The Systemic Series - Box Set

by K. W. Callahan

  Ava and Kill King slipped and skidded their way over and helped Jake to his feet, guiding him to the entry doorway.

  The trio stumbled over dead bodies and debris, pausing to help Johnny Switchblade to his feet as they walked to the front door.

  Outside, they could see men from the Three Families running back toward the houses across the street amid an onslaught of explosions and gunfire.

  Ava’s plan had worked perfectly, and they had caught their enemy unprepared for their double-flanking maneuver that had been carried out with near perfect timing, just as the invaders were focused primarily on overrunning the pump station and delivering the death blow to Jake and his men.

  Ava’s radio call had reached the Strykers at the critical moment. The two armored vehicles that had patiently been waiting under cover about a half mile behind the station had split up, one making a wide and sweeping advance around the attackers on the left side of the building while the other moved to the right. Along the way, one armored vehicle joined with Mad Dog and his reserves while the other joined forces with Rambo and his men. The Strykers led the way, sweeping in from each side of the street at the front side of the pump station, in effect, pinning many of the attackers between the station itself and their deadly fire. The Stryker armed with the grenade launcher took out several of the machinegun-armed pickups while the other Stryker used its 7.62 millimeter machine gun to rake the perimeter, gunning down attackers as they scrambled for cover or just plain ran away. Meanwhile, Mad Dog and Rambo followed in their armored pickups and SUV on cleanup duty, mopping up any stragglers.

  Any remaining attackers – of which there were few – either fled through the empty lots surrounding the pump station or back between the houses through which they’d arrived.

  * * *

  There was little celebrating the amazing victory that Jake, Ava, and their men had achieved. The pump station was literally destroyed and was now useless as a base of operations. Its perimeter fencing was in shambles; the entry door had been obliterated, and there were gapping holes throughout its exterior walls. As the remnants of the Three Families’ men dispersed, inventory was taken of the losses on both sides.

  Ava was both saddened, yet somewhat relieved to discover that both Brownie and Blondie – who had both been stationed on the second floor – had been killed. Brownie had two bullet wounds to the chest, Blondie one to the head. Ava felt for the two men, but at the same time, it took care of a problem that had been bothering her. Brownie and Blondie were the only two people – now that she’d sent Bushy on his own private mission – besides her who had some idea of her plan and who had met her contacts down south. This concerned Ava since they weren’t the sharpest tools in the shed. She realized that an unwitting slip of the tongue while under the influence or otherwise could have sunk her ship with Jake. But now, with them both dead, she didn’t have to concern herself with such things.

  Added to the list of casualties were four more of their personal army dead and three wounded, not including the battered and bruised Jake, Ava, Johnny Switchblade, and the Kill King. One of the wounded men had a gunshot wound to the right arm, another had taken shrapnel to the left hand, and still another had been hit in the head by a large chunk of flying brick and had a concussion and massive scalp laceration.

  Of the addicts they’d collected for the fight, four were still alive, which wasn’t bad considering their skill and the overall condition in which they’d fought.

  Meanwhile, they counted 22 of the enemy killed, and six wounded. These six were quickly added to the kill count for a grand total of 28. Jake and Ava guessed that there were likely more wounded who had escaped, but they had no idea of just how many.

  “Rambo! Mad Dog!” Jake bellowed as things settled down around the station. “You two are on guard duty. Post the Strykers out front and be ready for follow-up attacks!” He walked inside, stepping around the bodies of fallen men. Ava followed him. “Switchblade! Jake continued. “Gather up some men and drag these fucking dead bodies outside!”

  He walked to the downstairs office. Ava followed him. Inside, he grabbed two bottles of tequila from an open box. He handed one to Ava, then took a blue bandana from his pocket, spit on it, and wiped some of the blood from her face.

  “Thanks,” she said.

  “Looks like you took a pretty hard knock there, babe,” he nodded at her head.

  “I’ll live,” she said, pounding back a mouthful of tequila and then using a small mirror to affix a bandage to the wound.

  Jake took a deep swig himself and then tied the bandana around the laceration to Ava’s arm.

  “So what’s the plan?” Ava asked.

  Jake snorted. “I should be asking you,” he said. “You had their attack mapped out pretty damn well.”

  She nodded, wanting to smile for the credit he’d finally given, but daring not to. “Question is…what now?” she said.

  Jake took a deep breath and then another long drink of tequila. He leaned against the side of the desk and shook his head, “I don’t know. We sure as hell can’t take another attack like that…not here at least. Those last couple addicts are ready to bust out of here. I’d be surprised if they aren’t gone already. They knew they were coming to fight and to shoot at people, but I don’t think they had any idea it was going to be something like that. About half our guys are dead or fucked up. We’ve got the Strykers, but they’re not enough on their own. We can’t hold this place in the shape it’s in. We’ve got to move.”

  “If we stay in Atlanta, the Three Families will hunt us until we’re dead,” Ava looked at him and fished a pack of cigarettes from her pocket. She pulled out two, light them in her mouth, and then offered one to Jake. He took it, and they both smoked in silence.

  “Any thoughts?” Jake asked.

  “We stay here and we’re dead,” Ava said, hoping to plant the seed but not water it too much before it took root and grew in the dirt that comprised Jake’s tiny brain.

  “But we’ve got things going here,” Jake said.

  Ava shook her head, “We had things going here. Now those things are over. We can’t take on the Three Families, and we can’t outlast them. Today was just a precursor of things to come. The only thing we can do is outrun them. We’ve got the Strykers; we can get out of here and start over. We know how to do it now. It’ll be much easier next time around.”

  Jake smoked…and drank…and considered. He moved around the desk and collapsed heavily into the office chair that sat before it. Then he said, “Yeah, but where?”

  It was the question Ava had been waiting so long to hear, and she pounced upon the opportunity that Jake had just presented.

  She moved up close to him and slowly squeezed her way around and over him so that she was straddling him on the chair.

  “We need a vacation,” she said, stroking his check and rubbing a hand down over his chest.

  “Ha!” he laughed. “No shit!”

  “What do you think about going south?”

  “We’ve already gone south,” he said, not understanding.

  “No, I mean further south…somewhere with sand…the ocean. I want to be able to lay on a beach with you somewhere, relax in the sun, take a break, drink tequila…enjoy ourselves for a little bit somewhere warm, somewhere with water…somewhere like Florida. We’ve got the Strykers fueled and ready to go. We could fill the other vehicles up with the rest of our supply and be on our way within two hours…maybe less.”

  Jake thought about it for another minute. “Go south,” he said softly, thinking aloud. He tilted his head back in the chair and looked at the ceiling. “Might be a good idea,” he pondered.

  “You have to make a decision though…and fast,” Ava urged. “I don’t want to be here when the Three Families get regrouped and come at us again…and they will. It’s only a matter of time. What we just went through…that was only their first attempt. They’re bound to get more organized and bring more firepower next time. They won’t be defeated agai
n.”

  “Let me think for a minute,” Jake frowned.

  Ava slid off his lap and down onto her knees before him. “You do that,” she said quietly. “You think…and relax…” she looked up at him subserviently while undoing his belt and unzipping his pants, willing to play the submissive sex object to achieve her objectives.

  And Jake was content to let her do just that. He kept his head rested against the back of the office chair, his eyes half closed, his mouth slightly open as he stared at the ceiling while letting Ava work her magical mouth up around and over him.

  Ten minutes later, Jake was up and barking orders as his remaining men busily packed up the trucks and armored vehicles with the supplies necessary to lay down roots in Florida.

  ***************

  BOOKS BY K.W. CALLAHAN

  THE SYSTEMIC SERIES: DOWNFALL

  THE SYSTEMIC SERIES: QUEST

  THE SYSTEMIC SERIES: DESCENT

  THE SYSTEMIC SERIES: FORESAKEN

  THE SYSTEMIC SERIES: ASCENSION

  THE M.O.D. FILES: THE CASE OF THE GUEST WHO STAYED OVER

  THE M.O.D. FILES: THE CASE OF THE LINEN PRESSED GUEST

  PALOS HEIGHTS

  Text and image copyright © 2015 KW Callahan

  All rights reserved

  * * *

  For Al. Here’s your ending!

  * * *

  ASCENSION

  CHAPTER 1

  It was a scorching late-August day in north Florida. Gordon was almost asleep – feet propped on his garage office desk – when the CB radio on his desk squawked loudly, jolting him back awake. He reached over and fumbled for the receiver. Finally pulling it from its resting spot, he drawled a bored sounding, “Yuuup.”

  “Gordon…Hank here. Got a big rig over on 95, ‘bout two miles south of Earl’s old place, next to the pond. You know the spot?”

  “Yuuup,” Gordon drawled again.

  “Better get over there quick. Got a load of diesel in it, but I saw some fellas pokin’ ‘round there this mornin’.”

  “I’m on ‘er,” said Gordon.

  He hung up the receiver and stiffly removed his booted feet from the desk, the top of which was littered with candy bar wrappers and empty chip bags.

  He swiveled in the dusty, vinyl office chair. “Alright boys, we got a nibble. Let’s go check ‘er out,” he called into the garage behind him where men worked clanking away on engines beneath open vehicle hoods or leaned against walls fiddling with greasy car parts. On Gordon’s command, they slowly started tearing themselves away from their mechanical puzzle pieces and began wiping hands, picking up rifles, loading ammo, and conducting weapon checks.

  Gordon was nearly 60 years old, and he looked every day of it. He’d spent a lifetime banging cars back into shape and listening to people bitch about how much he charged to do so. They’d never understood what it took. And just as he’d finally gotten the money together to buy his own garage, the flu had struck.

  He’d pulled almost his entire family – of which there were more than a few – through the damn disease that had swept the country, wiping most of its population out in the process. Now he felt it was his time to relax once in a while when the opportunity presented itself. He was almost tempted to let the boys go check this one out on their own; but he was awake now, and he liked to get away from the shop occasionally, so he figured he’d tag along. He looked at the oscillating fan that scanned the room – back and forth, back and forth, back and forth – doing little more than wafting the humidity-laden air around the stuffy office. If nothing else, this little trip would give him a chance to enjoy the cool of an air-conditioned vehicle for at least an hour or two. It was only one o’clock, and the boys had just finished their lunches; if he let them go off on their own now, he wouldn’t see them again for the rest of the day. Their full bellies would likely end up sleeping under a shady grove of trees somewhere or fishing far away from the boss’s watchful eye…even when that eye was half asleep.

  Even after the flu, Gordon had found that there was still a livelihood to be had in the auto repair business. While the market was greatly diminished, the people left in the area still needed to get around. And while they could steal cars, with fewer and fewer running vehicles to be had almost a year after the flu, and there being no supply of new car parts on the market, the knowledge necessary to fix and maintain vehicles was proving to be a valuable commodity.

  While such work kept him fed, with a family his size, it was more than just him that needed feeding. A large family in this new world could work both for and against someone, and Gordon had been savvy enough to realize this fact early on. After the wave of post-flu chaos broke and receded, he’d set his boys to scavenging the narrow corridor along I-95 and the coast that stretched between south Jacksonville and north Daytona where they lived, loading up on the things he recognized retained the most value for post-apocalypse living. Fuel, vehicles, food, guns, ammo, medicine, clothing, cigarettes – they were all fair game; and Gordon and his family had made quite a lucrative little business for themselves over the past year, controlling much of the trade that went on in this part of Florida. Gordon recognized the niche he could develop in the area as long as he stayed away from the heavily-populated – and significantly more dangerous – urban environments.

  So when Gordon took the call informing him that there might be a semi-truck with a tank full of diesel fuel – a highly prized commodity these days – still out there for the taking, not only was he surprised that it was still there, but excited too. Diesel was getting hard to come by, and the thought of sucking out a barrel-full free of charge got Gordon’s motor running.

  He left his brother Jack and cousin Doug behind to watch the shop. He took his four sons: Jeff, Billy, Jerry, and Barry; and his three nephews: Edwin, Ian, and Andrew along with him.

  They split themselves into five vehicles. While it would have been more economical to take just one or two, they’d learned through experience that this wasn’t always the wisest move and that the small investment in extra fuel could pay off in saved lives.

  While Gordon had balls big enough to ballast the Titanic, he also had brains. This was how he managed to keep his family alive during the pandemic and then have them not only survive but thrive after it wreaked its havoc. Gordon had discovered early on that when traveling in this post-apocalyptic age, it was best to make it look as though you had numbers on your side, even if you didn’t. While eight guys could have easily piled into two SUVs, or the back of one pickup truck, it wasn’t the smart move. And even though Gordon and his boys kept their vehicles well-maintained and knew their stuff when it came to making repairs on the fly, there was never a guarantee against mechanical failure. In a world where people shot first and asked questions later, being able to get into, and often more importantly, out of a situation quickly, could mean the difference between the success and failure of a mission, and life or death for his loved ones.

  He rode along with Jeff, his oldest boy, in a souped-up Mustang. He chose this less protected vehicle for speed rather than safety. As the general of the group, he often needed to be mobile since he would most likely be calling the shots, not firing them.

  The others divided themselves into two lightly armored SUVs and two pickup trucks. The SUVs carried two men with machineguns and was meant to bear most of their defensive capabilities should they encounter trouble. The two pickup trucks were driven by one man each and were for hauling their scavenged finds.

  While their group only consisted of eight guys, tinted windows on all of the vehicles kept their true numbers a mystery to anyone with potential designs on making a move against them. At the same time, their string of vehicles appeared a quite formidable convoy. Like those big false-eyes grown on the wings of certain types of moths, the added vehicle numbers were a sort of façade that made their group look bigger and badder than it really was. Gordon’s hopes were that this would act as a deterrent to violence, which, while always an option, was never his fi
rst choice if at all possible.

  Gordon followed his troops out of the garage to their parking lot full of vehicles where his son’s Mustang was parked. Like opening a hot oven, a blast of oppressive heat hit Gordon in the face as he opened the car door and lowered himself into the Mustang’s leather passenger-side seat. A minute later, the air conditioning had cooled the inside of the car considerably and the hair on Gordon’s arms began to bristle while his skin goose-pimpled in delight. He shivered in chilled ecstasy.

  “Oh man that feels good,” he breathed, leaning back comfortably, adjusting his seat while his son, Jeff, revved the motor, threw the car into drive and peeled out of the garage parking lot and onto A1A.

  “Cool it, hot rod,” his dad told him. “We gotta wait for the others.”

  “I know, I know,” Jeff nodded, having heard it all so many times before. “This ain’t my first rodeo.”

  “Then don’t act like it is,” his dad chastised, pulling a .45 caliber handgun from the center console and removing the clip. He eyed the clip for a moment and pushed out a few rounds from inside to inspect them.

  “I wish you wouldn’t play with that thing,” Jeff said, his eyes in the rear view mirror as he took his foot off the accelerator to let the rest of the convoy catch up. “You’re gonna accidentally shoot me one day.”

  “Huh, huh,” his father chortled. “Yeah right, ‘accidentally’,” he nodded, giving his son a sidelong glance and double-raised eyebrows.

  “Funny,” Jeff said, not smiling, and still watching in the mirror. “What the fuck are they doing back there? Christ, Nana could drive faster,” he shook his head.