hospital the following night, and diagnosed with pneumonia the next morning.
I spent two days in the hospital with a worried mother beside me the entire time. After I was finally well enough to go home, the cave was an afterthought. She never asked Jim or me about it. We took this as the okay to go back anytime we wanted, and did just that.
Jack—Shelter key
Pneumonia—Cave
—————
Cave . . .
Jim wasn’t telling me he had pneumonia.
—————
I packed frantically, climbing out of my hole in the ground at 0500. I hurriedly locked the shelter, placing the key in my pocket, and trekked southwest in the direction of the old cave. Again I took a wide arcing path, crossing streams and navigating briars in a zigzag to slow anything that might be on my trail. As the sun came up over the trees to the east, I heard the unmistakable sound of a helicopter rotor beating the morning air into submission somewhere off in the distance. The power-line clearing was the last open area before I disappeared into the woods, into the cliff face that concealed the entrance to the cave.
Not many people knew of its existence outside the family. One time, a college professor had pulled up some ancient records on the cave from the county archives and came for permission to map it, but nothing ever came of it. All those records had been moved online a long time ago and I doubt anyone would be perusing any basements for the geological records of this region, searching for old caves.
The helicopter noise faded by the time I was at the cliffs. It had been a while since I had been out this way, so it took some time to find the right path up the side. After going up the wrong cliff face once, I finally found the right one and was on the ledge and up the tight path. I fished out my headlamp, stowed my pack behind a boulder, and went over the small hill prior to the entrance.
Someone had covered the entrance with branches, making it difficult to discern unless you knew it was there. The opening was only about three feet across and two feet high.
I yelled down into the first chamber. “Jim!”
No response.
I moved the branches out of the way and crawled, sub gun first, into the opening, my headlamp searing through a darkness that only the cave dweller would comprehend. After making it through the first few feet, I was inside the large first chamber. Jim and I called it the lobby back in the day. Oak leaves from the outside covered the clay and rock, and the temperature and humidity generally mirrored the outside.
“Jim!” I called out. No response.
I clicked my light off and pulled my NVD down over my eye as I followed the path down to the gateway and the second chamber. The crawlspace was tight. I got down on my chest and began to low crawl through the opening, barely fitting. I’d gained a few pounds since I was a teenager. As I transited the five-meter crawlspace, the temperature began to climb. I used to tease Jim when we crawled through the opening, making him go first as I growled like a bear from behind and screamed like I was being eaten alive. It worked a lot more than it should have.
Finally through the opening, I adjusted my NVD and called out again.
“Jim!”
This time my voice echoed through the chamber and the response was the chirp of bats.
The clay was thick in this area. I could see no tracks in the clay, but did note where something had been dragged. I kept moving forward until the chamber opened up to the size of a large living room. Through my NVD, I saw the outline of a partial boot print and clicked on my light. The print was scraped over by something, as if someone was trying to conceal their tracks.
I kept moving to the next chamber. Looking down at my machine gun, I thought how foolish it might be to open fire inside the cave. Jim and I had regularly found evidence of cave-ins within some of the chambers when we explored them years before.
I turned my light off again, observing the local wildlife through night vision device. The small bats hung like stalactites on the cavern ceiling. Covered with what looked like frost and condensation, they seemed frozen in time, impervious to what went on outside the chambers in which they slept like vampires. Most people think of bats as huge black flying rats that would suck your blood as you slept. That might be true in some parts of the world, but these were gray in color, only two inches long, and not very frightening . . . well, unless you were a flying insect that happened to be targeted by bat sonar.
I rounded the next corner and saw what looked like a small base camp. Someone was in the sleeping bag. A radio and other equipment sat on top of a plastic tote on one side of the sleeping bag; a rifle was on the other. I approached cautiously, stepping lightly until I could reach the end of the carbine. I grabbed the familiar gun by the silencer and dragged it slowly to me, placing it behind me a safe distance from whoever was in the bag.
“Jim!” I yelled.
The person in the bag screamed for his life and reached for the carbine that wasn’t there. I didn’t recognize him; his face was covered in clay and hair. It was Jim, though; his mannerisms gave it away.
“Hey, calm down, it’s me! It’s Max!”
I flipped on my light and looked at him. His eyes were wild, feral.
“Max? You’re alive?!” he said.
“Yeah, cousin, I’m here, I’m alive. What the hell is going on?”
Jim wiped his eyes and shook his head before quickly taking a sip from his canteen and speaking in a less hoarse tone.
“I have a lot to tell you, cousin. None of it good.”
FLASH
OPERATION HAYSTACK
FOR BENTONVILLE FUSION CENTER ACTION
Neutralization of HAYSTACK target number one was a failure. Agent Maggie —————————————’s interrogation continues. Her account stated that CONDUCTOR shot both pilots and that CONDUCTOR informed her that his plans were to leave northwest Arkansas. She was unknowingly being monitored by thermal biofeedback and her claims of CONDUCTOR’s intended movement indicated a high probability of deception.
TOURIST has not proven to be a reliable source of intelligence; however, we were finally able to locate records pertaining to his background after accessing DNA databases that have recently been made available under the War Powers Act. His prints were not present in any database, NICS, IAFIS, or otherwise. After running his DNA through the ————————————— database, a hit came up under a DOD identification number that linked to a sealed personnel file. After that file was accessed, we learned that TOURIST worked for NSA from 1995 to 2015 under their elite MUSKETEER program. As such, he’s been trained to resist our interrogation techniques and has been deemed a risk to any and all fusion center operations. TOURIST is being held under War Powers Act authorization and is currently on hunger strike. We will continue to attempt to extract intelligence from him until such time as he expires. Shoot on sight has been ordered for CONDUCTOR and a substantial reward will be given, based on locality need, for any civilian that provides information that leads to the kill or capture of HAYSTACK target number one. This target is the highest threat to the region and must be neutralized by any means necessary.
————————————— sends.
ASCENT
In the hours after my arrival at Jim’s camp deep inside t
he cave, he painted a picture of the situation that had unfolded outside our geothermal climate-controlled retreat.
Jim escaped the shelter a month ago, after radio reports of drones and dogs sweeping the countryside started to come over the airwaves.
What was left of the federal government didn’t stop at enlisting the help of outlaw biker gangs to secure order in the region; they started to bring in “help” from overseas. Thousands of Chinese troops had been observed coming in via boat on the west coast of the United States and hundreds had already made their way this far east.
Possession of firearms was punishable by swift justice from the barrels of provisional government firing squads. Although limited in scope, the electronic communications that were allowed between citizens was heavily monitored. Any subversive communications were quickly geolocated and met with overwhelming force. Most of the federal law enforcement officers had resigned their position, not wanting any part of the government sanctioned totalitarianism that swept the United States since the grid went dark last year.
Food was heavily rationed, and even the anonymous accusation of food hoarding resulted in immediate search and seizure of private property. This was the guise in which the provisional government confiscated the guns. Hoarding food was deemed such a serious crime that, if convicted via on-the-spot police tribunal, it would be a felony and result in immediate loss of all constitutional rights, especially the right to keep and bear arms.
Stop and frisk, something that was once only a big-city phenomenon, was now prevalent in all fifty states. If a duly sworn officer wanted to, he or she could search without warrant or probable cause under the new War Powers Act.
Habeas corpus had been indefinitely suspended, meaning that under any suspicion, any agent of the state could detain any citizen for an unlimited time for interrogation. Basically Guantánamo Bay rules, but now applying to anyone for any reason.