by Hunt, Jack
But throwing in the towel wasn’t her way.
That was the easy way out.
It also wasn’t what leaders did.
Was she really a leader?
Arianna sighed.
Gunnar was right. She should have told the group the truth but the humiliation would have been too much to bear. Coming clean with the people that looked up to her and having them shame her for a mistake would have been brutal.
Arianna adjusted her grip on her rifle and went to the main doors and looked out. It was still dark. In a few more hours the sun would come up and they would have to trek through the forest to the farm in Eugene. The thought of facing the survivors made her want to be sick. No doubt they would blame her for the fall. Leadership always got blamed even if it was out of their hands. The truth was she didn’t know about the attack. She had put in place everything she could to keep those people alive. Every decision she’d made since taking on the role of leader was for the safety of the group even if it made her unpopular with those who wanted to fight.
Fighting would have only led to more death.
They’d taken that approach in the first few years after the attack and it had proved fatal. She knew people thought she was a coward hiding out in the forest, doing nothing, but that wasn’t the truth. She had been going back and forth speaking with militia, trying to get them to work together. A feat that wasn’t easy in light of their individual differences. Not all militia groups were on the same page regarding government and not all of them ascribed to the same principles.
That’s why many had turned coat in the early days.
They wanted to see the government fall.
Arianna reached into her pocket and pulled out half a pack of smokes and contemplated having one. She’d smoked for almost ten years before the war but had managed to quit nine weeks before the attacks. Arianna gave the pack a tap and brought one to her lips. She took out the lighter and brought a flame to life. Eight cigarettes left. It didn’t matter. Once they were gone, she wouldn’t have any more. That was her excuse. That and the thought of facing the survivors. The end glowed a hot orange and she inhaled deeply, allowing the nicotine to hit her system. Blowing out smoke she felt instant relief.
Still, she cast a nervous glance behind her as if expecting Gunnar to emerge and give her one of his judging looks. Judgment. That’s what she’d felt for years. Not from those around her but from herself.
The reality was she was in her mid-forties, and Demar was dead, and the one who was still alive no longer cared. She only had herself to blame.
Arianna took out her flashlight and clicked on the switch. A light burst forth illuminating the far recesses of darkness. Several rats scurried away. Before the war, they would have freaked her out but not now. Years of living in the forest had thickened her skin.
Figuring she might find some more alcohol, she went into one of the back rooms and began searching. Paperwork was everywhere. A smashed computer on the floor, and smears of blood on the wall. What happened? She had to use brute force to shoulder her way into an office as there was a table pressed up against the door. She could almost imagine what had taken place in her mind. Management trying to hide, locking themselves in an office, barricading the door.
Inside the office it smelled like death.
There were no bodies but she noticed streaks of blood leading away from the door into a bathroom. The door was slightly ajar. “Hello?” she said. No answer. Taking out her Glock G45, she used the tip of her foot to push the door wide, shining her flashlight in. “Hello?” There was someone on their knees leaning over the toilet seat. “Hey there. Hey!” she said. No response but there was movement. The body moved ever so slightly. Arianna glanced back, one final check before crossing the threshold between the office and bathroom. Keeping a firm grip on her handgun, and aiming it at the person, she got closer. “Hey. You there.”
She tapped the tip of the person’s boot with her foot but they didn’t respond.
Making her way around to get a closer look, that’s when she noticed the toilet bowl was full of snakes, some going in and out of the person’s eye socket. Rats emerged from either side of the body; no doubt having eaten their way through the flesh. A cry escaped her lips. She tumbled back, losing her footing, and landed hard. The gun went off, echoing loudly. Arianna scrambled to her feet and got the hell out of there, hurrying, still looking over her shoulder as if expecting to see an army of rats chasing her.
As she burst out of the office and turned, a meaty hand grabbed her around the mouth and an arm embraced her.
At first, she thought it was Gunnar but when someone else removed her gun and rifle, and the person holding her dragged her back, she knew she was in trouble.
Her muffled cries tried to escape but nothing came out except a mumble.
“Shhh. You make a sound and I will cut your throat.”
She couldn’t see him but she could smell him. His fingers stank of cigarettes and dirt. Another figure moved into her line of sight and she noticed the person was covered by a hood and their face was blacked out with camo face paint.
Dragging her backward, it didn’t take them long to get her into a room, a room that had two more people inside. As soon as the door was closed, the hand was removed and she was shoved violently up against the wall and a bright light was shone in her eyes to stop her from seeing them. “Who are you?” they asked.
“Arianna. I’m with militia.”
“Militia. Huh. They’re still alive?”
She frowned, finding the question a little strange.
“Who are you?” she asked.
They ignored her question. “Who else is with you?”
“My husband, and three other people.”
“Armed?”
“Of course.”
“Sounds like she has some attitude, Butch,” a female said from off to her right.
A knife came up to her throat. “Is that right? You got attitude, lady?”
“No. Listen, we’re not looking for any trouble.”
“We’ll decide that,” the man barked. “You got supplies?”
“Nothing.”
“Where did you come from?”
They continued peppering her with questions. Where, who, why, when. Once they were done, the man stepped back, releasing his grip, and turned off the light. Just as her eyes began to adjust and see who her attackers were, a voice called out.
“Arianna? Arianna!”
It was Gunnar. He must have heard the gun go off back in the office.
The man’s hand clamped over her mouth. Shoving her back into the wall, he gave a nudge with his head and two of them went to the door. “Don’t you even let out a whisper or I will cut your throat. You hear me?”
Her eyes bulged as she nodded.
She could now see him. His eyes were small, beady, and black. He had a thick beard that framed his face and long hair. He reminded Arianna of a beach bum, dressed in a vintage T-shirt, a woolly sweater. He was strong, muscular, and carried himself with confidence. One of them returned and told them that it was just one guy.
“Please,” she tried to say behind his hand but it only came out muffled.
“Is he with you?”
She nodded. The man dragged her across the room and handed her over to two women. One of them wrapped her arm around her neck, placing her in a chokehold while keeping her hand over her mouth, the other sat on her legs to stop her from moving.
Her heart drummed in her chest as she saw the men exit the room heading for Gunnar.
“Arianna!” Gunnar said, looking around the lobby. In the silence of the hotel, he’d heard the muted gunshot loud and clear. After his run-in with the PLA, he assumed more had shown up and now they had her or she was engaged with them but it was quiet, not a sound could be heard. Keeping his rifle at the ready, he scanned the lobby with his flashlight then switched it off when he heard the sound of glass crunch below boots.
Gunnar turned his head ever so sligh
tly and saw a figure dart back behind a wall.
With his pulse speeding up, he tried to pretend he hadn’t seen the stranger.
“Oh man, c’mon Arianna. Don’t play games,” he said. He knew it wasn’t her that he’d seen. The figure was too tall. Knowing that he was a sitting duck standing out in the open, he headed for the main doors, jogging quickly to avoid anyone attacking him from behind. He needed to lure them out. Get close. Draw them into his web.
Darting outside, he turned to the right and disappeared behind the building, then he waited. He heard movement. Voices. Several. Turning to his right he scanned the windows, searching for one that was shattered. When he spotted an opening, he shuffled across and climbed through back into the hotel.
Inside an office, he quietly made his way back through a maze of hallways to the lobby.
That’s when he spotted them.
Three, armed with rifles. They weren’t PLA.
Run-ins with bandits and troublemakers had become quite common since the fall of America. People were desperate and that made them dangerous.
Leaving them alive could mean death.
He could have instructed them to put their weapons down but his gut told him that would only end in a standoff and with three of them he was already at a disadvantage. Bringing down the barrel of his rifle, he reached into his pocket and took out a silencer, which he screwed on. It wouldn’t make each shot completely silent but it might buy him a second or two. Enough time to take out two of them. Without making a sound, he lifted his rifle.
The one closest to him was standing near the doorway, the second was just on the outside and the third was now out of sight.
He was just about to squeeze the trigger when he heard a click near his face.
“Put the rifle down.”
17
Branson
In a strange and crazy way, he could see the appeal of playing at death’s door. The base jump landing was as expected — hard — but whether by luck or fate, fortunately, he was alive and uninjured. He couldn’t say the same for two of the militia who collided with a building and a sign and died instantly upon impact.
The wind had been stronger than they’d anticipated.
Now they were down to six.
The moment he was on the ground and unhooked from the chute, Miles had his rifle in hand and was up, scanning for threats. His heart pounded hard then he felt a wave of relief when he saw Scarlett double-timing it over to him.
“How was it?” he asked.
“Fast.”
Because they jumped from such a low height there really wasn’t much time to think. It was out, release, and the rest was a fast descent beneath the chute until they were on the ground.
“Any injuries?”
“Surprisingly, no.”
He pointed to one of the militia that was on the ground not moving.
“He’s dead?”
“If he’s not, he’s sleeping on the job,” Miles replied. They’d landed in a strip mall parking lot near Branson Bank. It was mostly empty barring a few vehicles. Their instructions were to disconnect from their harness upon landing and make their way around to a heavily wooded area behind the strip mall.
Miles was already in mid-jog when he saw Snow land a few feet from him.
“Told you it was a breeze,” he said. He quickly disconnected and joined them.
“Not for them it wasn’t,” Miles replied, giving a nudge of the head to the poor bastard who’d somehow collided with the strip mall.
“We can’t leave them out here.” Snow changed direction and heading over to one of his fallen brothers. “Give me a hand.” In the distance, they could still hear gunfire and explosions. Maddox’s crew was doing a fine job of keeping eyes toward the east.
Miles looked down at the dead guy.
He couldn’t even remember his name.
It was an unpleasant sight. The guy’s leg was bent in an unhuman angle and his face had been rearranged. Snow lightened him of his weapon and additional ammo while Miles unlatched him from the chute. Scarlett took the chute while they dragged his limp body out of the parking lot and dumped it into a sea of black bags that were against an already overflowing industrial dumpster. It stank so bad. The heat of the day had drawn in an army of flies that were buzzing around.
Maggots were everywhere.
That was one thing no one really talked about — trash.
With no trucks to take it away and bury it, nearly all trash was left outside homes or thrown into dumpsters to rot, and it did and everyone suffered for it. “God, that is foul!” Scarlett said as she got rid of the chute behind the dumpster.
Lucius arrived on the scene and breathed it in with a wicked grin. “I don’t know, I could get used to it.”
“And there was me thinking you would be a smear on the pavement,” Scarlett said.
“Not today, princess. I’m the master of my domain.”
“I think I want to gag and it’s not this trash.” She brushed by him and he gave her a wink. Miles met his gaze and his smile turned to a frown.
“Well hero, you got something to say?”
Miles shook his head as the six of them jogged into the woods. Snow had been given directions to a contact in the town living on the south side near Dalton Drive. It would take a good ten minutes to get there but fortunately, they had the cover of thick trees and so far no one had spotted them.
“What’s his name?” Miles asked as they stayed low and ran at a crouch.
“Raj Kapoor,” Snow replied. “He was the contact for Darius when he first arrived. If anyone knows where he might have gone, it’s him.”
“And what if he screwed him over?”
“Well, that’s what we’re here to find out.”
Unlike Camdenton, which had less than four thousand residents, Branson overshadowed it with almost twelve thousand. Barrett, one of the militia guys who had once lived there, gave them a rundown of the place on the way to Raj’s home.
“There are over a thousand hotels, many along the main strip of Highway 76, the rest are scattered throughout.”
Much like Las Vegas that dripped with neon lights and eyesores galore, Branson had positioned itself as the Las Vegas of the Midwest with an eclectic mix of kitschy tourist attractions including crazy big buildings, theater productions, and restaurants with huge animal sculptures peering over the top of roofs.
Making it to the edge of a tree line that separated them from Falls Parkway, a two-lane blacktop that wound its way through the heart of the west side, they scanned the terrain. There were no PLA, no collaborators, and zero locals out. Maddox had told them they had exactly twenty-four hours to locate Raj, find out where Darius was and get back to the extraction zone. If they weren’t there on time, they would be left behind and no further help would be sent. It didn’t exactly spur confidence.
“Wait here,” Snow said, darting out to check the coast was clear. It was hard to see because of the way the road wound into the city. A few seconds later, he beckoned them out and they darted across the road and went straight back into woodland. That was the upside to the Ozarks. Towns were swallowed by forest and even though much of it had been cut down to allow for more neighborhoods to be built, there was still ample forestry that offered cover.
They made their way past the North American Property Maintenance facility until they reached S. Falls Avenue, a dividing road between the next batch of woodland. It was there they encountered the first challenge. A truck was blocking the road and several collaborators were talking with locals nearby, probably checking to find out what they knew. When collaborators weren’t backing up the PLA, they were often found patrolling or questioning residents — mostly it was residents who were offering information in exchange for better treatment. It was a wicked game of different levels. The PLA was at the top, council members and city officials below that, followed by collaborators, then residents who didn’t admit to working for the PLA but were willing to squeal if it meant getting more
rations. Those were the dangerous ones. Anyone could turn.
They couldn’t afford to wait for them to leave as they were running to a tight schedule but on the other hand, they couldn’t dash out and expose themselves.
“Four of them. We can take them out,” Lucius said.
“They’re American,” Miles protested.
“There you go again wanting to save the world.”
“It’s not about saving the world, dickhead, it’s a matter of principle.”
“Because you think you’ll inspire them? Is that right? Sorry buddy, I think those days are over.”
“If we kill them we are no better than them.”
“No, if we kill them we stay alive and right now,” he tapped his watch, “the clock is ticking. So what do you wanna do, hero?”
This was the downside to working with others. It was the reason Gunnar still wanted to work alone. Too many hands, too many opinions, too many wanting to guide the boat — while it made for light work, it had a way of making life difficult.
“We have to,” Snow said, looking at Miles.
“Then you’re doing it. I’m not.”
Lucius chuckled. “You will eventually. When it comes down to them and us, you will.” He rose, ready to head out with the others, and attack when one of the collaborators turned and headed back to a truck. They watched as he got on the radio, then he called his colleagues and they joined him. A few seconds later they watched the truck roll out.
“I guess you got your wish, hero,” Lucius said. “Too bad. I was looking forward to taking them out.”
Miles glared at him before jogging across the road and into the next tree line. Once they made it to Dalton Road and the address Snow had been given, they could already see that something had gone terribly wrong. The windows were shattered, the door blown off its hinges and it was silent. No movement. No sound. Miles indicated for three of them to go around the back while they entered by the front door.