Dux Bellorum (Future History of America Book 3)

by Marcus Richardson

  The engine revved, and the tires squealed again. "Hang on, here comes the turn!" shouted Brin.

  Erik wrapped his arms around the kids as another round thudded into the door above his shoulder. Come on, baby, get us the hell out of here.

  "Why are they shooting at us?" shrieked Lindsay. "What's wrong with them! We didn't do anything!"

  Erik pulled the children close and held them against his chest as the van sped away, the wind from the ruined window howling in his ears. Eventually the road smoothed out, and the children stopped crying.

  "Everyone okay?" asked Ted over the noise of the wind through the broken windows. He crawled back to his kids. "Is anyone hurt?"

  Not accepting their mumbled responses, Ted frantically searched them, looking for blood or cuts from bullets or glass. Satisfied no one had been hurt in the brief exchange, he embraced Lindsay in a bear hug and buried his face in her hair.

  Erik disentangled himself from Teddy and took Ted's place in the front seat while the family consoled each other in the back. He adjusted his helmet and scanned the buildings that sped by.

  "Whoa…I think you can slow down now, sweetie," he said softly.

  Brin ignored him and jerked her head as if she'd been slapped. Her hands gripped the wheel with white knuckles as the van approached 70 mph down the little residential street.

  Erik's eyes flicked from his wife's face to the cords standing out on her neck, to the road that zipped under their wheels. "Brin, listen to me, you need to slow down, just a little. Just a little bit—not a lot. Can you do that?"

  Brin whimpered but nodded. The van's engine changed pitched and their speed dropped a hair.

  "Hey, we need to slow down…" warned Ted.

  Erik swallowed. "Good, that's good…okay, let's take 'er down a little more. Okay? There's no one over here—the buildings all look burned down just like on the south side of town. Just slow down a little…"

  She nodded, a tear rolling down her cheek.

  "Erik…" Ted said a little louder.

  Erik took another glance out the windshield. In the distance, maybe three blocks away, the road ended in a T-intersection. A cluster of signs stood directly in their path in front of some charred tree trunks.

  "Baby, I need you to listen to the sound of my voice. Take your foot off the gas."

  "I can't," she whispered.

  "You can…do this for me, okay?"

  She shook her head. "Got to get away…"

  Erik checked the intersection. Two blocks away and closing fast. They were still doing 50 mph. "Brin, we need to turn up ahead. You've got to slow down."

  "I…"

  "Erik…" called out Ted's voice in warning.

  "Brin…come on…" Erik looked at the intersection. They were only a block away.

  "Everyone turn around and put your backs against a seat," said Ted from the back. "Hurry!"

  "Brin," he said, not bothering to look forward. If she didn't stop them, they'd all die when the van crashed into the barrier. "I love you."

  The van dipped down as Brin slammed on the brakes. She closed her eyes and screamed, her voice competing with the chirping tires as they shuddered to a stop not two feet from the intersection railing.

  Erik blinked and took a deep breath. Jesus Christ. His eyes met Ted's in the very back of the van. He turned away to comfort Lindsay, who'd started crying again.

  “Again! Again!” cheered Teddy.

  Brin sat there, staring out the front window. She slowly peeled her hands off the wheel and shifted into park. They both opened their doors to get out at the same time. Erik raced around the rear of the idling van, ignoring the damage it had taken escaping the ambush and raced to his wife.

  He'd expected to wrap her in a bear hug—this had to be the breakthrough he'd been waiting for. He opened his arms and moved to her.

  She shoved him aside and stepped past.

  "What—"

  "Not yet," she said in a soft voice laced with steel.

  "Brin," Erik said, feeling the heat in his own voice.

  She looked at him, her eyes red, filled with tears and ready to burst. "Not yet," she whispered.

  Erik's heart broke. She stood there before him, more in need of his support and love than ever before in their relationship, yet she banned him from helping.

  "Why?" he asked softly. "Why won't you let me—"

  "I said not yet!" she shouted and fled to the other side of the van.

  Erik took a moment to catch his breath and swallow his anger before climbing into the driver's seat. He slammed the door with more force than he'd meant and took a few more calming breaths.

  "Everything copacetic?" asked Ted from the back.

  "Fine," said Erik through clenched teeth. He threw the van into reverse and backed up through the intersection.

  "Which way do we need to go?" asked Ted, moving into the middle seat.

  "North." Erik turned left and followed the signs for Highway 15 to Frederick, Maryland.

  "Okaaaay," muttered Ted.

  "Daddy?" asked Lindsay. "I don't feel so good."

  Ted turned and disappeared into the back again. Before Erik could say anything to Brin, he heard someone throw up. The sickly-sweet sour odor of vomit filled the van.

  "Eeeew!" whined Teddy.

  Erik glanced in the rear-view mirror. Ted had crouched down behind the middle driver-side seat.

  "That's okay, honey, let it out…"

  Lindsay threw up again, the sound as revolting as the smell. Teddy started to cry. Brin seemed to snap back into herself and unstrapped her seatbelt before moving to the back.

  Erik tried not to break the steering wheel in half. For the life of him, he couldn't figure out what Brin's problem was, but he worried that things would get too strained between them to salvage their relationship. He was feeling more and more like a stranger around her these days.

  Brin returned to his side and stared out the windshield. "We got a problem."

  "What is it? Was she hit?"

  "No," Brin said, never looking at him. "Lindsay's got a fever."

  "A fever?" asked Erik. "Is she sick?"

  "I don't know…maybe that chili was bad? Maybe it's her leg…"

  "Oh God, is that cut infected?" Erik's mind raced. They had no antibiotics. How much time would Lindsay have before blood poisoning set in?

  "Should we stop and look for medicine?" Brin asked.

  "No," said Ted from the back. He moved up to take Brin's position as she reclaimed the passenger seat.

  "How is she?" asked Erik.

  "She's resting. Feels like a low grade fever to me. I'm concerned, but it's nothing to panic over yet."

  "Is it her leg?" asked Erik, afraid to hear the answer. Did I push us too hard? Did she get hurt because of me and now she's going to get worse…?

  "I don't think so. It's hard to see back there, but that cut looks like it's healing. It's been what, three days now?"

  "Yeah, I think," said Erik, weaving around two motorcycles in the middle of the road. What was left of the drivers lay scattered across both lanes. He swallowed and tried not to look at what the scavengers had left behind since the accident.

  Ted grunted. "I bet it was that damn chili. She wouldn't eat anything but that meatless shit. Meatless chili—it ain't natural."

  "Do we have anything for her?" asked Brin.

  "I've got some Tylenol in my kit," replied Ted. He sighed. "I'd like to keep that in reserve a bit longer. If she gets much worse, I'll give her some. I don't know…"

  "Well," said Erik, "we're coming up on Frederick in a bit. Someone want to check the map and see the best way back to 95?"

  "Is that really a good idea?" asked Brin.

  "We'll move faster," said Ted, "no doubt about that. May even find a place with medicine."

  Brin wrestled with the well-worn map from the glove box. "This is 15?"

  "Yeah. Frederick's about a mile ahead across the Potomac."

  She murmured to herself and traced a
finger on the map for a few seconds, calculating. "How much gas do we have?"

  "Uh, down to half a tank," replied Erik.

  "On the other side of Frederick we can pick up I-70 and ride it all the way to the outer loop around Baltimore. We can pick up 95 north of there."

  "How far is that?" asked Ted.

  "Looks like about 30 miles from Frederick to the loop."

  "Well, anything’s got to be faster than this," observed Erik.

  "I just have a bad feeling trying to jump back on the interstate that close to Baltimore," replied Brin. “What if the military is in control? What if they spot us?”

  "Half a tank will get us a couple hundred miles," Erik said looking at the instrument panel, "according to this thing."

  Brin squinted at the afternoon sky. "At this rate, we'll be at the Delaware border before nightfall."

  Ted nodded. "Fine. We'll plan on making Delaware before we stop for the night, then. Maybe we can find a small town or something and hit a few more cars."

  "Or a drug store," offered Brin.

  "If we're lucky," replied Ted. He clapped Erik on the shoulder. "Just keep us moving and don't hit anything."

  Chapter 39

  Deep South

  STAPLETON GRINNED FROM THE open hatch of his command Stryker. By God, we're gaining on you now, you son of a bitch. He scanned the horizon ahead—nothing but open road south as far as he could see.

  A smudge of smoke on the horizon looked interesting. He'd long since grounded his air wing, except for mini-drone flights at each vehicle refueling stop. So far, the rebels had managed to barely keep ahead of his army—barely. Whatever it was, he'd find out soon enough.

  He lowered the binoculars and glared at the horizon, chewing his stub of a cigar. A day ahead of us now. Just one day. I’m going to catch you, you slippery bastard. Despite the fact that Malcolm was an avowed traitor and enemy to the Republic, Stapleton had to admire his ability to master logistics and transport such a large body of troops so quickly. His best estimate had Malcolm's strength somewhere between 10-15,000 combat effective fighters.

  He glanced at an abandoned, late model Dodge minivan left in the ditch by the side of the interstate. Just another reminder that when Malcolm's people run out of gas, they'd abandon the vehicle, hitch a ride with another and keep moving. He slapped the roof of the Stryker and the driver put the big rig in gear, engine roaring to life.

  This must be what the Romans felt like, chasing Attila the Hun. Always gaining, but always a step behind. I should have destroyed him when I had him holed up in New York. Damn it.

  As the Stryker picked up speed, he squinted into the wind, glaring at the smoke on the horizon. What did Malcolm do, set fire to another town? He knows we'll stop to help the civilians, or get slowed down by them trying to get to us. I knew I shouldn't have spent so much time with Nella in Washington. He could have handled that speech solo. He shook his head.

  Politicians. If they're not sticking their nose in your business, they’re needing their hands held when you give them bad news.

  He ducked back inside as another eight-wheeled armored transport rumbled by, the heavy wheels creating an awful din on 95 as it passed. He waited for his jaw to stop vibrating before he spoke into his helmet mic. "Viper Actual, Command Actual."

  "Go ahead, Actual."

  "Got something on the horizon. Looks like smoke. Might be another raiding party like last time. I'm sending Chaos 3-1 forward to investigate. How quick can you get your transports up here?"

  After a brief pause, his tank commander replied: "It'll be at least another hour. I only got six through Savannah. The rest are strung out on the road between here and Florence."

  "That'll be plenty. These guys aren't exactly the Soviets."

  "Hooah."

  "Get your toys up front as fast as possible."

  "Roger that Actual.”

  Stapleton looked at the map displayed on his force location screen while his vehicle roared south. No speed limits for the IV. The miles melted away as he plotted where and how to trap Malcolm. The more he thought about it, the more he realized it would happen somewhere near the Florida-Georgia line.

  He zoomed in on the tactical display and started searching the topography of the area and where the roads might form a natural bottleneck. Maybe he could use the last of the aviation fuel to leapfrog a brigade of dismounted troops up ahead of Malcolm…slow his advance enough to bring the sledgehammer with Vinsen's tanks.

  "Command Actual, Chaos 3-1."

  "Go ahead, Chaos."

  "Found the source of the smoke. We're about ten miles ahead. Town of Dunham."

  "Rebels?"

  "Unknown. If it is, they really did a number on this place, Actual. We're talking 90% of the buildings are nothing but shells. Someone came through here like Sherman through Atlanta."

  Malcolm usually took his time and set fires in logical choke points to funnel the civilian population directly onto 95. He checked the map screen. Dunham was a few miles off the interstate. That didn't make sense—it was too far for a civilian exodus to have much of an impact and with a population so low—only a few thousand—they wouldn't have done much to slow Malcolm down, anyway. It just didn't add up.

  "Hold position, Chaos 3-1." He brought up the feed for the front-mounted camera on the armored personnel carrier.

  "Copy that, Actual. Holding position."

  The screen flickered to life and showed an image of a town that looked like it had been nuked. Trees stood denuded of leaves and smoldering. Most buildings in the line of sight of the driver were burned to the ground. Bodies and debris littered the streets. Blackened cars—full of bullet holes—formed solemn lumps in the road as far as he could see.

  He took remote control of the camera and panned left. "Good God."

  A dozen bodies, charred and black, hung from the smoking branch of an oak, out over the cracked and blistered street. One of them—the biggest of them—had something strapped to its body. They were so burned, he couldn't tell if they were male or female. Just dead.

  "Chaos 3-1, is that a sign on that fat one there in the middle?"

  "Affirmative."

  "What's it read?"

  "Wait one," the Stryker commander replied. When he returned, his voice was quiet. "Sign reads: Justice."

  "What the hell did you do this for, Malcolm?" Stapleton asked the bleak image on the screen. It was completely outside the rebel's normal modus operandi.

  "Whoa, Actual, we got something here."

  "What is it, Chaos?"

  "Pan left, Actual. Forty degrees."

  Stapleton swiveled the camera in the indicated direction and stared in disbelief. Sitting in front of the charred remains of a building—the sign said Dunham Jail—sat the blackened outline of a massive truck. "Is that a matvee?"

  "Affirmative, Actual. Looks like it’s the ambulance or specops crew cab model. Whiskey-tango-foxtrot?"

  "Any hostiles?"

  "Negative, Actual. No hostiles, no friendlies, no nothing. Just bodies and ashes. It’s a ghost town."

  "Copy, Chaos. Get out of there and rejoin the column. There's nothing for us to do there. Actual out."

  The view screen shuddered as the Stryker rolled forward and lumbered around in the carnage. Stapleton switched the screen off. He didn't need to see that. Whatever the hell happened in Dunham, he'd get his answers when he found Malcolm. Some of the bodies in the street were far too small to be adults.

  He stared at his force allocation screen again. If it was the last thing he did, he'd get to the bottom of this. He tapped the screen to bring up the FL-GA line again.

  I'm going to pin your ass to the border. Right there.

  "Havoc Actual, Command Actual," he called out.

  "Go ahead, Actual," replied the commander of his aviation brigade.

  "I may have a job for you…"

  Chapter 40

  Newark

  ERIK LOWERED THE BINOCULARS as he rested his elbows on the hood of their
van. "What do you think?"

  Ted shook his head and leaned his rifle against the side of the vehicle. "I don't know. I don't like it—this is the third town of this size that just seems…empty."

  "Well, we have to do something," said Brin. She peered inside the darkened van. "Her fever's getting worse. That Tylenol you gave her when we passed Aberdeen doesn't seem to be doing much.” She ran a hand through her hair. “It's too dark to get a good look at her leg, anyway…"

  Ted grunted. "Let's not risk a flashlight to check things out until we get back inside the van. We’re almost in twilight—I don't want to give away our location to anyone who might be watching."

  Erik looked at the horizon as the sun disappeared behind the rather large tree-covered hill to the northwest. "We still got some time. I think the sun is just behind that hill over there."

  "We don't have much gas for screwing around, guys," Brin added. She ran a hand through her hair again. "God, what I wouldn't give for a nice hot shower."

  Erik put the binoculars back to his eyes and tried to ignore Brin's comment. Every time she said something like that, it invited him to make a reply that might lead to further conversation. And every time he tried, she shot him down as if he insulted her family or something.

  Erik decided the best course of action was just ignore it until she decided to come talk to him. He focused his binoculars on the green sign beside the interstate.

  "Sign out there says ‘Newark University: Main Campus’ is at the next exit."

  Ted grunted. "College town. There's gotta be someone left there…"

  "Colleges have medical facilities, maybe even a hospital. I think we should check it out," said Brin. She peered back in the van again. "I can't get her to eat or drink anything."

  Ted nodded. "I don't want to, but you're right. We've got to find somebody or at the very least some medication."

  Erik pulled the binoculars from his face and stuffed them back in his pack. He peered forward into the gathering dusk. "Whatever we do, we should get going now. Ted, Lindsay's your girl. What do you think?"

  Ted looked at the battered road map stretched across the van’s hood. "Newark looks like a decent-sized town. This close to Philadelphia though…who knows what happened after the power went out." He glanced east.