Breaking the Beast

by Steven Bird

  When I saw a large thicket of brush off to the left, I dove from the horse, hoping the brush would soften the impact and reduce my tendency to tumble. Although I felt I had to make a move, the last thing I wanted to do was to risk damaging the pack in the fall.

  To my amazement, it worked like a charm. To my dismay, the brush proved to be blackberry bushes, whose thorns tore at my clothes and skin as I rapidly decelerated and came to a stop. I felt a burning sensation all over my body from the cuts and tears the briars had inflicted upon me.

  I had no time to focus on such things, however, and quickly struggled against the clawing sensation of the briars as I freed myself and scurried into the thickest part of the woods near me, hoping to remain unseen by the operator of the drone or its sensors.

  The drone flew by at a tremendous speed, closing in on the horse, and opened fire with its onboard anti-personnel weapon, which was essentially a remotely-operated, M134-style mini-gun adapted to fire one of the OWA’s proprietary rounds.

  I gathered from the horrendous but short-lived cries made by the horse, that the drone had struck its target. I was saddened by what had just happened to my new equine companion, but I buried my feelings deep as I continued to work my way away from the scene before OSS operators arrived on the scene to confirm the kill. Based on the shot I had narrowly avoided just a moment before, they weren’t too far from the scene.

  Knowing that the OSS operators would be rushing toward the kill site, which was due south of me on the ridge, I turned east and away from Chattanooga, running downhill and seeking shelter in the thick vegetation of the lower elevations.

  I ran as fast as I could, jumping over downed trees, brush, and rocks as I went. On the steeper portions of the terrain, I would leap and allow the terrain to pass by beneath me until I made contact with the ground again, making great progress with each stride.

  Seeing a small lake down at the bottom of the hill on the east side of the slope, I paused and observed for a moment. There was a farm nearby, but no other signs of possible habitation were evident, at least not at a glance.

  After a moment of observing, I thought I could make out a trail that led from the lake in a southerly direction. I couldn’t see the trail directly, but it was evident from the slight change in the canopy of the trees in a logical direction from the lake. I wondered what Tamara might have done once it all went down. Did she turn and retreat in the same direction from where we had come, or like me, did she decide that if we were being observed, they would see that as a likely path of travel and lie in wait for an ambush?

  I knew Tamara hadn’t stayed one step ahead of the OWA and their minions at the ODF and OSS by falling too easily into a trap. With that in mind, I hoped her emergency retreat from the scene would have been similar to mine—over the hill and away from our most recent path of travel.

  For the next ten to fifteen minutes, I worked my way as quietly and as stealthily as I could toward the lake. Once I was within fifty or so yards, I could see the path that I had surmised was there. It was a gamble, the way I saw it. I could surely make good time running on a clear path but would be more easily seen by potential threats. I could move more stealthily in the thick of the woods, but I would be moving slowly and would remain within their search grid for far too long.

  With that thought, I essentially flipped a mental coin and decided to opt for speed over stealth. I worked my way to the lake, took one more good look around, and then began a steady jog, humping the pack Tamara had given me, as well as the Symbex and my rifle.

  After I had jogged for what felt like a half hour, I found myself at a small, backcountry road bearing the sign, Georgia 2208, along with the intersection of a small road named Friendship Road. Well, I’ll be damned, I thought. I was further south than I had anticipated, but at least now I had my bearings and could orient myself with the map in Tamara’s go bag.

  While I took a break under the shade of a large oak tree, I reviewed the map and traced my finger from my location to our rendezvous point, the Old Stone Church.

  I saw now why she had selected it as our meet-up location. Two terrain features, both tree-covered ridgelines with good elevation, came together to the south, right at the Old Stone Church. Even without a map, it would be easy to find once you knew roughly where it was in relation to the topography of the area. The two terrain features formed together with a valley in the middle, with very little development in the area, allowing me to work my way to the south while staying down in the thick of it, helping me to avoid the prying eyes from above.

  Maybe that wasn’t her plan, maybe I was just giving her more credit than she deserved and the Old Stone Church was just something that stuck out in her mind? Either way, it was a good choice, and hopefully, one that would pay off for us.

  Earlier in the day, I had settled into the fact that it appeared I had gained a partner in this crazy, suicidal mission. Now, I really dreaded the thought of setting out again, alone. Life would certainly be better with an ally, especially an ally with her head on straight. And… there was just something about her. I’d met so many people in this world who were just going along to get along—drifting through this new life as if merely an actor or actress in a play, but her? No, she was different. She was writing her own script.

  Anxious to reach the church, I pressed on, using the unique topography of the area to guide me to my destination like an arrow pointing the way. I followed a steady pattern of moving forward, then stopping to listen and observe, especially in the sky above, though my eyes and ears were no match for the technology the OWA used to wield power over the rest of humanity.

  I reached the area where the church was located later that evening, just as the sun began to set. I remained at a position of elevation at first, observing the area. The town of Ringgold, Georgia was just to the west of my position, with the Old Stone Church being directly south of me.

  It was difficult to see very far from any position in the area, as the terrain was rolling and hilly, with no well-defined mountains or valleys, just a lot of the same in every direction, blocking the view of what was just on the other side of each hill.

  The trees and vegetation of the non-paved or cleared areas were also very thick, limiting views as well. I could see what I thought was the Old Stone Church, though. I could see a parking area built for the visitors to the civil-war-era historic site, as well as restroom facilities. I could also see that there was the intersection of several two-lane paved roads directly in front of it, with what appeared to have once been a portable storage-building dealer on the far side of the road.

  There were several open areas between my position and the church, but there were also just enough trees to give me a route to pick my way through without having to be out in the open. I debated with myself to decide whether to see those as choke points or as suitable paths of travel. It could quickly go either way if someone were to be lying in wait.

  Setting the go-bag given to me by Tamara off to the side, I took a seat on an exposed cluster of roots beneath a large, oak tree, and began to sift through its contents. I pulled the thermal-imager-mitigating shelter from the pack and placed it to the side. I then removed a water-filtration bottle that had been pre-filled and took a drink. Once the water hit my lips, my body cried out for more. I was on the verge of dehydration, I just hadn’t given myself time to slow down and adequately assess my condition until now.

  Drinking nearly half the contents of the bottle, I placed it aside and removed an OWA-issued MRE. I chuckled and thought back to the first time I had eaten one of those. I guess it was during my previous evacuation-contingency training exercises with the ODF, where we trained to evacuate the OWA bureaucrats in the event the D.C. area were to become compromised by insurgent terrorist activity.

  At the time, I thought such things were implausible, but now, I hoped they were probable. Not the terrorist part, mind you, but that the OWA could be sent on the run by a force of patriotic, flag-waving Americans who wanted both their
country and their futures back from the despots who had biologically enslaved them.

  I thought back to the stories of the colonists of the American Revolution, many of whom were regular people who made significant contributions to the cause, and who’d put their lives on the line to oppose what was seen as an overwhelming force to secure their liberty. Was I doing such a thing?

  I didn’t kid myself, though. I didn’t put myself on a pedestal with the heroes of the past, but I did hope I was at least doing my part to help turn the tides of oppression both at home and around the world. Whether or not my sacrifice would ever be remembered wasn’t important to me. I just wanted to somehow contribute to the greater good and wash away all the time I’d served the global beast that was the One World Alliance.

  Once my stomach had settled, I inspected the Symbex pack and checked the charge level. The battery packs were at seventy-three percent, which was more than enough to get through the night for a good recharging the next day.

  I then removed a single Symbex dosage vial and loaded it into the hand-held portable jet injector, dialed the dosage back to approximately half of what the standard dosage would be, and placed it off to the side while I removed my jacket and rolled up my sleeve to expose my bicep.

  With a quick jet of air and the familiar sting of the drug entering my body, I knew I was good for another day or so. I’ll save the other half of this dose for Tamara, I thought, convincing myself I would surely see her soon.

  Sometimes the hope in your heart can be solidified by a simple act of faith. Putting aside the remaining half of the dosage for Tamara may have been one of those acts. I knew the odds of things, and I’d become used to having things not go exactly my way. Still, I had hope, and I’d follow through with her plan.

  Realizing there was no way to know if Tamara was in the area if I didn’t get closer, I decided to work my way down the hill and around to the east. There was an old cemetery behind the church that ran from the top of the hill located directly behind it, down to within a hundred yards or so of the church property.

  Once I had reached the cemetery, I worked my way down the hill, taking cover behind gravestones, also using them as visual concealment until I was satisfied that the route was clear, advancing once again down to the next row of graves.

  With the headstones not being arranged in perfect rows, it would be easy to shift my position to avoid giving a clear shot to anyone on ground level. There wasn’t much I could do about shots fired from positions of elevation, but hey, I couldn’t cover all my bases alone.

  Once I reached the bottom row of graves, I got down into the prone position behind a large husband and wife headstone and concealed myself in the unkempt grass and weeds that were several feet tall around each of the stones.

  Although I felt adequately concealed from the human eye, I knew the advanced sensors onboard drones or aircraft above would find me if I stayed in that location for too long. Additionally, the thermal-imager-defeating shelter would ruin my camouflage being in the tall weeds and grasses, so I decided to take a leap of faith and move forward, toward the church, to find myself a place to hide for possibly a day or more while I awaited Tamara’s arrival.

  Looking to the sun that was mere moments from disappearing over the horizon, I decided to leave my position behind the headstone and use those last few minutes of sunlight to find a suitable place to hide without having to use a flashlight that would be far too visible after dark.

  Nearing the church, I could see that one of the old, multi-pane windows had been broken, probably by someone seeking to use the old structure as shelter. I approached the opening carefully and stayed close to the outside wall of the church, to conceal my presence from anyone who may be inside.

  Reaching the window, I stood off to the side and raised my rifle, slicing the pie around the edge of the window to gain a view inside while covering the interior areas that I was exposing myself to with my weapon.

  Seeing no signs of occupation, I placed my left hand on the stone ledge extending from the window, and quickly swung my body up and over, entering the building.

  There was just enough remaining sunlight shining through the windows to allow me to see the historical wonder of the place. I read a few of the plaques placed in various places for the benefit of tourists and learned that the building was used as a hospital for the retreating Confederates after the battle of Tunnel Hill.

  Blood stains soaked into the old, hardwood floors were still evident from the all those years ago, a testament to its history. As a history buff, my mind raced as I visualized the suffering that must have occurred in this room. A civil-war-era makeshift hospital would have certainly been a place you wouldn’t have wanted to find yourself following a battle.

  Being a single room structure, there really weren’t too many places a man could hide, if any. I walked the length of the room, being required by my paranoia to check under each and every pew. Once I was satisfied that the room was empty, I took a seat on a pew along the center aisle.

  By sitting in the center of the room, I could see out of both the north and south sides of the church at a glance. The east and west facing walls, however, had no windows. Turning around and looking at the large wooden double doors behind me, then looking forward toward the pulpit, I decided that I would prefer to sit with my back to that wall, instead. Never sit with your back to the entrance of a room.

  I walked up the middle aisle toward the pulpit and noticed the old and very large Bible that sat on the podium. I walked around behind the podium and saw that it was opened to Revelation.

  Very fitting, I thought. Though I wasn’t personally well-versed in it at the time, I knew the book of Revelation was, after all, about the rise of evil, a great tribulation, and the end of an age. I couldn’t help but think of how someone who had been going through the hell inflicted by the OWA would turn to this book, trying to figure out if they were, in fact, living through the apocalypse detailed within its pages.

  As my eyes followed my fingers across the page, I heard a female voice say, “Did I miss the sermon?”

  Startled, I flinched and reached from my rifle that dangled from its sling as I looked up at the broken window to see Tamara standing there, looking in at me.

  My fight or flight response quickly turned to elation as I ran to the window and reached for her hand to pull her inside.

  Refusing the gesture, she said, “We can catch up while we’re on the move. I want to put some distance in between those bastards and us.”

  Chapter Fifteen

  After leaving the Old Stone Church, Tamara and I moved quickly through the darkness, heading west, wading across the Chickamauga Creek, and following a tree line that bordered several overgrown and weed-ridden agricultural fields before coming to I-75, the major north-south interstate highway that runs through the area.

  Stopping just short of I-75, I asked her, “When’s the last time you received a dosage?”

  Pausing, she said, “A few days, I guess.”

  “Then, here,” I said as I removed the pack and opened it, retrieving the half dosage I’d saved for her. “This is half of a prescribed dose. That amount has been working for me so far. I don’t feel any symptoms or anything. If we don’t think it’s working out, we can up the dosage, but I think we need to try and make this last as long as we can.”

  “I’m just thankful to God that we have it,” she said as she rolled up her sleeve, presenting me with her bicep.

  With just enough moonlight available to see adequately enough to get the job done, I took the portable air injector and administered her dose. As she rolled her sleeve back down and squared herself away, I put everything back in its place and shuffled the pack around to my back.

  Curious as to what had happened on her end after the retrieval of the Symbex pack went awry, I asked, “So, what took you so long—to get to the church, that is?”

  “I had to tie up a few loose ends,” she replied vaguely.

  “Loose ends?�
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  “Yeah. I… I had to say goodbye to some folks. And apologize.”

  “Apologize?” I repeated, unsure of what she meant.

  “Yeah. I returned the remaining horse and apologized to George for the loss of the other one, as well as the loss of his Symbex connection.”

  Still confused, I tried to get her to elaborate, “What do you mean?”

  “The OWA is canceling its support program in the area. They say it’s because it’s too dangerous to operate in an area with proven insurgent activity, but it’s really a tactical withdrawal to strangle the resistance’s support structure. They’re essentially punishing everyone and are going to allow them to die because some people in the area supported our efforts, either by looking the other way or providing direct support, such as how George allowed us to utilize horses at his rescue. He and everyone else will die without the OWA’s local viral-suppression support program.”

  “Damn, I’m so sorry,” I mumbled, not knowing exactly what to say.

  “Yeah,” she replied as she looked off in the distance, wiping a tear from her eye, attempting to conceal it from me. “The OWA intentionally allows these people to die, and we take the blame. It kills two birds with one stone: it dries up our support and rids the OWA of those not loyal to them, even if it costs large numbers of loyalist casualties. That’s not a concern of theirs, though. The unwashed masses are utterly disposable to them.

  “And once the word spreads to the people near the next regional support facility, the horrors of what will soon happen here will dissuade others from helping our cause. We’ll be the villains, and they’ll once again be the saviors.

  “Luckily, though,” she began to say as her tone changed from sadness and defeat to one of resolve and fortitude, “some of the locals want to go out with a bang. They weren’t fighters before. They were more of our unofficial support network. Now, though, they see that they need to fight. They don’t want to die a slow, agonizing death. They want to land a solid punch on their way out the door.”