"Mmm hmm," she said over her mug. "That would be the Larssons. Eddie and Vi."
Evans arched an eyebrow. "Can't say I've had the pleasure of meeting them before," he said. He looked down. "Only just started when everything fell apart."
"You poor thing." Mrs. Holden clucked to herself as she got up and moved to a cupboard. She smiled at him and pulled a package of shortbread cookies out of the well-stocked pantry. Evans' stomach rumbled and his mouth watered at the sight of all that food.
If that was just one cabinet in the kitchen, what else might the old broad have squirreled away…in a basement, maybe? His eyes moved to the door next to the fridge. Down there, I bet.
"Cookie? I know we're supposed to be rationing...but I must have ten boxes of these things here." She sat down and leaned over the table, dropping her voice to a whisper. "They're my only vice," she said with a snort. She pulled one cookie out and handed the package to Evans.
He pulled three cookies out and put the package on the counter, barely resisting the urge to grab a fistful. With a nod of thanks, he popped in one whole cookie and chewed, closing his eyes as the delicious flavor of butter and sugar exploded in his mouth. He hadn't had something so sweet in nearly a decade. Prison fare wasn't much to be desired.
"Thank you, so much," he mumbled.
She waved off his thanks with a dismissive hand. "Oh, never mind that. The least I can do for an officer of the law is to provide him with a cup of coffee and a cookie or two on a cold day." She turned and looked wistfully out the window at the falling snow. The tiny flakes which had graced his walk in from the woods had transformed into large, wet globs.
"Looks like we're getting a few inches out of this one," she observed casually.
Evans cleared his throat. "So, are the Larssons—is that what you said their name was?"
She turned back to face him and nodded. "Oh, yes. Edgar and Victoria Larsson." She smiled. "Eddie and Vi."
Evans nodded as he munched on his second cookie. "I take it they're not home? Did they leave for someplace warm, I hope?" he said with his own smile.
She chuckled and took a second cookie from the package, pinched between her fingertips like it was delicate treasure. "Oh good heavens, no. They spent every summer up here while their kids were growing up then moved in permanently some time ago. We miss their little ones so dearly now. They used to always run between our yard and the Colonel's…"
Colonel? That's interesting. Must be the house on the other side of the Larsson place. Have to take care of him. Can't afford some ex-hero fucking things up.
Mrs. Holden prattled on. "…retired now, like the rest of us," she said with a rueful laugh. "But why we spend our remaining years up here around this frozen lake instead of down on some beach in Florida I'll never know."
Evans glanced out the window at the snow as she laughed at her own wit. "So they haven't left then? Must be in town? What about the Colonel?"
She laughed. "I don't know if he was a real colonel, mind. Everyone's just called him that since…well, forever. He could be a private for all I know." She looked thoughtful for a moment, took a nibble at her cookie and then spoke again, "No, they haven't left. We all just finished bringing in the last of our crops a few days ago." She winked at him.
"Between you and me, they had the bigger haul, but don't let Alvin know I said that. Alvin, Eddie, and the Colonel have some geriatric rivalry going on as to who can grow the most during the year. Us wives used to laugh at them," she said and took a sip of coffee. "Now that the whole world has gone crazy, I suppose we'll all be more thankful we have that much extra food put away for the winter." She shook her head sadly.
Before she could say anything else, Evans spoke up: "That's probably a smart thing to be doing right around now. I'm driving around to take a head count and make sure everybody's set up for the winter. Governor's orders. The state wants to marshal its resources and I'm looking to see who will be in the most need…"
Oh, that was good! Have to remember that…
She nodded wisely. "That is an excellent idea—probably the smartest thing I've ever heard come out of the governor's office!" she laughed again. "If Vi didn't answer the door, that means she's in town and he's probably down by their boathouse. Eddie loves to tinker with that sailboat of his. My Alvin, now, he can putter around with the best of them—but he prefers the garden," she said with a wave of her hand. "For things mechanical, he'd just as soon take it to a professional." She looked around as if making sure no one was listening and leaned in across the small table.
"Personally, I think that's best for everyone." She leaned back, chuckling as if she had just delivered one of the funniest jokes known to man and reached for another cookie. "Now, don't you be telling Alvin I've been into these," she said with a wink.
Evans flashed a smile and finished his last cookie. He looked at the structure of her face and her fair hair—despite being mostly white, it looked like it'd been brushed to a polished shine. For someone who looked in her late 70s, he had to admit she didn't look half-bad. He idly wondered what she would've looked like as a teenager…
"Is it as bad out there as we've heard?" she asked quietly.
He cleared his throat and put the coffee mug on the table. Time to look grim and official. He tapped his finger on the rim of the cup, trying to appear lost in thought. He swallowed. It was a new kind of fun, stringing her along like this. "We heard about all the riots down near New York—boy am I glad I took a position up here, where folks are still civilized," he said.
She crossed herself. "And that is the Gospel truth. You couldn't pay me enough money to live in The City."
He turned and looked out the kitchen window and could just barely make out the dim shape of the Larsson house. It looked to be damn near a quarter-mile away. No wonder she had such sympathy for me, he thought. That would be a long, cold walk. A gust of wind carried a wall of snow past the window and everything on the other side of the Holden property vanished into whiteness.
He heard a door open someone stomped their feet, muttering about snow in October. "Helen! Hope you got the coffee going, it's colder than a well-diggers ass in January out there," said a male voice.
Evans glanced at Mrs. Holden, who blushed and smiled. "Alvin," she called out, "come into the kitchen dear, we have company."
Evans stood as he heard more muttering and footsteps approached the kitchen. A man who appeared to be in his early 70s, slouched from too much time in front of a keyboard, stepped into the kitchen and shook the snow off of his jacket. His froze when he saw Evans standing next to his wife.
Now it's time for business. Evans assessed the situation quickly. Immediately to his right, stood Mrs. Holden, a wisp of a thing. To his left, about six feet away stood the equally old Alvin Holden.
As he extended his right hand, he casually slipped his left hand into his coat pocket and his fingers slid around the comfortable shape of the iron crampon he'd picked up after his escape. He had killed his third hooker with a rail tie—drove the spike straight through her forehead with a sledgehammer. That was the one that got him sent away for life. Once there, his murder weapon became his name.
Alvin didn't shake hands. His eyes narrowed and flicked from Evans to his wife and back. "Who the hell are you?"
"Alvin Holden!" His wife hissed. "This is Undersheriff Dixon. His car broke down while he was doing rounds in our area—"
"I don't know what you told my wife, but you need to leave my house," said Alvin. The tone of his voice sounded threatening, but the frailty of his body counteracted it nicely. His eyes said he knew it, too.
Spike smiled.
“I’ll ask you one more time to leave,” growled Mr. Holden.
“I’m afraid I can’t do that.”
Mrs. Holden looked confused. “Alvin! Why are you acting like this?” She clutched her robe across her chest and Evans let her move closer to her husband.
Alvin reached an arm around her. "I've known Tom for years—he's old Sam Di
xon's son." He jerked his chin at Evans. "He's not Tom Dixon."
“Who are you?” Mrs. Holden whispered, her voice tremulous.
Evans smiled. He pulled his hand from his coat and gripped the crampon like a dagger. The gasp that escaped Mrs. Holden’s lips sent a thrill through his body. It felt good to be back in the saddle.
“Call me Spike.”
Chapter 2
Flight of the Rebels
MALCOLM ABDUL RASHID STOOD next to the bullet-riddled Oldsmobile Cutlass Cruiser and raised his binoculars. Fully half of his rebellion lay before him, stretching south in a solid tide of humanity. A tide of defeat. The long faces and sweaty bodies, all piled into every make and model of vehicle they could find. Many of them dangerously overloaded, they careened wildly around abandoned cars on I-95.
How many have I lost to simple traffic accidents since we left New York? Hundreds? Thousands?
He lowered the binoculars and closed his eyes in prayer at the stupidity of the loss. Those were good people, brothers and sisters in arms. They will be missed. And I will lose many more before this exodus is over.
He turned and glanced south as the unending flow of cars and trucks honked as they passed him. Cheers and shouts and waves greeted him from smiling faces as they continued to stream past. He knew it was a morale booster for the troops to see him standing by the road watching over them as they marched south, but it felt ridiculous.
He felt exposed. Any second now one of Stapleton's helicopters could pop up over the horizon and send a missile right down his throat ending everything.
He raised the binoculars and looked at the leading half of his army as they marched toward Trenton, still some 23 long miles away.
Malcolm glanced at his watch. By now Samir and Yossef should be setting up the first outpost on the outskirts of Philadelphia. The local chapter had assured him they'd set up plenty of roadblocks and booby traps along the major arteries. Stapleton and his army would have to slow down when they approached the City of Brotherly Love.
Malcolm frowned. He will pursue me to the ends of the earth—the man will never give up.
Watching all the smiling faces and waving arms as his people filed past, Malcolm had a sudden unnerving thought. He'd heard the rumors Stapleton had placed a bounty on his head—$17 million for information leading to his capture or arrest. Another $30 million for bringing him in alive.
How many of those in front of me would jump at $30 million and end the suffering, end the fighting by handing me over?
Malcolm turned and looked at the sea of faces. Suddenly he felt very exposed.
Climbing back inside the car he shut the door on the outside world and tried to slip down behind the front seat. He very much wished Yossef, his massive bodyguard—loyal to the core—was with him.
Why did I send him with Samir?
It was a silly question of course. Samir was loyal, to a point. Samir was a man possessed by fear. If that fear overcame his courage, Malcolm had no doubt Samir would flee to the army and beg for mercy.
Yossef, his mountain, was the exact opposite. The man did not and likely had never known fear. He was loyal to Malcolm and no other save Allah—he would die loyal to Malcolm. He was Malcolm's chief enforcer. If anyone could keep Samir on the path of righteousness through this trying time, it was Yossef.
Yossef had the strength of a rock and the intelligence of one as well. Samir had to be the brains in Philadelphia while Yossef provided the muscle. There was no other way to do it. Malcolm could not oversee the successful withdraw his troops and the preparations in Philadelphia at the same time.
So much to do, so little time. A saying of the Man that could not be more apt in his present situation.
"Where you want me to go?" asked the driver.
Malcolm opened his mouth to speak when his radio chirped.
"Malcolm."
Finally. He keyed the transmit button on his radio. "Yes?"
"The prisoner has arrived."
Malcolm closed his eyes. At least something was going right. The female pilot captured by the Russians in New York City was now in his possession. The foolish invaders had left her behind, but she was far too valuable a prize for Malcolm to do the same.
As long as the Americans knew he held her captive, no harm would come to him. At least, that was his initial plan. As the day wore on and his people grew more and more exhausted and strung out along I-95 as Stapleton gained on him—Malcolm questioned the value of using her as his own personal shield. Why waste her on one man when she could protect an entire army?
That was why he'd sent her south to Samir and Yossef. He held her out as a tantalizing fruit for President Jones. If he could rally some home guard troops around Washington and give Malcolm's people time to catch their breath on their long trip to Florida, he would receive the colonel as a reward. What Jones did with her was not Malcolm's problem.
He looked at the flow of humanity around his vehicle. It was like a river, unending, unstoppable. Like Stapleton.
Who knows what that madman might do if he catches e on the march?
Malcolm did not intend to find out. He wanted to be in Florida, fighting the Russians and rallying besieged locals to his cause. Word that an uprising against the Russians led by citizens was encouraging. If he could only reach central Florida in time to capitalize on this development and join forces, he was confident the invaders would not stand a chance.
He glanced at his car’s view mirror, at the pillars of smoke and fire that roared into the sky over New York, signaling the wake of his army. During the transition, he found it exceedingly difficult to control the more free-spirited members of his confederation—much more so than when they’d been holed up in the city. The rearguard seemed to delight in causing as much destruction as possible—looting and burning as they went.
No wonder Stapleton wants to wipe us out. Malcolm made a mental note to instill harsher discipline on his forces at the next opportunity.
He picked up the radio and pressed the transmit button. "You have done well, Samir. Please express my thanks and gratitude to your men. If Allah wills it, we shall be with you by dawn."
"When do you want me to transfer her?"
"As soon as it is safe. I want her on the other side of Philadelphia before I arrive. We need to get her to President Jones as fast as possible. Have you been able to contact his representative?"
"I have—they want to do the trade tomorrow. He says he has food and supplies for 100 men."
Malcolm laughed bitterly. A hundred? That is but a drop of rain in the face of a man dying of thirst. "Thank them for whatever they can provide. I will see you soon."
"Go with Allah," Samir responded.
"You too, my brother."
Malcolm dropped radio on the dashboard. He'd been up for more than 24 hours now, overseeing the final escape from New York. All he wanted to do was close his eyes.
"Malcolm?" asked the driver. "Where you want me to…?"
Malcolm sighed, his eyes closed, head already against the seat. "Take us to Philadelphia."
Chapter 3
The Hunt
BRIGADIER GENERAL JOSEPH "FIGHTING Joe" Stapleton stared south through his binoculars out the commander's hatch on his Stryker. Malcolm was on the run. Most of his fighters had packed up in the middle of the night and disappeared. The resistance had fallen. New York had been liberated.
He'd received orders from Daniel Jones to cease hostilities as a truce had been negotiated between the United States and the rebels. There was no doubt about it now. Jones claimed to be the president—successor to Suthby.
Stapleton grunted. He half-expected someone else to call on the secure sat phone every hour announcing they were the new president, too. Anyone could claim they were the president. No one in Congress or from the Pentagon had confirmed this Jones character.
Claiming the title of Commander-in-Chief wasn't good enough for Stapleton. Not only did he not recognize Jones' legitimacy, but his standing orders—given
to him by President Reed—were to seek out and destroy the rebellion at all costs. Those orders were the ones Stapleton intended to follow to the letter.
To implement Reed's orders, he dispatched his forward elements south toward Trenton. His Strykers were faster than his armored cav could hope to be on asphalt. They raced south using every intact tunnel and bridge that remained connected to the mainland.
Malcolm's retreat has been so swift and silent that not all of Stapleton's forces had amassed on Manhattan yet. The bulk of his army was still stationed on the mainland taking up defensive positions west of Manhattan. Stapleton could swing his forces straight south toward Philadelphia.
Stapleton chewed his unlit cigar. If his Strykers could catch Malcolm at Trenton, he could end this thing on day one.
He lowered his binoculars and slapped the roof of his vehicle. The driver understood and the big beast lurched forward. Stapleton continued standing in the commander's hatch to get an unobstructed view as they drove south. He wasn't concerned by snipers, much to the chagrin of his staff.
Malcolm's forces vanished almost to a man. Only a single instance of insurgent action had been recorded since Stapleton had accepted the surrender of the last of Kristanoff's Russians.
Stapleton shook his head as he clenched his jaw on the cigar. The rebels fled south like some kind of giant horde of barbarians. Russians had taken control of the Florida peninsula. There were also rumors—spreading like wildfire—of the Chinese invasion of California.
What the hell is going on?
The radio embedded in his helmet broke squelch. "Command Actual, Viper 3, Actual."
"Actual here, go ahead."
"The last of my vehicles has cleared Manhattan. The tunnel's clear. Proceeding south with all haste."
Stapleton grinned. "Outstanding. Go hunt those slippery bastards down. We'll be right behind you. Actual out."
The radio broke squelch again. "Command Actual, Lighthouse."
Dux Bellorum (Future History of America Book 3) Page 2