The Line of Departure: A Postapocalyptic Novel (The New World Series Book 4)

by G. Michael Hopf

  From his first meeting with Rainey, Gordon found him to be a man he could deal with and trust. Knowing that the town was being managed effectively gave Gordon peace, but he still had an urge to contribute to something that would ensure his family’s safety, hence his volunteering for the police department patrols.

  Gordon, Samantha, and Haley had just sat down to eat dinner when a loud knock at the door interrupted them. Gordon looked at Samantha with concern. Their experiences over the past five months gave them pause whenever an unexpected person was knocking.

  “I’ll be right back,” Gordon said, standing from the table and quickly walking to a table next to the front door. He opened the drawer and pulled out a pistol.

  He approached the door cautiously and peered through the peephole to discover Rainey and another officer standing there. He unlocked and opened the door. “Hi, Chief.”

  “Gordon, sorry to interrupt, but I wouldn’t be here unless it was something important,” Rainey explained, his Brooklyn accent still thick, even after years of living in McCall.

  “Not a problem. C’mon in,” Gordon replied and fully opened the door.

  Both men stepped inside the foyer, hats in hand. “Nice place ya got here,” Rainey commented.

  “Thanks. So, what’s up?”

  “Just over an hour ago, we stopped a convoy of vehicles at our southern checkpoint. We need you to come with us to verify who they might be.”

  “Verify?

  “Yeah, you see, these were military vehicles and one man is asking for you specifically.”

  “Seriously?”

  “You know me, I wouldn’t be bullshitting you. Do you mind grabbing your gear and coming with me? I’ll bring ya back right after. I need to clear this up.”

  Gordon hesitated for a moment, his mind trying to scan who could possibly be asking for him. “Uh, sure. Let me grab my coat and stuff. Did he mention his name?”

  “He said his name is Smitty.”

  Elko, Nevada

  “Please, please don’t hurt us!” a woman cried. Blood ran down her face from a deep cut on her head.

  “Mommy, Mommy!” screamed her daughter.

  “Take her inside the house with the other women,” a young corporal in Pablo Juarez’s army ordered.

  Two soldiers hovering over her immediately grabbed her by the arms and yanked the woman to her feet.

  “My daughter, please don’t hurt my daughter!” the woman begged.

  “Stop!” General Alejandro barked as he exited a vehicle that had pulled up to the scene outside the house.

  After General Pasqual’s demise, Alejandro, then a major, had been promoted to general and commander of Pablo’s forces. Alejandro was a man of few words, so when he did speak, his soldiers paused. It was this demeanor that kept him out of Pablo’s crosshairs. Alejandro was short and thin, but what he lacked in stature he made up for in reputation. Never one to shy away from a fight, his friends nicknamed him El Luchador, or The Wrestler, as he was well known for his ability to beat anyone on the wrestling mat. It was a name he was proud of.

  Both soldiers carrying the woman stopped in their tracks.

  “What is going on here?” he asked.

  The corporal approached and saluted.

  Alejandro didn’t return the salute. His face grimaced with anger at the man’s ignorance. “Don’t ever salute me on the battlefield, ever!” Alejandro was referring to an order he had handed down as soon as he had taken over for Pasqual. The guerrilla war they were fighting against the Americans had forced them to embrace different tactics and to do away with typical military decorum. American insurgents had been able to target officers after they had been identified from something as simple as a salute. In this age, it was necessary to take all precautions possible.

  “Sorry, sir,” the corporal responded, his face now ashen.

  “What are you doing here?” Alejandro asked again.

  “Sir, we are taking the woman into the house with other women we have gathered.”

  Alejandro walked up to the woman and looked at her. Her eyes were swollen red, tears mixing with blood. He brought his hand to her face and she flinched from the anticipation of being hurt. “Shh, I won’t hit you.” He brushed her hair out of her face.

  The woman couldn’t control her sobbing, loud wails piercing the air. She looked at Alejandro but frequently her eyes darted off in the direction of her daughter.

  “What happened here?” he asked her.

  “We . . . me and my daughter were hiding and—”

  “Her husband was an insurgent, and we killed him,” the corporal interrupted.

  “Is this true?” Alejandro asked softly.

  Her eyes widened with the mention of her husband’s role.

  Alejandro now gripped her jaw tightly and asked again, “Is what the corporal said true?”

  “We were only defending ourselves!” the woman blurted out.

  Another door on Alejandro’s vehicle opened up and out stepped Pablo. Simultaneously men poured out of a vehicle parked behind it and surrounded him. All eyes turned toward him as he strode up and stopped just a few feet from the woman.

  “Your husband was an insurgent?” Pablo asked.

  “Please, we didn’t have a choice,” the woman pleaded.

  Pablo examined the woman, her dark hair, olive skin, and brown eyes. “You’re Hispanic, aren’t you?”

  “Ah, yes, yes,” the woman answered, hoping that the admission of her heritage would benefit her.

  “So why oppose us?” Pablo asked.

  “My husband . . .”

  “Was he not Hispanic?”

  “No, I mean, yes, he was. He just thought . . .”

  “Thought what?” Pablo asked.

  “Please don’t hurt us.”

  “My dear, I’m not going to hurt you,” Pablo said, looking the woman over. “So what did he think, your husband?”

  “He, ah . . . ” the woman said, then paused. She wanted to answer correctly but didn’t know how to answer.

  “Never mind,” Pablo blurted out.

  “No, please don’t hurt us.”

  “Your husband fought against us, you probably fought against us, so . . .”

  “No, please, no!”

  “Did your husband love his country, did he love America?” Pablo asked, curious.

  The woman’s eyes were wide with fear; her mouth dropped open but nothing came out.

  “Well? Answer me!”

  “Yes, yes, he loved America, but me . . . I, I love Mexico. Viva la Mexico!” the woman cried out.

  Pablo looked at her with black eyes then looked at General Alejandro. The serious look then changed to humor as he burst out laughing. The laughter drew even more fear from the woman.

  Her daughter’s whimpering grabbed Pablo’s attention. Another soldier held her by the shoulders. The dirt on her face had now turned to a thin veil of mud as it mixed with her tears.

  As Pablo looked at the little girl, he felt nothing. Absent was any remorse or sympathy. His emotional state kept him at the distance he needed in order to accomplish what he had to.

  “Please shut up,” he said to her. She complied with his command.

  He took a few steps away and looked at the carnage that was left over from the short skirmish with the insurgents. The once tidy middle-class neighborhood was destroyed. The homes that lined the street were riddled with bullet holes, their windows shattered and blown out. Bodies of insurgents and soldiers lay scattered on the lawns, driveways, and street. The short battle was hard fought, but Pablo’s force was overwhelming and had superior firepower. His men were now coming and going from the homes, taking what spoils they could; in one home he heard the screams of women as they were suffering the wrath of his men in the most violent and personal of ways. As he had told Isabel the night
he killed her, he would not offer mercy beyond an offer to join him. Once engaged, his men were given carte blanche to do what was necessary to defeat the enemy.

  His trek from Sacramento to Elko had taken him over two months. He had departed Sacramento in mid-April once his Villistas were firmly in place across the city. With each town he took, he spent the time to ensure he placed a force of his Villistas with a sound leadership structure. Elko wouldn’t be any different. Once every pocket of resistance had been eliminated, the process of transformation would begin.

  While taking each town along the way had slowed his conquest toward Cheyenne, what most frustrated Pablo was the constant sorties run by the remnants of the United States Air Force. Without air support, his troops were sitting ducks, but luckily they were able to maximize their countermeasures, diminishing the effects from the U.S. bombardment. Pablo had also split his main force into two forces of equal size. He led the main force as they marched along Interstate 80 toward Salt Lake City, Utah, while the other force followed along a parallel route south of his on U.S. Highway 50. He had hoped this would make his forces a more difficult target against U.S. airstrikes, while also expanding his reach. His forces to the south had not been bombarded and were making their way unopposed, as if the U.S. military was unaware of them. The two forces would link up again when they began their assault of Salt Lake City sometime in July.

  Pablo’s goal was to march on Cheyenne by late August. The fight would be tough, but he knew the only way to defeat the United States was to level the capitol and kill the president. He wanted to do it the old-fashioned way, with fighting in the street and hand to hand if necessary, but if he couldn’t win that way, he had one surprise that would guarantee him victory. The last he had heard was that his surprise was already in Cheyenne; all that needed to be done was to give the word.

  He turned back and faced the woman, his thoughts back in the present moment. He could see the fear in her eyes, pleading to let her and her daughter go free. While others might have seen this woman’s daughter as an innocent, he only saw someone who would grow up one day to oppose him. She would grow up angry that her father had been killed and her country conquered, and use her anger and strength to find a way to try to reestablish her father’s country. He couldn’t risk that.

  “I was told months ago that being merciful was the apex of strength. I can tell you now, it’s not. That lie almost killed me. I warned this quaint little town two days ago to surrender or die.” He paused and took a step closer to the woman, making her cringe. “Your husband made a choice. He believed in something. I have to say, I respect a man who is willing to die for a cause he believes in. I need men like that, but unfortunately, he fought for the losing side. You, on the other hand, are willing to beg and change your allegiance just to live. You cherish your own life above anything at all. You would be willing to sell out anyone just to see the sun rise one more day. Your husband was a brave but stupid man and he died. You’re a coward and stupid. That’s worse, and you’ll die too, but with the knowledge that your daughter died before you,” Pablo barked. He pulled out his pistol from his side holster and pointed it at the little girl and shot her.

  The woman screamed, tears bursting forth as she struggled to go to her dying daughter.

  “Look at me!” Pablo yelled.

  The woman’s own screams of anguish drowned out his command.

  He slapped her face, the force of which caused her to look at him. She saw the pistol in her hand and began to beg for her life.

  He placed the pistol against her forehead.

  She cried out, “No, you said you wouldn’t hurt me.”

  Pablo was squeezing the trigger but her comment stopped him. “You’re right.” He turned to General Alejandro and looked at him.

  General Alejandro knew the look and answered it by pulling out his pistol and placing it against her head.

  “No, no, no!” she cried.

  The single shot from General Alejandro’s pistol silenced her cries. Her body slumped into the soldier’s arms.

  “General Alejandro!”

  “Yes, Emperor!”

  “It’s time to go.”

  “Yes, Emperor!”

  Pablo walked back to the truck but stopped just outside of it. He turned around and said, “Good job, General. Today marks another victory for the Pan-American Empire.”

  Cheyenne, Wyoming

  Once a week, President Conner would go outside the gates of the “green zone” that encompassed the downtown area of Cheyenne. He traveled with an armed escort to visit the newly erected tent cities that were quickly popping up along the perimeters of the city. The news that the United States government had established a new capital and that it was functioning had spread fast. People were migrating from all over the mountain and central states with the hopes of a brighter and safer future.

  General Baxter didn’t agree with his weekly sojourns, but Conner rebuffed him. The days of the president having to abide by every security protocol were gone. Conner knew he couldn’t sit up in the proverbial ivory tower and lead. Once he made the decision to leave the bunker, he made it a point to mingle with the people he was sworn to protect. He knew he needed to be one of those leaders of times gone past who led from out front.

  The first outcropping of tent cities stressed the government resources, but soon Australia, along with Brazil and Argentina, followed through on a commitment that they had struck with the United States. Within a month of a signed deal, aid began to pour in via Houston. Conner’s treaty with the Republic of Texas had worked out for everyone’s benefit—having a port to access like Houston’s was critical to rebuilding, and its location was important. The ROT was working feverishly to establish diplomatic relations but the process was moving slowly. Only with Conner’s help did the ROT get recognized by Australia and other nations, but that was in exchange for unfettered access to the port in Houston.

  As Conner walked past the campfires and small gatherings, he was pleased to find people were adjusting. He noticed laughter as he passed many of the fires and tents. He knew the laughter didn’t originate from a deep-down happiness but from a place of hope. These people had experienced horrors on the road. Many had experienced loss, not only the loss of their personal belongings, but the deep and painful loss that was so common now—the loss of a loved one. Death had become a familiar part of daily life. The initial shock of so much death had quickly vanished as people realized they needed to adapt or they would be one of the unfortunate ones. Those who had managed to survive to this point were lucky but not guaranteed to live another six months.

  Conner found these visits enlightening, and he knew the citizens appreciated it as well. While mostly cordial visits, the encounters had occasionally gotten tense. He never once held a grudge against the people, though; he too might act out now and then if he were living under the same circumstances. For the most part, his interactions had given him a love and respect among the people that few politicians ever receive.

  At Conner’s request, Pat, the owner of Pat’s Coffee Shop, would join him occasionally. They had forged a unique friendship. With Pat, Conner could be himself and remove himself from what seemed like the nonstop decision making. He and Vice President Cruz were still best of friends, but per Conner’s request they remained separated. He couldn’t risk something happening to both of them if they came under attack, so within a week of returning, Conner dispatched him and his family to Cheyenne Mountain, the bunker installation that he himself had called home for a bit.

  Conner never shared the operational details of what was happening with Pat, and he never asked. He respected his place and knew it was not his to interject. But tonight things were different.

  “President Conner, we hear rumors of a foreign army coming toward Cheyenne. Is that true?” a middle-aged man asked from across the small campfire. The man was joined by his wife and two teenaged sons.

>   “I won’t lie to you: There is an enemy force southwest of us and they intend to kill off what is left of the United States. I will add that we are fighting them every inch. They will not make it here. I can assure you we are doing everything in our power to stop them,” Conner answered.

  “Why not just nuke ’em?” the man countered.

  “We reserve the right to use all options to protect us,” Conner replied, a response from his old politician’s playbook of answers.

  Conner looked at the family that sat across the orange flames of the fire. Their faces were gaunt and showed the stress of the past six months. Their eyes echoed the same plea for salvation of others he had met. They were desperate, and knowing that an enemy force was bearing down on them made them feel even more vulnerable—and they looked at the president to make a decision. Conner still hadn’t come to a resolution within himself about whether to use nuclear weapons. He wasn’t opposed to striking a foreign enemy across the ocean again, but to use one on U.S. soil was difficult for him to reconcile. The debate was raging within the situation room and halls of government, and it was a constant source of stress for the president. The man’s remark gave him the internal cue to call it a night.

  “Thank you all for allowing me the comfort of your fire. God bless you all,” Conner said, standing up.

  The family thanked him and offered him their hospitality again if he chose to accept it.

  As he walked away from the warmth and light of the fire, Pat commented, “You’re doing a good thing here.”

  Conner didn’t reply. He picked up his pace as they headed toward his vehicle.

  “Everything all right?” Pat asked.

  Conner stopped and looked at him. “No, it’s not all right.”

  Pat had never seen Conner this way. Gone was his mild-mannered demeanor; in its place was a man who was stressed and agitated.

  “What’s the matter?”

  “These people are looking to me to keep them safe, and to be honest, I don’t know if I’ll be successful against the PAE. We keep bombing them, but it doesn’t seem to slow them down. This emperor keeps taking town after town. My own reluctance to use nuclear weapons against them is now causing untold death.”