This is the End 2: The Post-Apocalyptic Box Set (9 Book Collection)

by J. Thorn

  “Let’s keep moving, Alex. I’ll feel better when we get to the top of the hill. That means we should be out of Little Italy and moving towards Cleveland Heights.”

  John saw the puff of stone before he realized what happened. Four more clouds of dust burst from the headstone before he threw his body to the ground. The attack came in silence. John saw Alex hit the ground and pull up behind another headstone. He felt each bullet whiz past his head and the shattered stone chips dropped into his hair like the early winter snow.

  An explosion brought the assault out of silent slow motion into real time. Alex’s screams began to break through the surreal attack.

  Flashes of bright red and orange appeared everywhere as though programmed by an erratic DJ at a nightmare rave. Clumps of frozen mud, rocks and stone rained down on the men while still more explosions rocked the ground beneath them.

  John reached over and grabbed Alex by the arm. He dragged his inert frame toward a towering mausoleum. John saw the name “Wilson” inscribed above the main door as he pulled Alex inside. The gunfire roared as bullets grabbed chunks of earth and spit them back into the air, covering the men with debris. John covered Alex’s body with his own and asked for protection from the remains of the Wilson clan.

  Chapter 30

  Sickly candlelight danced on the yellow brick of the church. Father walked around and inspected each votive. Lay members of the Holy Covenant took up positions of responsibility in the new hierarchy of the diocese. Children swept and dusted while young adults helped move food and supplies into the basement.

  Father thought back to the earliest days of the Faith. He saw his new flock functioning much the same way as villages did in medieval Europe. Entire communities gathered together and lived their lives in God’s service. Spiraling cathedrals and stone deities rose purely on pre-industrial muscle. Generations of masons committed their lives to erecting an eternal house of worship.

  Father felt the connection across time and space and was overjoyed to have permanent residents in the basement of St. Michael’s. The cavernous space encompassed and protected those of the Covenant, the new Masons of His word. Like their ninth and tenth century counterparts, they would construct a return to the old ways of unwavering faith and dedication to the Lord.

  A young boy startled Father from his reverie with a question.

  “Father. The candle. It’s already lit.”

  He reached down and ruffled the boy’s wild, blond hair.

  “So it is my young servant. What is your name?”

  “I’m Joey.”

  “Nice to meet you, Joey. What is your job here today?”

  “I’m helping my mom. She’s downstairs making sure everyone has a place to sleep.”

  “You are an obedient son. God will show favor on you and your mother. You should probably go back downstairs and make sure she has all the help she needs.”

  “I will. See ya.”

  The boy ran toward the steps and disappeared down the staircase before Father could respond.

  A cloaked member of the clergy stepped from the shadows in the back of the church. Father looked at the doors.

  “Father, may I have a word?”

  “Please, follow me behind the altar where we can talk in private.”

  The hooded monk kept even strides behind Father and managed to preserve a respectful distance. They entered the back room on the other side of the altar where young boys stood washing towels in the sink. With a wave of his hand, Father dispersed them from the room and assumed the role of good host.

  “Sit. May I get you a beverage?”

  “No, I won’t be staying long. My name is Brother Cyrus and I’m from the Internal Order.”

  He paused, waiting for Father to confirm his knowledge of the Order or show his ignorance.

  “I do not know of you.”

  “Ah, but I know about you, Father.”

  Brother Cyrus raised both hands and dropped his hood onto his back. His brown, wool robe thinned at the elbows and frayed at the edges. Cyrus’s bushy eyebrows sat upon a haggard face. Although in his early forties, premature baldness stole any semblance of his youth. Cobalt blue eyes sat deep in his skull and held Father with a tight grip.

  “I have intelligence for you.”

  “On the Revelator?”

  Cyrus nodded.

  Father stood and walked to a miniature refrigerator. He took a cold bottle of iced tea and tilted the top toward Cyrus who held up his palm in polite refusal.

  “We have been able to tap into the government’s databases and extract records. Power is still spotty and many servers are still running on generators, so it’s not a complete picture.”

  Father raised his eyebrows and took a quick swig from his tea. “This is information you have mined yourself?” he asked.

  “I should hope. I’m the church’s main systems analyst. I can say the Catholics protect their information much better than the Federalists.”

  Father raised his eyebrows.

  “Please continue, Brother.”

  Cyrus removed a manila folder from under his garments. The stained and torn envelope protected pristine papers. He placed each item on the table with a precise and even motion. With the pages spread out, Cyrus spun each document one hundred eighty degrees until they faced Father.

  “John Burgoyne. DOB: 03-24-74. He lives at 2913 Plainfield Road in South Euclid. Last year, he earned $75,000 as a website designer. At least that’s what he reported to the IRS. He is married to one Jana Burgoyne, age twenty-three. She is, or was, a nurse at the Cleveland Clinic.”

  Father sat back and studied the man in the robe. He sighed, tugged at the hair on his chin and pulled out a fresh cigar wrapped in plastic.

  “You say you hacked into the government’s database for this info?”

  The way Cyrus smiled chilled Father to the core.

  “Hacked. Yes, we hacked until we got this information.”

  “Would you like a cigar, Brother Cyrus? My supply of Cubans is dwindling. This could be the last one you see for a long time.”

  Cyrus kept both hands on the table evenly spaced from his documents. “What else do you want to know, Father?”

  Father put the cigar back in his pocket and slid to the edge of his seat. He stared into Cyrus’ eyes.

  “Extended family? Friends, and so on?”

  “That is not information typically kept in governmental records.”

  “I thought maybe you hacked that too.” Father accented the word almost to the point of insult.

  “I must be moving on to my new assignment,” Cyrus said. He returned each document to the manila folder without giving Father the opportunity to examine them. “I am sure you can go through the proper channels should you wish to revisit this data. The Vatican will only fund your little escapade for so long before your claims of ‘The Revelator’ tire our Brothers. Everybody answers to someone, don’t they, Father?”

  Father stood, never taking his eyes off of Cyrus. He did not extend a hand or wrap up the conversation with common courtesies. Cyrus stood as well.

  “Father, there is one more piece of information I need to pass on to you.”

  “And what is that, Brother Cyrus?”

  “The Second Cleansing is almost underway. I suggest you send a recon report with a detailed explanation of the First Cleansing as soon as possible.”

  Father stepped within inches of Cyrus’s face.

  “I’m sure you’ll be able to extract that data whenever you wish. Good day, Brother Cyrus.”

  The monk pulled the hood over his head and turned for the door back into the church. By the time Father walked out from behind the altar, the servant of the Internal Order disappeared.

  Father descended the steps into the basement where a throng of parishioners tended to the needs of the new, pure community. He summoned the low ranking soldiers to a concealed alcove next to the bingo board.

  “I want twenty-four hour surveillance on the grounds. No one exc
ept the Holy Spirit himself walks in these doors without my knowledge. Place two guards at every door and ground level window. Got that?”

  Nods all around.

  “Secondly, I need a task force of seven men. They need to get to 2913 Plainfield Road in South Euclid. Get a two-way. The man in charge needs to be on that radio, channel number eight. I want the band open and on. If anyone, and I mean anyone, gets near that house, I want to know about it. Do not secure, attack, defend or otherwise engage anyone or anything without my express permission. Are we clear on this?”

  The men scattered to find their gear and load for the drive to South Euclid. Father stared at the red light on the walkie-talkie and prepared for the wait.

  Chapter 31

  Chunks of plaster peeled back from the area between the two windows. Two feisty squirrels chased each other across the gutter at the edge of the roof. The pentagram circled in red remained exactly as it was painted. It stood out like an open sore that festered on the face of the community.

  The soldiers arrived on foot and left tracks in the wet snow, but did so without a sound. Two men ran down the driveway and secured the side door. Two more ran past them and pointed rifle mounted flashlights into the garage. White power from LED lights performed a macabre waltz with the red points of the laser scopes. A third pair of soldiers secured the back door.

  When the synchronized timer beeped on the men’s wrists, all the teams sprang into action. The front, side and kitchen doors imploded with one ragged gasp. The wind current created by the open doors blew draperies around like frightened poltergeists. Papers, bags and other pieces of debris lifted into orbit and then drifted back down under the force of gravity.

  “Clear,” rang out from every corner of the house.

  Soldiers penetrated and explored every space, securing it and defiling family memories. The invaders retreated with their weapons holstered. They met around back in the detached garage. The sergeant in charge brought his team up to speed.

  “The place is secure. Our orders are to maintain covert surveillance. Under no circumstances are we to engage anyone, friend or foe, without a direct order. That means you take a bullet in the head before you fire upon an enemy.”

  The young servicemen looked up at each other and then back down at their muddied boots as he continued.

  “We are looking for a John or Jana Burgoyne, owners of the house. Here is a picture of John.” The sergeant held up a pixelated image enlarged from the original in the department of motor vehicles. “We’ve got no visual for Jana yet but they’re working on it. The Covenant believes these two might be searching for each other and this is the first place they’ll probably look. Keep an invisible profile. We might have to let them remain in the place for up to thirty six hours before we raid it. In addition, any other hostile forces that might arrive are not to be engaged. On Father’s orders.”

  The men shuffled their boots in the wet snow. Some clicked the safety on their automatic weapons.

  “Okay. Listen guys. If someone opens fire on us, let ’em have it,” the sergeant said. “I don’t care what the ‘official’ order is. We’re not going to stand there and let the enemy fill us with holes. I got your back on that. But if civilians make their way here, we gotta do everything we can to keep ourselves hidden and keep them contained.”

  The men nodded.

  “Let’s fall back into position and get the hell away from this house. Hopefully we didn’t kick up the dust while they were watching. Radio silence. Stay within sight of each other, communicate with hand signals. Get comfy boys because we could be here a while.”

  The soldiers faded into the surrounding environment, hiding behind trees, garages and empty cars.

  Chapter 32

  “How many?”

  “Don’t know. At least ten, maybe fifteen. But they’re raining bullets by the thousands.”

  Sully nodded, pulled his scope up and placed the crosshairs on a distant, helmeted head. He eased the trigger back. The machine gun howled and let loose a shower of deadly missiles. A bright red burst exploded and the man fell face first into a freshly dug grave.

  He looked into the valley of Lakeview Cemetery where Alex and John were pinned down by enemy fire.

  “Now there are nine.”

  ***

  They scampered from the mausoleum, fearful of getting trapped by enemy fire. John pulled Alex down an embankment while shouts resonated off the grave markers. His ears rang though the explosions had subsided for the moment. Alex moaned and his eyes fluttered open. A maroon patch bloomed on his shoulder and a piece of torn material from his pants exposed an additional flesh wound on the calf.

  John grabbed a water bottle from his bag and poured it on his friend’s face. Alex continued to moan and raised an arm to shield his face. John scrambled around him and checked for more wounds.

  He looked up into the dark sky through bare tree limbs. Outbursts of snowflakes doused a clear vision of the moon. John and Alex remained hidden behind faded headstones. Their attackers held the top of the ridge and continued to fire down into the gulley. Bullets sizzled through the cold air and danced from headstone to tree.

  John felt a sting on his cheek. He reached up to swat away the annoyance and felt warm blood on his face. The close call woke him from his momentary daze. Alex lay on the ground coughing, alive and conscious.

  “What the fuck?” he asked.

  Alex burrowed his face into the frozen grass as another barrage of gun fire responded to his question.

  “Keep your head down. They’ve got the top of the hill and are firing on us. As long as we stay cool and hold our position maybe they can’t do much more damage.”

  Another deafening explosion fell from the sky. The mortar round landed near the men and blew dirt and stone across a wide path of the cemetery.

  “Right. I’m sure they won’t be firing any more of those,” Alex said.

  He winced and tore a strip of cloth from the bottom of his shirt. Alex took the strip and held it against his shoulder in hopes of slowing the loss of blood from his gunshot wound.

  “Is that gonna work?” John asked.

  “If I pass out, you’ll know it didn’t.”

  The attacking force stopped firing. They heard shouts and commands coming from the top of the hill. John and Alex looked at each other and scrambled to reload their weapons.

  “How many clips you got left?” Alex asked.

  “Two. You?”

  “One. If they come down this hill, we’re not going to be able to hold them off for long.”

  John shoved the clip into his gun. He swung the barrel of it over the top of the headstone that protected him from the majority of the rounds being fired in their direction. Then he squeezed the trigger, letting the recoil drive his aim upward and over the heads of the enemy.

  Random bursts answered John’s fire.

  “Stop. Man, we don’t got much left,” Alex said.

  “I’m trying to buy us time. Do you think you can walk?”

  “My leg has been hit but not enough to keep me down. It’s my shoulder that hurts like hell.”

  John shrugged and grabbed his bag.

  “Guess I’ll leave you here.”

  “Don’t be such a smart ass. What do you have in mind?”

  “If we can get to those trees over there, we might have enough cover to sneak our way through the cemetery and get to the Heights.”

  Alex sat up and pain raced from his shoulder to his brain.

  “Do or die, right?” Alex said. He got into a crouch like a runner anticipating the starter pistol. “You’re gonna have to provide cover fire for me. I’ve got to use my one arm to hold my shoulder tight. Fire high rather than low. It’s more effective in keeping them in place.”

  “Okay. On the count of three we run for the trees.”

  Alex threw his bag around his waist and left his gun on top of the grave.

  “Won’t be able to carry that and run.”

  “Give it to me
,” John said.

  He slid the rifle’s strap over his shoulder. John pulled the lever back on his gun and removed the safety. With his fingers accompanied he began the countdown. “One, two—”

  Before John could get to three, dozens of guns fired. The sound rolled through the valley like thunder. Both men spun around. Rapid gunfire and exploding grenades followed the initial blasts. It was all directed toward the top the ridge.

  Alex looked at John and fell on his back.

  “What can you see?”

  “Looks like the Warriors of Christ may have found targets more evil than us.”

  ***

  “Get some, get some,” Sully yelled, doing his best Full Metal Jacket.

  He stood behind the opened door of a 1987 Dodge pickup. The broken window allowed the bulk of Sully’s frame to fill it while he fired his semiautomatic twelve-gauge at the troops facing down the hill. The rest of the biker clan fanned out in a rough line, zigzagging across the top of the ridge. They used the advantage of surprise to fire lethal doses of buckshot at the Warriors of Christ. Soldiers were flung through the air by the force of the close range gunshot blasts. Several men managed to find cover, but Sully and the Keepers of the Wormwood killed six in the first ten seconds. A second round of firing by the bikers obliterated another three soldiers. The remaining men hid behind overgrown trees and slanted headstones.

  ***

  John stood up but kept his head low.

  “Wait here,” he said to Alex before breaking into a full sprint.

  He ducked back and forth between headstones, climbing up the slope toward the summit as the firefight died. He heard two distinct explosions echo up and away from the fight and then relative silence. His ears rang and the smell of spent gunpowder forced a moment of nausea. John moved three feet toward the summit when a blow struck him on the left ear. He fell to the ground, but pointed his weapon toward the attacker. A tattooed forearm knocked the barrel off to the side.

  “You don’t wanna do that, son,” Sully said.

  His big man’s chest heaved and his hair tangled in his beard. The men recognized each other at the same time.