by Jim Heskett
After escaping Alabama, he’d had Connor White with him, and the handsome brute had helped a weakened Kellen pass from place to place. Now, still traveling together, they found border crossing stations either deserted or manned by disinterested random gang members who could be bought with a slice of bread.
Into Kansas, they hadn’t been forced to bargain at all. They found themselves in the tiny town of St. Francis, at a trash heap arranged into a wall. No one to demand a toll. No one to make them swear fealty to the Eighteeners or Red Streets or whatever local clique planned to conquer the world one day.
A few miles past St. Francis, Kellen and White paused under the shade of a highway rest stop to collect themselves. Bits of trash tumbled along in the breeze. The information board welcoming people to Kansas had been broken, the poster inside replaced with some cutouts from nudie magazines. Surprising that no one had stolen those. Pornography was scarce these days.
“When you were in jail,” Kellen said, passing the water bottle across the picnic table, “did you ever fool around with your roommate?”
“Cellmate,” White corrected. “You mean the reporter Gavin? I don’t think he was gay.”
“Still, I hear things about jail. You know, how the straight guys get restless. It wouldn’t bother me if you did. I’m just curious.”
White sipped the water and plucked at the rotting wood of the picnic table. “Sorry, I don’t have any tantalizing prison sex stories for you. We were only cellmates for a few weeks before everything went down. Before the ugliness.”
“Even calling it ‘ugliness’ feels like putting such a colorful stamp on it. The reality was so much worse.”
White paused for a moment before answering. “I try not to think about it. Dwelling on what happened or what could have happened doesn’t do anyone any good.”
Before Kellen could respond, the sound of an engine’s roar rumbled from far away and then amplified as it drew near.
“You hear that?” Kellen said.
“Sounds like a motorcycle. But is it a lone rider, or a scout? That’s the question.”
They’d hidden their car behind the rest stop but were still in plain sight out here by the restrooms. Whoever was coming, the smart thing to do would be to stay out of sight until they knew if any more were following behind.
The motorcycle grew closer. And the revving of multiple engines now carried across the flat landscape. The ground vibrated.
“Let’s go,” White said. “There’s at least a few.”
“Where?”
White’s eyes lifted. “Up top. Let’s see what we’re looking at.”
They raced to the back of the rest stop complex, a set of bathrooms and a small visitors center. Around the back, a small ladder had been bolted against the side of the building, starting a few feet off the ground. White hoisted Kellen up, then jumped after him, and they scrambled up to the roof. Gravel, covered in a small collection of abandoned sleeping bags and torn tent material. Black stains in the gravel that were likely long-dried blood, too deep to be washed away by the rain. Someone had tried to make a home here and not found a happy ending.
Kellen and White hunkered down as the motorcycles roared closer. The sound reached a crescendo and then slowly faded. The bikes were not turning into the rest stop.
They crossed the roof toward the road-facing side, slowing as soon as they could see the highway.
As the roaring sounds faded, Kellen squinted to see a cluster of five motorcycles shrinking as they raced along the highway away from them.
As soon as the motorcycles left, the sound of something much more ominous rose: boots.
Kellen couldn’t help but rise to full height when his eyes assembled the puzzle in front of him. Thousands of troops marching along the highway. Five thousand, six thousand, maybe even more. Step by step, like a well-trained machine, swallowing up the road and moving west.
Kellen hadn’t seen this many people together in one place in so many years, he had trouble understanding the scope of it at first.
White snatched Kellen’s arm and jerked him back to the gravel. They nestled next to the lip of the roof, a two-foot high concrete wall.
“This is bad,” Kellen said. “There are a ton of them out there.”
“I thought Quentin and the others heard the Eighteeners were coming from the west,” White said. “From California and the coast.”
“This has to be something else. This is a different army.”
“Helen Rappaport’s American army?”
Kellen shook his head. “No, these are wearing the same jackets and bandannas the Eighteeners wear.”
“Different Eighteeners?”
“Have to be. I don’t know why or how, but it’s the only explanation.”
White rubbed his hands on his face. “If they’re headed west, they must be meeting up with the others like them out there. Making a super-army.”
“This is bad,” Kellen said. “If they’re coordinating and trying to unite all their groups, then this is much worse than I thought. I didn’t believe these scattered idiots could actually organize.”
They scooted to the edge and lifted their heads up to see. The troops were only a few hundred yards from the rest stop.
And they were headed straight for it, pivoting along the highway exit.
“We have to go,” White said.
Kellen’s chest sizzled. “The car.”
“We have to come back for it. They could be here for hours. We can’t hide up here forever.”
And when they stood up to turn back toward the ladder back to the ground, shouts from the ground followed them. Kellen turned to see a half dozen of the marching men raising weapons toward their position on the roof.
Chapter 9
Quentin - Nederland
Quentin opened the front door of the merry-go-round while Coyle stood by, watching. The captive Eighteener stepped through the door, at first squinting, with a hand up to block the abundant winter sunlight barging through the partly cloudy day. He’d been inside that building for four days, kept in darkness.
After the second day, Quentin had no longer felt guilty about keeping him captive. The prisoner spouted a nonstop barrage of bile toward them. How one man could have so much hate inside his heart, Quentin couldn’t fathom. Whatever had spurred it, he delighted in taking it out on them at every opportunity.
On the third day, he’d almost escaped. Coyle had uncuffed him to escort him to the bathroom, and he’d knocked down the old man and made a break for it. Fortunately, Quentin had come back from lunch at the right time to trip the Eighteener, then he and a couple others slammed the man to the ground and wrangled him back inside the merry-go-round.
After that, they realized they needed an endgame. Over those first few days, the prisoner had said many things, and it was difficult to know which of those things had been true. It’s not like they could hook him up to a lie detector and watch the needle scratch all over the paper.
Coyle had wanted to kill him, but Farrah came up with another idea, to which Quentin and the rest of the council agreed: better to release him and see where he would go. They had a few people among the town’s population who were good trackers, so they readied them to go on an expedition.
Hopefully, the released prisoner would lead that expedition right to his home base so they could learn the truth of why they had invaded the town in the first place. See how many of them were planning a return visit.
And as that Eighteener turned to check the reaction of his captors, Quentin raised his eyebrows and waved back toward the town square.
“Go on. You’re free to go. No one will bother you if you hurry on out of here.”
The man’s bruised face hid his expression. His eyes were barely open, but he flexed his hands like he was ready to continue fighting. Quentin hoped he wouldn’t. There were more than a few people who had gathered to watch him march to his freedom, and they would all love to see him throw the first punch, so they could beat him to
death. Many had lost loved ones in the Eighteener attack a few days ago.
“If you think this is over,” the indignant prisoner said, “you’re dead wrong.”
“We’ll see,” Coyle said as he tossed the man’s leather jacket at him. “Go on, now. You see how these people are all glaring at you? Don’t give them too long to think it over.”
The gang banger slipped on the jacket and limped down the street, then turned at the roundabout on 1st. This street would take him past the lake and toward the front gate where they’d been instructed to let him pass with no hassle.
Quentin wasn’t so sure if the townspeople would abide by that suggestion, though. They came out of the shops and restaurants, at first in twos and threes, then quickly by the dozens. They stood by, staring, as the marked man limped along the street.
Coyle and Quentin kept their distance. “Back off, damn it,” Coyle said to a woman who spat at the Eighteener.
The gang banger’s eyes darted in every direction. The townspeople weren’t openly attacking him, but they kept edging closer. A couple teenagers on the fringes picked up rocks and looked ready to throw.
“Everyone back up,” Quentin shouted to the gathering crowd. “Please, allow this man to pass.”
“These shitheads killed my sister,” shouted one of the rock-wielding teens. An older man was behind him, holding the young one back.
Quentin waved to get the kid’s attention, then he motioned for him to drop the rock on the ground. Most of the townspeople didn’t know about the expedition to follow this man, but the fact that they’d been told to let him pass should’ve been sufficient. A month ago, they might have listened to Quentin without question. The violence of this week had left them rattled and angry. Quentin understood their tension, but he needed them to play nice for a few more minutes. Just a few more minutes.
He and the cluster of townspeople moved in step with the Eighteener, keeping their distance from him.
He continued to limp forward, reaching the end of the street. Dead ahead was the lake, to the left, the road out of town, and to the right, a snowy open space that led to some hiking trails.
The gang member paused.
Quentin and Coyle also stopped.
“What’s he doing?” Coyle muttered.
The gang member checked the road, then behind him at the waiting townspeople.
His chest heaved, his hands clenching and unclenching.
No one in the crowd spoke.
The gang banger took off, racing across the open space.
“He knows,” Quentin said. “He thinks he'll lose us in the mountains.”
Coyle lumbered after him and Quentin sprinted. But, the Eighteener had earned enough of a head start, he passed Big Springs Drive up into the foothills within two minutes, and Quentin had to turn and stop Coyle from following into the hills.
A second later, an explosion rocked the nearby earth. Coyle and Quentin fell to the ground as clumps of dirt rained.
“Landmine,” Quentin said. “Damn it.”
“Do you think he knew it was there?”
Quentin sat up, dusted debris off the shoulders of his hoodie. “I have no idea. But he must have figured out what we intended to do. And either way, if they’re willing to kill themselves to keep us from finding them, then they must be planning something major.”
Chapter 10
Kellen - Kansas
Before they even knew what was happening, bullets peppered the surrounding air at the rest stop. Kellen raced toward the edge of the roof, with White close behind him. At times of stress, his old leg limp came back, a remnant of being George Grant’s captive for years. A reminder he could never delete such a horrid part of his life story.
At the edge of the roof, Kellen spun and planted both feet on the ladder, then shuffled down. As soon as his feet had dropped to the ground, a soldier with large numbers 18 tattooed on the side of his face came rushing around the back of the visitors center.
The soldier raised his rifle.
Above him, White grunted, then sailed through the air like a burly ninja. He landed on top of the soldier, knocking them both to the ground, sending the rifle skittering several feet away. Struggling. Grappling. The soldier wore a pistol on his hip, and he was trying to swat it free. His hand landed on the holster, fumbling with the button clasp.
Kellen raced forward and drew the knife from the sheath on his belt.
“Turn him over,” he shouted at White.
With a yell, White threw his weight to bring the soldier on top of him, and Kellen jabbed the dagger into the man’s back. For a split second, just before Kellen drove the point of the weapon into the fleshy space between the man’s shoulder blades, a tiny part of his brain said, don’t do this. Don’t kill this man. Haven’t you caused enough pain already? This man might have a wife and child, or friends who will miss him. They’ll say he was only doing his job, and now he’s dead.
But Kellen ignored the voice and jabbed the knife downward. Told himself he was saving White’s life.
The attacker screamed, a spout of blood squirting into the air. White grunted as he threw the man to the side and then hopped to his feet. Blood dotting his face.
As the last breath fled from the attacker, Kellen realized more were coming. He could hear their footsteps and voices. This man must have been near the front of the marching line, but several people had noticed them on top of the roof. A half dozen had taken shots at them.
“The car,” White said.
“Can’t do it. They’ll be blocking the street.”
“All of our supplies are in it. Our food, water, maps.”
The adrenaline in Kellen’s veins throttled him. He could barely think straight. “It’s gone. Let it go. We can’t stand here discussing it anymore.”
Behind the visitors center was a short valley which led out into the forest. Miles and miles of trees. Kellen leaped over the fence at the edge of the property, with White at his heels. More soldiers came around the edge, firing. Bullets screamed through the air. As soon as the valley began and the hill downward steepened, Kellen found himself tumbling, rolling, and eventually coming to a stop.
He jumped up and dashed into the trees. Could hear White breathing behind him, letting him know he was still there.
They couldn’t run forever.
Kellen grabbed White by the back of the shirt. Pointed at a tree and then up. He scrambled, his ankle pulsing as he wrapped it around the trunk so he could grasp onto the branches with his hands. It wasn’t a tall tree, but this maple was bushy with some remaining leaf coverage. In Denver, all the trees had already shed their leaves. But in Kansas, thankfully, seemed winter hadn’t taken hold yet.
With White at his heels, Kellen scrambled high enough so he could barely see through the leaves below him. He ventured out onto a branch thick enough—he hoped—to support his weight. White nestled a few feet below, in the crook where the trunk separated.
Then they were still.
For a few moments, the woods were quiet. Then, some activity appeared nearby. Soldiers hunting, looking for them.
Below the tree, the voices of the soldiers carried as they shuffled through the leaves. Four young men paused a few feet from their hiding spot. Eighteeners, given their tattoos and choice of clothing. But they were better armed than the usual assortment of gang members, for sure. Someone had supplied them with quality weapons.
“What I don’t get,” one of the soldiers said, “is what’s in it for us if we catch these two. Is Alma going to give us better food in the chow hall? Get us some prostitutes? Maybe give us handjobs herself?”
The other soldier laughed. “First of all, what you get is a roof over your head tonight and three meals. Second, if anyone important catches you calling her Alma, they’re going to escort you to her so she can personally cut off your balls. You heard about what she did to the guy in Virginia, right? The one looting through some dead guy’s pockets?”
A chord of unease hit Kellen’s spi
ne. Alma. He knew that name from somewhere, but couldn’t place it. Like seeing a movie with a familiar actor whose name you can’t quite remember. It sat at the edge of his memory, but wouldn’t move inward.
Alma. Who was that?
“Come on,” the first soldier said. “No one is cutting off my balls. Not gonna happen.”
Kellen breathed, waited. Voices echoed around the valley, some close, others far. Someone called for the soldiers near their tree, and they vacated.
Kellen and White slid down from the tree and ventured deeper into the forest, not convinced they were safe yet. Two minutes later, Kellen finally paused and turned. Expected to see clusters of soldiers littering the valley.
But no one was there.
White, chest heaving, leaned against a nearby tree. “They’re just gone?”
Kellen sunk to the cold ground, trying to catch his breath. “Maybe they’ll be satisfied with taking our car and all of our food and water.”
“Maybe. Or maybe they’ll move on by.”
Kellen stared up at the hill leading into the valley, waiting to see if the soldiers would return to finish them off.
George - Kansas
George had insisted they march with the rest of the men. Alma balked at this at first, but he’d persuaded her of the value. He’d had to pull her aside and say it multiple times in multiple ways, but eventually, she relented. George often had to do this with Alma, but he didn’t mind. She was young and impulsive. Had a hard time taking advice.
But what other purpose could George serve aside from being the voice of reason and experience?
So he convinced her to march among them. Since she would be cooperating/competing with that shit Jarvis to earn the loyalty of the troops, she needed to do everything possible to seem like a man of the people. She had the ambition. She had the ruthlessness. But she didn’t yet have the wisdom.
Her father Hector had it, but he wasn’t good for much of anything these days. Jarvis feared him, but many of the younger Eighteeners didn’t. Hector’s reign had been before their time, just like George, Peters Anders, and Edward LaVey. Relics from an era they barely remembered. Some of these gang bangers looked so young, they had to have been born after the meteor hoax and the missile attacks. That reality baffled George; how someone could think this life was all there had ever been.