Dux Bellorum (Future History of America Book 3)

by Marcus Richardson

  Erik shifted his helmet back and scratched his forehead. "It's like a serial killer drove this car or something. That’s creepy as hell." Shrugging, he pulled out one of the shirts, then dumped the knives, tuna, gloves, and rope into a small pile on the shirt.

  Satisfied the car held little else of value, he waited for the last few precious drops of gas to land in the small transfer can, then poured it into the big one. The larger can now felt about 2/3 full—possibly three gallons. Erik slung his rifle over his shoulder, hefted the cans in one hand and his bundled shirt in the other before starting back to the others.

  Ted met him at the entrance to the scenic overlook. "I’ll take the gas," he said, hand outstretched. "What'd you get?"

  "About three, I think."

  "Well, that's not too bad, I guess," Ted replied.

  "Nope. I'll take it. Found some other stuff too, couple knives, duct tape, rope…"

  Ted looked at him. "Who the hell drove that thing, Ted Bundy?"

  "Right?"

  Brin walked around the rear of the van and handed Erik a can of chili. "Here you go," she said. "Have any luck?"

  "Thanks," Erik replied. He held up the bundled t-shirt. "A serial killer kit and three gallons."

  "A what?" asked Brin. She frowned when Erik explained what he'd found. "Well, the duct tape will come in handy—the knives too. You're right though, that's a little creepy."

  "It gets creepier," Erik said around a mouthful of chili. He licked the spoon, savoring the salty taste. "The car got in a head-on accident. Front's totally crumpled. But get this, someone dragged it to the side of the road."

  Ted looked up from where he was pouring the contents of Erik's fuel run into the van. "You see any signs of tread marks on the road? Think a tank came through?"

  Erik shook his head. "I thought the same thing, but there's nothing. It's like someone just pulled it across the road. There's glass everywhere—I found some poop and leaves on the inside so it's been there a while."

  Ted stood up and wiped his hands on his pants before closing the van’s gas tank lid. "Then it was probably moved after everyone left."

  Erik chewed for a moment. "What do you mean?"

  Brin took his arm and pulled him around the van. "Look what we found."

  Just down the hill from the scenic overlook of the Valley, the bushes and trees gave way to an open field. At first glance, it looked like a very sloppily tilled patch of farmland. Then Erik realized what he was looking at.

  "Is…" he swallowed. "Is that fresh?"

  "Fresh enough," Brin said quietly. She glanced away at the children who sat on the van's running boards and ate their food in silence, eyes locked on the view down the hill. She squeezed his arm before moving away to the kids.

  Erik turned his eyes back to the grisly scene. He'd never seen a mass grave before. The entire field had been plowed over—the dirt heaped high in some spots, low in others. Bits of gray stuck up here and there—he didn't want to think what that was.

  Ted's boots crunched on the gravel as he walked over and stood next to Erik. "I've seen this before—Kosovo. Bad shit, man," he whispered out of earshot of his children.

  "What happened?"

  "I don't know," he admitted. "But I think we need to proceed cautiously. If there's anyone left in Leesburg, they're liable to be a little…nervous…around strangers."

  Erik stared at the field. "There could be hundreds—"

  "More like thousands," Ted said quietly.

  "Jesus." Erik didn't know what else to say. He crossed himself.

  Ted sighed. "I don't think He had anything to do with this, brother." He clapped Erik on the shoulder and turned. "Finish up. We should get rolling. We only got about five hours of daylight left.” He picked up the map from the driver’s seat. “This road loops up and to the northeast before it hits Leesburg. I want to get closer to town so we can decide what our next move is before dark."

  Erik nodded and took a bite of chili. Staring at the mass grave before him, he ate in silence. In the past, before the lights went out, he figured he would have lost his appetite altogether. Not now. He spooned another mouthful of lukewarm chili into his mouth.

  The breeze returned, blissfully blowing toward the field of death. He didn't even want to imagine the smells if it were otherwise. The hairs on the back of his neck rose. The wind had a tinge of cold to it that he'd not felt in the last few years living in Florida.

  Erik finished the chili and dropped the can to the ground, licking his lips. He cleaned his spoon and put it back in one of the smaller pockets on his chest rig.

  "What are you doing?" asked Ted, half out of the van. "Pick that up, man."

  Erik looked at the empty chili can at his feet. "Why? You worried we're going to get a ticket for littering?"

  Ted snorted in derision. "No, smart ass, I don't want anyone knowing we were here." He ducked back in the van and set about reorganizing their supplies for the next leg of their journey.

  Brin stepped up next to him and handed over her half-empty bottle of water. "Here, everyone's sharing. This is ours."

  Erik took it and let his fingers linger on hers for a second too long. She didn't move but didn't look him in the eye either. "It's terrible, isn't it?" she asked, nodding toward the mass grave. "All those people…all that death."

  Erik drank the water in silence, swallowing his words as the moment passed. There was nothing he could say to mitigate the scene before them, or the damage done to their relationship. Nothing that wouldn't take time and privacy. Brin gently took the empty container and climbed in the back with the kids. Erik took at least a little comfort from the fact that she didn't snap at him and didn't pull her hands away from his. At least not immediately.

  "Let's roll," Ted said from the driver's seat.

  Chapter 37

  Dunham

  MALCOLM STOOD AT THE one lane bridge next to a sign welcoming visitors to the small town of Dunham, Georgia. The afternoon sun beat down on them. Despite the lateness of the year, Malcolm felt sweat trickle between his shoulder blades.

  This late in November, he expected it to be a little more mild, but a combination of nerves, exhaustion, and stress made him feel much more acutely what the sun did provide.

  It didn't help that he had to deal with some ignorant, inbred hicks. Dunham set squarely in the path of his army, now less than two hours out. The front runners were already trickling in through side roads and dirt paths that lead to this point, a two-lane bridge crossing the minor stream north of Dunham. It was the easiest point of access, but he knew if the rednecks continued in their asinine blockade, his people would merely swarm around it and engulf the town, anyway. At this point, his people were desperate for food and shelter and rest.

  General Stapleton had provided more than enough impetus to keep his people moving. The stragglers were swallowed up by the inescapable force of the army so close on their heels. Those that were left behind had been provided explosives and weapons.

  The red truck's passenger door squeaked on rusted hinges as an overweight, greasy-looking man got out and scratched at his jeans. He spat a glob of tobacco juice on the ground next to the truck. He said something to the driver of the truck, eliciting a laugh from the men with rifles standing in the bed.

  One of them had a scoped hunting rifle. Malcolm felt his skin crawl as the barrel of the gun swept over him and lingered just a little too long. From a distance of about 25 yards, Malcolm was sure the man with the rifle could hit him. He prayed to Allah for strength and willed the man to move on to another target.

  The fat man shambled his way across the bridge, spitting and talking with the two armed men that shuffled along beside him. They looked younger and related. Perhaps they were his sons or nephews?

  Malcolm muttered assurances to his guards and stepped forward alone, unarmed. He walked fully a quarter of the way across the bridge before the fat man and his entourage stopped about ten feet away. He held up one sausage-fingered hand and frowned.
r />   "That's far enough, mister."

  Malcolm nodded in acceptance of the man's terms. He stood with his hands clasped behind his back, waiting.

  "My boys said they already done told you folks to clear on outta here. You ain't gonna find anything in Dunham.” He pronounced it “Dun-num”. “We been through some hard times."

  "My people do not wish to cause any concern or problems. We are only passing through—"

  The fat man laughed, then spat a glob of tobacco on the ground before Malcolm. "Well, I'm sure you'll understand when I say we've heard that before. You see them houses back there?" he asked, jerking a fat thumb over his shoulder without turning.

  Malcolm shifted his gaze in the indicated direction and saw the husks of two houses by the side of the road, burned to the ground. "I do."

  "That happened when another group of people rode up on motorcycles saying they ‘just wanted to pass through.’ My predecessor let them through and this is what we got. Four people died."

  "Your predecessor? I take it then you are someone in a position of authority?"

  "That's right, my name is Billy—I'm sheriff in these parts."

  One of the younger men snickered behind him. Sheriff Billy turned and glared at the young man until he fell silent, cleared his throat and stood at attention. Billy returned his gaze to Malcolm with a self-assured smile on his face.

  "So like I said, y'all need to clear on out here. Go on back the way you came."

  Malcolm sighed. "I apologize, but I fear that will not possible."

  Billy frowned and spat another glob of tobacco juice. "You hard a'hearin', boy? I said get outta here."

  Malcolm resisted the urge to take a few steps and pummel the man's face. "I apologize, but as I said, that is not possible—my people—”

  "You seem to be confused," Sheriff Billy said. He laughed. "I don't give a rat's ass about your people," he said flashing quotes with his fingers. "You try an' cross this bridge, you gonna be buryin' your people."

  The younger men behind him high-fived in enthusiastic support of their leader.

  "In fact, if you don't get off this bridge in the next 30 seconds, I'm going to signal my boys to open fire. We won't wait for your people to try and cross. We know what happens when your kind comes town. We ain't taking that chance again. Now get outta here. You all done been warned."

  Billy turned and stalked off toward the far side of the bridge, his guards backing up slowly, their weapons at the ready.

  Malcolm stood there, transfixed by anger. He'd made sure to be among the first to approach Dunham, to prevent the normal panic from taking root before they arrived. He'd done everything he could to make people see that they were not aggressive in any way and this was the welcome he got.

  He glanced at the sign on the far side of the bridge, proclaiming Dunham to be 'friendliest town in the south'.

  "Go on! We'll really shoot your asses!" screamed one of the younger guards from the far side the bridge.

  Malcolm turned and walked away, his fists clenched, begging Allah for relief from his anger.

  A tempting thought tickled the back of his mind as he crossed back into the questioning looks of his followers. I could just unleash my people upon this town.

  He chastised himself immediately. No. I will not do that. We can still resolve this peacefully. I just need to give them some time—his thought was cut off by the crack of a rifle shot.

  The side of Malcolm's face was sprayed with a fine mist. He flinched as one of his people crumpled to the ground at his feet, blood leaking out around a grievous head wound.

  Screams erupted from his supporters as they gathered around him. More rifle shots crackled from the far side of the bridge and the second, third, and fourth victims fell bleeding to the ground.

  Malcolm stood frozen as a chunk of asphalt exploded next to his foot. The sting of the gravel against his cheek finally snapped him into action. He turned and screamed, waving his hands for the shooters to stop.

  "We are leaving! We are leaving! Don't shoot!" The woman next to Malcolm shrieked as her head whipped back and she fell to the ground.

  The blockade on the far side of the bridge exploded in a fusillade of rifles and shotgun blasts. Bullets ricocheted all around Malcolm, striking concrete barriers, trees and people. Malcolm felt like he’d stepped into a war zone.

  He turned and grabbed the closest wounded person he could, physically dragging them off the bridge toward the safety and shelter of bushes on the far side. "Hurry!" he called. "Grab the wounded—we must get them out of here!"

  By the time he’d pulled the survivors off the bridge, the death toll stood at nine. Nine souls who'd followed Malcolm with innocent hopes of achieving a promised land, their lives snuffed out by ignorance and greed and hate. Two of them were mere teenagers, their lives cut short for no reason.

  In a rage, Malcolm screamed at the laughing shooters across the bridge. All of his frustrations on the journey south, all his fear and anger—all of it now exploded in one soul shattering moment.

  Malcolm knew what he must do. He turned to his lieutenant. "Send word back. Tell them what happened here! Tell them how we were attacked!"

  Malcolm stared at the group of men across the bridge, their numbers growing by the minute as more and more armed citizens approached from Dunham. The whole town appeared to be gathering for a party.

  Malcolm stared at his blood-covered hands and looked into the innocent face of a teenage boy, staring up into the sky with unblinking eyes.

  "We will make Dunham burn."

  Chapter 38

  The Fever

  BRIN PULLED THEM SLOWLY around a disabled tractor-trailer. She slowed as they approached the outskirts of Leesburg, pausing just long enough for Ted to get a good look at the semi.

  "It's empty."

  "You're sure?" asked Erik from the back. He craned his neck to see through the tinted side windows but only spotted the open maw of the trailer.

  "Oh yeah. Someone took this thing apart a while ago. Look at all the trash in the street."

  Erik glanced around at the ground as the van rolled past the sleeping 18-wheeler. Ted was right—paper and empty bags swirled in the breeze. Rotting cardboard boxes and electronics littered the road.

  "Careful—don't run over anything," warned Ted. "I don't think we have a spare tire…"

  "Easier said than done," muttered Brin, wincing as the tires crunched something plastic. "What do you think happened here?"

  "Desperation," Ted said in a quiet voice. "Keep going. I'm thinking our best bet might be to roll through town and stop for the night on the east side."

  Erik stared at the empty buildings and houses on the outskirts of Leesburg, just south and west of the Maryland border. "Yeah…" he mumbled. "I think that's a good idea."

  House after house had been burned to the ground. The charred beams and timbers that rose from the ashes and rubble looked like skeletal fingers reaching up from the grave. The whole south side of Leesburg had burned almost to the ground.

  "Wonder how the fire started?" asked Brin.

  "Could have been anything from arson to lightning," replied Ted. He remained silent for a moment as they drove past a house with three wooden crosses planted in the front yard near small grass-covered mounds. "Once the fires got started, without electricity to pump the water into the hydrants, they must have burned out of control."

  "For days, it looks like," said Erik. "This place looks like Dresden after World War II."

  Even the children sat silent as the van made its way through the debris-clogged, deserted streets. Teddy burrowed his head into Lindsay's shoulder as they drove past a playground. The equipment had melted in the heat of the fire into unrecognizable, monstrous shapes.

  "Anyone see any movement?" asked Erik.

  "Negative," replied Ted. "Stay frosty—I don't like this. Brin, let's pick up the pace a bit."

  "The road’s getting more and more congested—I'm trying."

  "Heads up!"
called out Erik. "Got a walker at 3 o'clock." He stared at the shabby figure that emerged from the shadows between two buildings, hands raised.

  "Armed?" asked Ted, turning in his seat. "I can't see 'em—Brin, keep moving, don't slow down."

  "Make that two walkers." Erik shifted to Brin's side of the van. "I can't see anything. They have their hands up—looks like one's an old woman."

  "Should we stop to help her?" asked Lindsay's small voice from the back-back.

  Ted glanced at Erik. "No, sweetie—we don't know—"

  A hole appeared in the window not six inches from Erik's face and the glass spider-webbed. He stumbled back out of the seat and fell on the floor with a curse.

  "Get down!" shouted Ted. "Brin—floor it, we’re taking fire!"

  "But—"

  "Go, go, go!" Erik called out. "It’s a trap!"

  Lindsay screamed. "Daddy!"

  Tires squealed, the children cried, Erik cursed as he slammed against the sliding door, and Brin drove the van like she’d stolen it.

  "Hang on!" she called over her shoulder.

  "Now she tells me," muttered Erik.

  "I can't see them!" yelled Ted, pistol drawn. He peered around through the side and rear windows, looking for the shooter.

  "There's someone in the street," announced Brin. "I see them in the mirror—they've got a rifle!"

  "Swerve! Take the next side street!"

  Erik struggled to his knees as the van rocked back and forth with Brin's efforts at evasive driving. He flew to the other side of the van and smashed his face against the window. As his vision cleared, a shot shattered the rear window, spilling glass chicklets on the children, huddled down low against the rear door. Erik heaved himself between the middle seats and threw his body over the screaming children, forcing them away from the door.

  "Stay down," he said in a soothing voice. "I'm wearing a bullet-proof vest—just stay in front of me and they won't be able to hit you." It was a lie, but one the children were eager to believe. They crawled forward and stayed as low as they could to the bucking floor.