Catalyst (Book 1): Downward Cycle

by JK Franks

  “So, what does your church think of an ex-con preacher that drinks and swears like a Navy man?”

  “They love me; I’m one of ‘em. I don’t pretend to be pious or perfect, cause I’m not. I am just a guy; I have the same vices, temptations and temperament as most men. Not all men called by God are meant to be angels.”

  A quiet moment passed between the two men before a noise coming out of the woods startled them into action. Scott pulled his carbine out, and Jack lifted the shotgun. Scott clicked on the powerful Thorfire flashlight. Just on the edge of the beam of light was a large coyote. Behind him, they could see the eyes of several others. At first, Scott thought it was a wolf as it was so large. The animal growled deeply.

  “Don't move, or it will attack,” warned Jack. “They’re pack hunters. I’m going to swing around slowly and check our six.” Scott nodded mutely. He could vaguely see Jack’s flashlight sweeping the sides. It stopped on the left side in the direction of the train. “I have two more under the train car.”

  Coyotes were normally loud… these had snuck up quietly and within twenty yards of them. Scott didn't want to shoot them; the shots might alert other people to their location and the goods the train held. He also knew the land belonged more to the animals than it did him.

  Remembering how his dad had dealt with wild dog packs on the farm, he held his focus on the large alpha dog. It looked about twice the size of a German Shepard, though Scott knew they were somewhat similar. Reaching slowly into his go-bag, he withdrew the slingshot and a pouch of steel balls. He slowly propped the carbine to the side of the Jeep.

  “Jack, when I start yelling, you do the same and move toward the ones under the train. Shoot only if you must,” he said in a low and even tone.

  “Roger that, man,” Jack said shakily.

  Scott mounted a ball in the leather sling and pulled back a shot, aiming for the exposed chest of the beast. He didn’t think it would injure the animal, but he could go for his pistol if he needed. He let go the projectile, and at the same instant rose up and yelled as loud as he could. He heard Jack doing the same. The animal yelped in pain, and the spell was broken. All of the coyotes fled in a yelping mass.

  “Wow,” Jack said, “How did you know that would work?”

  “Ummm, I didn’t,” Scott said with a fragile laugh. Both men looked with new respect at the now quiet forest all around them. “I think I will put my sleeping bag in the railcar,” Scott said with a laugh.

  “Yeah, me too,” Jack said.

  The following day they made even more amazing discoveries. After packing the Jeep and trailer full, they headed back toward Harris Springs. Scott would talk to Bartos and a couple of the farmers about organizing a real salvage mission. They would have to use some of the county’s bigger trucks to do the job. He guessed it would probably take a week, maybe even longer to take just the more usable commodities. Both men knew they had scored big with the find, but the real challenge was to get it secured before others located and looted it. They trusted no one at this point except the ones helping do the real work. Scott didn’t even want anyone but his most trusted crew knowing the location.

  Ultimately, he decided he would also speak to Buck about adding an armed guard to the location while it was being cleared. One other thought had occurred to both he and Jack: the locomotive was basically a big diesel engine. Bartos had diesel mechanics on his crew. The CME may have fried the electronics, but Scott felt there was a chance they might move the entire train back down the tracks and nearer to town. With a working train, they would also have the opportunity to use it in future trades, and over much longer distances—assuming they could find enough diesel fuel for the job.

  As they crossed back into Bay County and onto more familiar roads, Scott saw the ruined hulk of a burned out mobile home. It took a few moments to realize it was the same place he had stopped and talked to the little girl and her mom only a few weeks earlier. The ruins were still smoldering. Obviously, whatever had happened must have been in the last day or two.

  “Oh Lord, oh Lord…,” Scott groaned in anguish. He could see several dark lumps unmoving on the ground in front of the ash pile that had been a home. He pulled the Jeep to a stop and stared.

  “Did you know them?” his friend asked.

  Shaking his head, Scott mumbled something unintelligible. He tried to get his legs to move; to get out of the car and see if the lumps on the ground were what he feared, but he couldn’t. He heard the passenger door open and shut, and saw Jack swiftly walk across the yard. He made a quick circuit, examining everything closely, then went down on one knee. He reached a tentative hand to the darkened mass and Scott could see him lift several strands of blonde hair. Jack put both hands on the ground and said a short prayer. He looked up at the sky and shook his head before getting back in the Jeep.

  “Drive on Scott. Nothing here, friend. God has them now.”

  Scott wept silent tears in an act that was getting to be a habit with him.

  The day the lights went out Tyrell hadn’t even noticed. He’d been sitting on the back porch of the community center doing business. One of his rich white junkies had been the first to tell him. Ronald Hansbrough was a complete douchebag, always trying to order people around. Tyrell put up with it only because the dude had more money than God. If the money ever stopped flowing, though… he’d be the first one in line to double-tap the arrogant mother fucker. Right in the middle of that goddamn pasty-white face.

  He did have to admit that the greedy man was good at seeing opportunities. All of Tyrell’s drug pipelines had dried up overnight when the flare hit. Ronald had been the one to suggest hitting the clinics and pharmacies. It made good business sense to Tyrell. The prices he could charge were going through the roof: the law of supply and demand ruled. Stealing it from the clinics brought the cost for inventory to zero. That is, until his guys hit the clinic outside of Harris Springs. That was the night that bald fucker and his crazy dog had come in and killed everyone. Worst of all his brother DeeCee was working that pickup; he was one of the kids the dog killed.

  Whatever humanity he had left died that day along with his brother. His life’s purpose now was to get even. He had determined to find that little Cajun guy. It was Hansbrough, again, who had told him who he probably was and where he lived. His guys had watched the house for a few days, then descended on it, but no one was there. Yesterday, though, Ronald had offered another possible location for the guy…the one they called Bartos.

  Chapter Fifty-One

  Bartos spat but still couldn’t get the taste out of his mouth. Solo looked at him curiously from the corner of the steps leading up into the old camper. Bartos knew he had eaten nutria before. After fur farmers had introduced the hearty South American rodent to the US, they had later released them into the wild back in the forties when it became unprofitable. The giant river rats had nearly taken over New Orleans. Looking more like a beaver than a rat. The little beasts were easy to trap and kill, and they bred like crazy. Bartos had tried roasting them, broiling them, grilling them… he was about ready to give up. “It’s that damn Scott and his ribeye steaks…” he remarked to Solo. “I was fine eatin’ river crap ‘til I tasted that stuff.” Solo was apparently uninterested in his master’s complaints. He liked the taste himself. Of course, he sometimes liked to lick his own butt, too.

  The RV was parked on the edge of the swamp and was Bartos’ primary bug-out location: more of a base camp. He had a small house up in town but had increasingly shifted more of his supplies out to his backup locations. No one had any idea about this place, and clues left around the house in town let him know people had been snooping around the place. He was also very aware of the enemies that he, Scott and the sheriff were making. Someone had burned an entire neighborhood down only a few blocks from his house. He had a pretty good idea who was behind it all.

  Apparently, one of the guys he and Solo had killed at the clinic was some relative of a local drug dealer, and Preacher Jac
k had let him know that he needed to watch his back. Bartos felt confident he could handle any problems, but that didn’t mean he was itching for a fight. Somehow, he had also managed to keep pissing off that Ronald Hansbrough feller again—more than just a few times in the last few weeks alone. The last time they’d interacted, he and Sheriff Warren had physically thrown him out of the now unoccupied mayor’s office in which he was trying to set up shop, saying he had been a duly elected leader and that he was in line to fill the vacancy. The sheriff had reminded him that the town was now under martial law, not civil control, and that the town charter was not even set up that way anyway. Bartos smiled at the memory of the slimy little bastard being flung out into the street.

  Getting the town organized had been almost hopelessly chaotic. None of these fools wanted to work together. Most expected someone else—the Army or the government—to come to the rescue. Hundreds had sat in a damn church just outside of town and starved to death!

  The scene was so fucked up they’d decided to just burn the church down. Bartos didn’t really get people. His dad had always said he wasn’t fit to be around other people. He’d been a hellion back then, though. His dad hadn’t been much better. He hated the government, refused to pay his taxes…They never stayed in one place long and living off the land was an everyday thing for them. Bartos, he knew, was not his real name. He wasn’t entirely sure what it was.

  In the fading daylight, Bartos got the rest of the gear out of the Bronco and carried it down to the pirogue waiting on the river bank. The little boat was ideal for navigating the shallow, tree-choked channels of the river and the bayous. Tonight, he was going out to check his traps and hopefully pick up a gator, or at least some frogs. He wasn’t sure how long the rations he had stockpiled would last, but he knew eating off the land would be much harder over the winter months. Better to save what he had for those lean times.

  He covered the Bronco with a weathered tarp, snuffed out the small campfire and motioned for Solo to load up. Pushing the canoe back into the water, he took a seat and began slowly paddling away from the RV. He had purchased the camper at a seized goods auction for nearly nothing and then proceeded to place it on this piece of land he had bought years earlier. He had spent a great deal of time camouflaging the exterior to blend in with its surroundings. As he looked back, he was pleased to see that it was nearly invisible from less than fifty yards away.

  Solo issued a low growl. Bartos ducked lower in the rough little canoe as he heard a twig snap far away. The receding river bank was a confusion of shadows as he tried desperately to see what was happening. Then came a louder sound of glass breaking and he saw the shadows of multiple figures encircling the RV in a firing line. A small flame, obviously attached to a bottle of some kind, was tossed into his small trailer, and immediately a huge fireball erupted, blowing out every window as well as one corner of the roof off. The surprise caused Solo to issue a small bark while the light from the huge fire lit the canoe for everyone to see. While the line of gunmen shifted focus to the bayou, Bartos had his Colt M4A1 Assault Rifle up and firing on full auto. The line of men dropped as the spray of bullets punched neat holes into some and scared the shit out of the rest.

  While the pirogue sucked as a shooting platform, Bartos had plenty of cover, and he could see the enemy better than they could see him. He had counted eight men in the original group, three of which were down and never getting back up. Two more were severely wounded. That left at least three others, possibly more. He directed the canoe into deeper shelter.

  As he did so, he noticed that Solo was not in the boat. He hadn’t heard a sound. Shots began to fly again, and bits of tree trunk and tree limbs rained down around him. Several bullets hit the canoe, and one clipped the side of Bartos’ boot, jerking the leg all the way over to the other side of the boat and severely pulling a tendon in the process. Bartos yelled out in pain.

  A voice rang out, “You bastards get ‘im yet?”

  Bartos couldn’t hear the response. The voice came again from somewhere closer and off to the right.

  "Well, shit, whad d’you mean you think you got ‘im? Hurry the hell up! We still gotta get dat utter fuck.” Bartos saw the shadows of the men separating. Not three, but seven, not counting the one doing the talking, whom he couldn’t see. Too many, he thought. And if Solo got started he wouldn’t stop, then he too would have to engage... Instead of paddling, Bartos slipped out of the canoe, putting the boat between him and the bank, and began retreating deeper into the swamp with the boat in hand. Once out of sight of the still burning RV, he made a short whistle signaling Solo to withdraw. Several minutes passed before he felt the additional weight on the front of the pirogue and smelled wet dog. Climbing into the middle of the boat, exhausted and in pain, Bartos began to paddle deeper into the darkness.

  Chapter Fifty-Two

  The Gulf of Mexico 30 Miles South of Biloxi, MS

  The wind was perfect for the tack that Todd was planning. As he swung the boom, the large mainsail fluttered then caught, billowing out to its fullest. The bow of the thirty-two-foot Catalina cruiser swung westward. The coast of Mississippi was now a distant smudge. He had spent the night moored off of Dog Island, another mostly barren sandbar of land well out into the Gulf of Mexico. The spray of cool morning water as the boat knifed through the waves kept Todd focused on the task at hand. This was what he needed, he thought. He needed to stay busy and not think about his world ending. Not the actual world ending, he didn’t give a shit about that now. Liz had been his world, his purpose and now she was gone.

  As the boat heeled, Todd looked leeward into the depths, thinking, wishing. It would have been so easy to just let go. He had made a promise to her, though, soon after the diagnosis was confirmed. She knew how much he would hurt, and she knew he would want to give up. She had made him promise her not to. He had to live a life big enough for both of them.

  He steadied the course, locked the helm and went to loosen the lines. Losing some of the wind in the sails quickly cut his speed. He was in no hurry, had no destination. The ebb and flow of the northern gulf currents paled in comparison to his internal turmoil. He felt his compass and his anchor had been stripped away. It had only been a month or so since the funeral, and he had been sailing down the coast toward the Delta region of Louisiana. He had sailed into numerous little coves and bays to fish or just to anchor and let his mind drift. While he had seen virtually no other boats on the water, he had been cautious about being close to shore. Everywhere he saw the smoke of homes burning. After what he and Scott had witnessed on the drive back from Tallahassee, nothing really surprised him. Early the day before, sailing out near Pass Christian, he had seen the body of a large man floating nearby, several bullet holes clearly visible in his torso and head. He missed his friends and thought again of Scott. Now he felt bad for urging him to try and save the world, but he also knew that Scott had a depth of character that meant he might succeed.

  Reaching up to adjust the jib, he noticed the color of the water beginning to lighten. Where the Mississippi dumped its water into the gulf, the shoals and water depth changed frequently. Although his boat only had a draw of six feet, it was best to steer carefully in the area. This far from the shipping lanes no one would be around to help if he grounded his vessel. He went and took the helm again, readjusting the course of the Careless Lady due south, heading into deeper water. Tonight, he would not be in a protected cove; his plan instead was to let her drift in the deep water. Todd looked over at the dark weather radar and grumbled. It would be nice to have at least some of the electronics on the boat working, but he had been at sea long enough to recognize the signs of approaching weather. He knew he would be fine, at least for the next twenty-four hours.

  The sun had slipped low on the horizon before the water began to deepen once again. The many fingers of the Mississippi reached far beyond the Delta region out into the sea. A few main channels had been kept clear for heavier vessels to come into port, but Todd knew he wa
s at least a hundred miles from those shipping lanes. He cracked open a warm Red Stripe and watched the beautiful sunset. He and Liz had spent countless evenings watching the sun set over the ocean. She would love this one, he thought. He missed her beautiful way of describing what she saw, like an artist describing a painting. He could close his eyes and still visualize many of those happier times just by recalling her words. The sound of a seabird roused him from his solitude. He knew he should eat; in fact, he couldn’t recall his last meal. He headed down into the cabin to find food.

  While he had packed in a rush, the boat had always been pretty well stocked, so he and Liz could take off whenever they both got the urge. Dinner tonight had consisted of freeze-dried lasagna that he had boiled in a pot of water on the little cook stove. He had considered opening one of the bottles of wine that Liz had stocked but knew he wouldn’t drink much of it, and that the rest would go to waste. He sat in the cabin lit only by a small gas lantern and looked through photo albums that Liz had put together. He knew it was dragging him down to focus on the past, but he was willing to hold onto the pain just so that he would not forget. He had tried several times already to let go, but it didn’t work. When his feet were back on dry land, he would have to move on. For now, she was still his. His eyes watered as he listened to the moaning wind blowing through the rigging. The tears crawled down his weathered cheeks like a parade of watery ants. They had been together since adolescence; he had no idea how he could live without her. He didn’t have any real desire to do so. Closing the album, he wondered if the world he lived in would even allow him to make new, happy memories. He had lost a piece of himself, probably the best part of who he was. The rocking of the boat was as familiar to him as his bed at home, and he closed his eyes and began to drift with his boat.