Breaking the Beast

by Steven Bird

  Shrugging, I said, “Okay. Y it is, then.”

  “But how the heck are you going to get from MO-50 to 16th Street? They in no way connect!” she shouted.

  “That’s why they won’t expect it,” I declared.

  As we approached the last big curve on MO-50 before entering Sedalia, we could see a roadblock up ahead with no exits remaining between them and us, only this time, it wasn’t just the big, heavy MRAPs, they had ODF security patrol cars as well, which would give us a little more run for our money.

  “Well, here goes,” I said as I pulled the wheel to the left, leaving the paved road and heading directly for a set of railroad tracks.

  “You crazy bastard!” she shouted as her head bounced off the ceiling.

  “I told you to tighten your seatbelt!” I shouted over the noise, just as the car launched over the railroad track, ripping the exhaust that was dangling underneath clear off of the vehicle. The engine’s roar was now coming directly out of the exhaust manifold and was deafeningly loud as we launched into an adjacent, overgrown farmer’s field.

  The windshield cracked right in front of me from the impact, no doubt a result of the twisting and flexing of a body that was never designed to withstand such abuse.

  Downshifting, I laid hard on the accelerator, making it deafeningly loud inside the car. The overgrown weeds in the field were higher than I had hoped, smacking the car all around and lashing off of the windshield as we blasted through it all, almost completely blocking our view.

  Blasting out of the field and through the parking lot of the Highway M Chapel, we entered 16th Street, and sped through the tight confines of the neighborhood, dodging parked cars and debris that littered the road.

  Looking behind us, we saw an ODF patrol car slide sideways and onto 16th Street in furious pursuit. “Show me what you’ve got, boys!” I said as the passenger in the ODF vehicle began firing on us, shattering our rear window.

  Looking at Tamara, I said, “Are you okay?”

  “Yeah!” she shouted over the thunderous engine noise.

  “Well, don’t just sit there! Shoot back!”

  Flipping me off, she picked up the AR and began firing a steady volley of shots, striking the car on occasion, forcing it to back off a bit.

  Just up ahead, we could see another ODF patrol car traveling at a high rate of speed down South Limit Ave, apparently attempting to head us off. Downshifting into third, I floored the Mustang, pulling the engine long and hard before shifting back to fourth, inching just past them before they slid sideways onto 16th Street.

  “Those boys must be seasoned. Those aren’t academy level skills,” I noted.

  Passing the Missouri State Fair Grounds, 16th Street became County Road Y.

  “We’re in the home stretch!” I shouted as the car pulled long and hard, staying just ahead of our pursuers.

  “So, what happens when we get there?” she asked sarcastically. “Do you think they’ll just open the gate and let us in with the ODF in hot pursuit?”

  “I… well… I guess… they’ll…” while I was trying to sputter out an answer to her obvious question, the Mustang began to sputter as well. My heart sank in my chest as she began to lose power, and steam began emanating from under the hood.

  “Damn it!” I shouted as I punched the steering wheel.

  “Don’t blame the car,” Tamara snapped. “No car could have survived what you just put her through.”

  As we rolled to a stop, both Tamara and I quickly looked back to see the two ODF patrol cars rapidly approaching. “Do you want the rifle or shotgun?” I asked.

  “You know I like the shotgun,” she answered with a smile.

  “You’re a helluva woman,” I said to her as I opened my door and stepped out to face my fate head-on.

  Stepping out of the passenger side, she looked at me with a sly grin and quipped, “You’re not so bad yourself… for one of them.”

  Just then, both patrol cars slammed on their brakes, sliding their cars sideways while smoking their rear tires in a frantic attempt to turn and retreat.

  “What the…?” I said in the confusion of the moment as a shrieking sound came raining down out of the sky above us.

  Both Tamara and I turned to see two A-10 Warthogs bearing down on the patrol cars. With several bursts from their 30mm cannons, the ODF cars were obliterated before our eyes. The A-10s then flew on into Sedalia, pounding the ODF forces that had been lying in wait to ambush us.

  Within minutes, we saw a convoy of Humvees approaching from Whiteman. When the Humvees came to a stop, the security personnel stepped out of their vehicles, each wearing full-body biohazard suits, similar to the one Mark had been wearing. One of them stepped forward and stood directly in front of Tamara and me, and asked, “Are you Lieutenant Joseph Branch?”

  “Yes. Yes, sir,” I replied

  He then reached out his Tyvek-suit gloved hand and said, “Our mutual friend, Robert Bud Casey, said we should be expecting you.”

  Chapter Twenty-Five

  The first few days after reaching Whiteman all felt like a blur. They quarantined Tamara and me, providing us with intensive medical care, as well as debriefing us both over and over again, ensuring they did not miss a single detail of possibly valuable intel. I had learned that Bud was still alive, but gravely ill from the Sembé virus when he had last made contact and was now assumed to be dead.

  We were then flown by air transport with a fighter escort to what they fondly referred to as the Continental Army Base in Wyoming, formerly known as Warren Air Force Base.

  There, we discovered that we were more use to them than we’d imagined. The data that Ronnie had acquired to accompany the Symbex had been more complete than any of us had known. It was essentially all the clues that were needed to lead to an eventual cure.

  The antibodies in our blood, being that Tamara and I were both infected carriers, also led to the rapid development of a vaccine that could save the lives of the millions of people around the world who had survived.

  In addition, Tamara and I served as the test patients for their research, resulting in a nearly complete recovery for both of us. I say “nearly” because even though we tested negative for the virus, we both just never felt the same again. Perhaps the few hard weeks we spent together before arriving, first at Whiteman and then Warren, had simply aged us.

  Aches and pains aside, though, I couldn’t have been happier. Tamara and I grew closer as the days went on, and once we were cleared and released from quarantine, we actually began seeing each other on a romantic basis. We did our best to keep things slow, however, making sure that it was what we both really wanted, and not just some psychological attachment brought about by the traumatic events we’d shared.

  A few weeks ago, I was called into the office of the base commander, General Thomas Hill. When I arrived, there were several senior resistance leaders present, representing both the ground and air forces, as well as clandestine operations and intelligence.

  “Mr. Branch,” General Hill said. “Come on in.”

  I must admit, I was delighted to no longer be called Lieutenant Branch, as that part of me was now long gone.

  Once all but one of the introductions had been made, the remaining gentleman, who wore civilian attire and had a slightly unkempt beard and hairstyle, introduced himself as Colonel Wood, the commander of the clandestine and covert ops branch of the Continental Army known as Knowlton’s Rangers.

  My face lit up when he mentioned Knowlton’s Rangers. Two of his men, Bud and Mark, had given their lives for us. “It’s truly an honor, sir,” I said, shaking his hand.

  I told them the entire story from beginning to end. Well, the Cliffs Notes version, at least. They’d all read the official intel reports and debriefing transcripts. They knew every facet of the events that had occurred. No, this felt more like a room full of patriots who just wanted to have their spirits lifted by such an unlikely tale of luck, combined with perseverance and duty before self.

/>   Don’t get me wrong, I personally took credit for none of it. Those positive attributes were laid at the feet of Ronnie, Tamara’s friends, Bud, and Mark. I was simply the guy carrying the football. It was the rest of the team that had made it possible for me to reach the end zone.

  After our lively chat, Colonel Wood looked me squarely in the eye and said, “We sure could use an advisor on our team who knows how things work on the inside, in D.C. specifically. We’ve got some operations planned that will require first-hand knowledge to succeed. Will you help us?” he asked.

  “Yes, sir,” I affirmed with a smile.

  General Hill then called the occupants of the room to attention, which I must admit caught me off-guard. He walked over to me and retrieved a gold oak leaf from his pocket and pinned it to the collar of the polo shirt I just happened to be wearing.

  He smiled, and said, “Don’t worry, Knowlton’s Rangers don’t wear uniforms. But you will need the appropriate authority to be an effective advisor and strategist for Colonel Wood, and we don’t have time for traditional career progression these days.”

  He squared up on me, looked me up and down, and then said, “Major Branch. That sounds a helluva lot better than Lieutenant, don’t you think?

  “And don’t worry, Major, Miss Adams, or should I say, Major Adams, has already accepted an appointment as well. With the help of some of our finest, she’ll be the leading a unit that specializes in the training and organization of locally-based insurgencies. Her first-hand operating experience will be a tremendous asset to us as we move forward and begin to tighten the screws on the OWA’s support network in the near future.”

  I was speechless. I expected to wake up from this dream any minute, only to find myself sleeping under a tree somewhere, covered with ticks and counting my remaining doses of Symbex.

  General Hill then said, “We have one more surprise for you. Miss... er, I mean, Major Adams and a few others are waiting for you in hangar fourteen. I suggest you don’t keep them waiting.”

  My heart was racing. What more could there be? General Hill and the others escorted me to hangar fourteen. When I walked in, I saw a large crowd of resistance personnel who had clearly been gathered for whatever it was they were about to show me.

  Tamara ran up to me and gave me a big hug, saying, “I’m so excited.”

  “Excited about what?” I asked.

  “You’ll see,” she said, wiping a tear from her eye.

  A moment later, I heard an engine roar to life and begin to idle. Whatever it was remained out of view outside the main hangar doors.

  General Hill approached me and said, “We all tried to think of a gesture we could make to thank you for having the courage to walk away from the comfortable life you had back in Washington. You voluntarily set out on a journey to face what any sane person would have seen as a path to certain death, just to do the right thing, not only for yourself, but for humanity as a whole.

  “I read the reports detailing your actions over and over again, and one thing stood out to me. I contacted the base commander back at Whiteman and had her do me a little favor. We put together a team of volunteers who utilized our aircraft maintenance and parts fabrication facilities, and well, let’s just say although it’s not perfect, they’ve worked wonders.”

  He then turned and waved to a man standing by the main hangar doors, who relayed the signal. I could hear the rumble of a big V8 engine ease toward the door. To my amazement, I saw the very 1967 Shelby GT500 that had gotten us to the finish line enter the hangar.

  She was truly a sight to behold. She was in far better shape than I remembered leaving her in. I’m pretty sure neither Ford nor Carol Shelby ever intended for her to take flight, nor did they ever intend for her to double as a farm implement, bush-hogging overgrown fields with speed and brute force alone.

  I walked up to the car and ran my hand down the fresh coat of black paint. Like General Hill said, she wasn’t perfect, but considering she came out of an aircraft corrosion control shop and not a hot-rod paint shop, she looked pretty damn good.

  “We had to swap out the wheels and tires,” one of the aviation maintenance techs explained. “The other wheels had chunks of metal taken out of them and would’ve never balanced again, and the tires, well, they were showing cord in several places. How they still had any air in them at all was a mystery to us. How many miles did you drive her again?”

  Laughing, I said, “Just a hundred, but it was a hard hundred.”

  “Clearly,” he replied, shaking his head.

  “Where did you find parts?” I asked.

  “We fabricated much of it, so you’ve got some exotic materials in there that Ford didn’t have available in 1967. For other parts, there are several abandoned junkyards within a few miles of here. Oh, and there’s no shortage of abandoned donor cars everywhere you look these days. We had a security detail travel with us while we scavenged. So, please, keep in mind she’s got a few non-original parts. That radiator, for example, is out of a compact truck. Maybe someday you’ll be able to piece her back together properly.”

  When I looked inside, I saw the picture of the family who had unknowingly donated the car to the cause. The techs had ensured that it remained precisely where I had put it, only now, it was contained in a small, handmade picture frame, securely attached between the gauges.

  They had no way of knowing who those people were, or why I had a picture of them right in front of me during our hundred-mile dash for the base, but they knew they must be of some importance, and treated the picture with the respect it deserved.

  The people in that photo represented more than just the family who’d owned the car. They represented all the upstanding American families who’d worked hard, took pride in what they had earned, and fought hard to defend their homes when the time came. There were thousands, or tens of thousands of families all across the country and millions across the world who had faced similar struggles in the aftermath of the horrors inflicted upon them by the OWA, most of whom with stories we will never know.

  We will never understand what their final moments entailed, or the heroic efforts they made trying to defend what was right and just until the very end.

  I looked around the room, with everyone staring at Tamara and me as if we were some sort of heroes. We weren’t heroes in my eyes. We were blessed. That’s what we were. There’s no way we could have done this alone. I didn’t deserve this car. I didn’t deserve the adoration of these people. The people who gave their lives to get us here are the ones who should go down in history.

  If I somehow manage to survive the fight against the OWA that will surely come, I will make it my mission in life to see that our history books going forward contain their names. Each and every one of them.

  ~~~~

  Once Tamara and I had formally accepted our commissions and were sworn in, we were briefed on intelligence we were previously not privy to. One such piece of privileged information was the organization and operations of Knowlton’s Rangers, in particular, the tremendous contributions of operative Robert “Bud” Casey.

  After he had gotten a message through to them to expect us at Whiteman and had relayed his condition to them, he still never gave up. Another operative in the area had detailed how he had remained on watch, despite his suffering, and had continued to provide updates on the OWA’s activity in the region.

  It was also reported that he kept up his spirits and maintained pride and enthusiasm in his work until one day when the reports simply ceased to come in.

  Once he knew he was infected, it would have been easy to have given up on the world around him. He could have just crawled down into that hole that sheltered him and resigned himself to his fate. But he stood the watch until relieved by God Himself. I’m sure of that as much as I am anything.

  I’m sure he’s still watching over us from somewhere. If there is one thing Tamara taught me throughout all of this, is that such faith is truly justified. Despite all the evils in the world
, there are far too many things that happen which simply cannot be accidents or coincidences.

  Another tidbit of information I had become privy to was exactly why the OWA hadn’t used attack drones or air power against us while making that final run for the base from Jefferson City and beyond.

  As it turned out, the fine folks at Whiteman were responsible for that, too. I’m not sure exactly how, but I know they played the part of the crazy inmate in the corner who’d shiv you if you looked at him wrong, very well.

  And on that day, the A-10s and the nukes that backed their actions made a very effective shiv. Evidently, the ODF officers in the patrol cars had ventured just a little further than was to be tolerated.

  Well, folks, I’d love to stick around and tell you more, but right now, I’m ripping through the gears of the Shelby Mustang across the Warren Continental Army base here in beautiful Wyoming with an even more beautiful woman sitting beside me, and we’re on our way to the base club for dinner and drinks. A man has to have his priorities, you know.

  Oh, and Tamara says to tell you hi. We’ll both be seeing you around.

  ~~~~ The End ~~~~

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  Introduction

  In 1841, when the British vessel H.M.S. Terror first charted Antarctica under the command of explorer James Clark Ross, the crew laid eyes on a volcano reaching 12,500 feet above the surface of the frozen ice of Antarctica. Ross and his men saw the huge white plume rising from its crater at the summit, and it has been erupting ever since. Mount Erebus, as it was later named by explorer Ernest Shackleton, was named after the Greek god Erebus, the god of primeval darkness. To anyone who has visited the mountain and its incredibly harsh environment, this name is found to be more than appropriate.

  Today, on the steep and icy slopes of Mount Erebus, can be found a rugged team of scientists, researchers, and mountaineers carrying out their work in one of the harshest and most remote parts of the planet, at a facility known as the Mount Erebus Volcano Observatory, or simply MEVO. These professionals, tough enough to brave the extreme climate of Mount Erebus, include experts in the fields of gravity and magnetotellurics, volcanology, geophysics, and even astrobiology. These doctorate-level professionals travel each year from several major universities such as Cambridge, Missouri State, the New Mexico Institute of Mining and Technology, and the University of Washington in order to study Erebus, as well as the unique environment it has created for itself in one of the most remote places on Earth. They are assisted by a professional mountaineer, as well as graduate students from their respective institutions who study under them.