Carnegie waved his hand dismissively at John. “Don’t give me that bullshit. I asked you a direct question. Tell me how well armed these folks are, how organized, how self-sufficient, and what they have that we can use.”
John shook his head slowly, chewing the inside of his cheek. “They are barely making it. Food is scarce, and now that I’m gone, I give them about another month before they start starving to death.”
Carnegie smiled menacingly. “Josh says you all had solar power, and there was some sort of water line running to the house—don’t test my patience, John.”
“They have panels for solar, but nothing works. It’s all fried. It’s true, one of them ran a sprinkler line from the creek so they get water inside the house, but it’s only a trickle, and most of the time its muddy. They’re in bad shape, the whole area is either dead or in real bad shape, Colonel,” John said, using the man’s rank, hoping to sound more professional and therefore more believable. John knew the longer he stalled Carnegie, the better chance Jared stood of getting everyone away and to a safer living place.
“Well, we’re going to see about all that in a day or two. Rest assured, John, if you’re lying to me now, I’ll shoot you myself.”
After John’s interview with Carnegie, Josh shoved John roughly to what was formerly an aircraft parts shed located off to the side of the large hangar. Josh unlocked a heavy padlock on the outside of the door and pushed John into the darkened interior. The door clanged shut behind him, and Josh could be heard snapping the lock back into place on the outside. John saw only one sentry standing off to one side of the shed between the hangar and the shed before he was pushed through the door. The man looked to be about forty-five years old and was wearing an ill-fitting set of digital BDUs. John assumed the man was part of the National Guard or some other low-level military unit, forced into action after the event.
As Josh’s footsteps faded, John turned and began the process of allowing his eyes to adjust to the low light conditions. He heard a scuttling sound in the back of the shed, which was roughly thirty by forty feet and smelled of grease and human sweat. There were vents high on two of the walls, which were covered in a thick steel mesh that had assuredly been installed to keep rats from entering and destroying expensive and essential replacement parts.
An old man appeared from the rear of the shed in the dim light as John’s eyes adjusted. The man looked to be in his seventies with a shock of unkept white hair and an even whiter beard. The man had been lying on a mattress in the back corner of the shed and was now standing in the middle of the structure, studying John. The two men gazed silently at one another for a full thirty seconds before the old man spoke.
“And who might you be, sir?” the man asked pleasantly.
“John, and you?”
“My name is Luther—Luther Brock, and I am a prisoner in my own country.”
John snorted softly. “Aren’t we all.”
Luther shuffled to the side of the shed and sat atop an old crate, his shoulders drooping in a way that betrayed not only his age, but his overall state of mind. Luther was formerly a Silicon Valley elite and in the early days worked on some of the most cutting-edge projects in electronics. When Luther’s bosses learned he was not only a brilliant electrical engineer, but an even brighter businessman, they’d plucked him from his position and elevated Luther into the management ranks.
Luther understood what many at the time did not, which was how to parlay the brilliance of what was happening in Silicon Valley at the time into a multibillion-dollar venture. Luther grasped how the future could be molded by the coming electronics age and how his company not only fit into the coming age, but how he and his company could profit during their transition through the next forty years.
There were many well-known public names in Silicon Valley, but Luther was not one. He’d chosen to remain behind the scenes, directing and managing all that went on within his company from the shadows. There was no doubt that Luther was known, and known well, within the circles of Silicon Valley, but outside, few ever heard of one Luther Brock.
Luther had liked it that way. He had been accompanied by no security detail and lived in a modest home in Portola Valley he’d purchased after he made his first million dollars. Luther bought the home for 1.7 million dollars and had wondered if he were making a financial mistake. At the time of the solar flare, Luther’s property was valued at 14.5 million, mostly due to the amount of flat usable land associated with the thirty-five-hundred-square-foot residence. The property totaled thirteen acres in some of the most sought-after real estate in the world. Now the property sat unused and worthless except for its value as a place to plant crops.
When the helicopter came for him, Luther welcomed the ride back to Carnegie’s base. His food supplies were nearly exhausted, and he hadn’t seen his wife since the event. Luther’s wife had been on a trip to New York at the time of the solar flare, and Luther held little hope he’d see her again, so he remained locked inside his house. When after two weeks things only worsened, Luther realized he was fast approaching a life-threatening predicament.
Luther also came to terms with the fact that for nearly forty years of his life he had schemed and conspired to not only develop and build the electronic age, but he and his cohorts did their best to imbed their products so deeply into society that the average person could not function without being tethered to Luther’s array of electronic devices. This included nearly every business in the world before the solar flare. Farmers and computer manufacturers operated nearly at the same level of dependence on the electronic infrastructure. Small businesses depended on social media to promote their companies, while elementary schools built entire departments dedicated to computer labs.
The world leaned heavily on electricity and the technology that evolved from Palo Alto, Mountain View and other Silicon Valley garages as young men and women began to peel back the layers of possibilities linked to electricity, computers, robotics, and artificial intelligence. A mere forty years had passed since the start of the computer revolution, and now plants that were previously constructed to employ thousands of men and women were home to a new, cheaper and more efficient employee—the robotic assembly line.
Luther couldn’t help feeling like he maintained a level of culpability in the death and devastation left after the planet was taken to its knees through the loss of electricity and nearly every machine that harbored an electrical component. Luther wasn’t suicidal over the matter, but he wished he and his fellow Silicon Valley friends had taken a closer look at not only the earning and functionality potential of their life’s work, but also the possibility of an event like the one humanity was currently struggling with.
Luther knew deep down there was one reason he’d never possessed the power or influence to make a difference—greed. Even if he could have convinced his company management to harden their products against such a disaster, it would have affected their bottom line, and he knew full well other companies would never have followed. Their stockholders would have rioted at the company headquarters over the amount of money lost to guard against a big maybe.
Luther looked up at John, his eye lids at half mast, his posture screaming of a man defeated in life. “So what did you do to piss off that bastard Carnegie?”
John wagged his head. “He ain’t pissed. Least not yet. I’ve seen that guy pissed, and this is not it. If you’re asking why I’m locked in this shed with you, well—I guess it’s because the colonel doesn’t trust me,” John finished with a smirk and a twitch of his shoulders.
“Well, then I guess we can be friends,” Luther said in a gravelly voice.
As John’s eyes began adjusting to the low light inside the shed, he spied a metal worktable. John dragged the table closer to Luther and sat atop it. “Why are you here?”
Luther’s shoulders straightened almost indiscernibly as John sensed a smidgen of pride return to the man’s frame. “Ah, that bastard not only doesn’t trust me, he hates me
too.”
Luther spent the next several minutes reciting to John his past and how Josh had flown out and plucked him from the ashes of society, bringing him back to what turned out to be no better.
“The ole colonel is about as sharp as a wet bag of mice, if you ask me. He brought me here thinking I was some sort of whiz-bang electrical guru. When I told him I hadn’t been in the trenches since 1983, he lost it. I probably didn’t help my case by offering to build him a pullout cassette for one of his four precious H. He either didn’t get the joke or got it and didn’t like it, ’cause here I sit. One meal a day with a little water and the sleeping bag I have back there in the rear of the shed,” Luther finished, gesturing a boney hand toward the back of the shed.
John saw a small military cot complete with an olive-drab cold-weather sleeping bag laid across its top. “How long have you been here?” John queried the older man.
Luther twitched slightly, too tired to shrug. “Dunno—I kept track of the days for a week, then gave up. I’m an old man, my life is nearly at its end, so what used to be important isn’t so much anymore. What time it is or the date doesn’t really matter to me. I’m sure my family is dead, so holidays don’t mean much. I guess the only thing dates account for anymore is on Christmas. I’ll be colder than on Father’s Day—if I live that long—John,” Luther said, leaning forward, his face masked in earnest concern. “We are in grave trouble.” Luther’s voice trembled as he finished.
“I know,” John breathed softly.
“No, man, I mean the country, maybe the world, is in grave trouble.”
“World,” John offered.
Luther looked perplexed. “What?”
“It’s world, you said country or world—it’s the entire world.”
Luther swallowed hard, then leaned back against the shed’s wall. “Then it’s worse than I could have ever imagined.”
The two men sat silently, listening to the faint sounds of the base. Men’s voices yelling in the distance, a Humvee’s throaty diesel engine passing, which to John seemed wholly out of place.
After several minutes in deep thought, Luther spoke. “In the words of a great gambler, the best that you can hope for…” he croaked, gesturing for the second time toward the rear of the shed.
“Jesus, Luther, can you hold off on that?”
Chapter 3
Late afternoon, two days after John was taken, Jared and the rest of the group packed everything they could possibly stuff, tie, or cram into or onto the VW Beetle and three packhorses. Barry’s motorcycle was strapped to the back of the VW, which was no easy feat, taking much longer than anyone would have expected along with an all-out effort on the part of the entire group minus the children. The group filled the trailer with their Powerwall batteries, solar panels, and several additional necessities they found room for in and around the panels. Once the group had the trailer packed, Calvin chose five horses he felt were best suited for riding and saddled them.
It was Jared’s idea to tow the VW and trailer with the pack animals in order to reduce the signature of the little car’s engine. It would also save on fuel, which to date they hadn’t addressed. After the first day of packing, Jared studied a map of the area and decided the safest route would be Mines Road, which wound approximately twenty miles through the mountains, starting near where they were and ending in Livermore amidst the vineyards.
Jared weighed the pros and cons of this route and liked it due to the utter remoteness of the road and the fact that lake Del Valle lay almost halfway to Livermore. Jared surmised the group could lay up at the camping ground shown on his map and recoup if the trip there ended up being harder on them than expected. The con was with the remote nature of the area, it would be less likely they’d find fuel. Jared figured he would drive the VW up hills and have the horses tow on the flat ground. Downhill he could coast, which after the dissolution of society was no longer a violation of the California Vehicle Code.
As the group stood around, waiting for direction, Jared realized they were waiting on him to make a decision regarding their departure time. He took a peek at the windup watch on his wrist and saw it was 2:30 p.m. Jared reached down and twisted the knob several times, never wanting the tiny timepiece to fail him.
“I say we leave now,” Jared stated flatly, his face searching the others for any sign of disagreement. He found none.
The seating arrangement had been settled before the group loaded up to leave the ranch house. Shannon and Essie shared a horse, while Carlos and his son, Salvador, shared another. Stephani, Claire and Jared all rode alone, while Calvin took a load off riding in the car. Earlier that morning, Calvin had masterfully rigged the three pack animals to the VW with two of the animals tethered in a single row and the third animal in the lead. Barry would ride the third horse, which Calvin saddled but didn’t load additional gear onto. Where Barry went, so went Calvin and the VW.
“Let’s go,” Jared announced, swinging into the saddle of his horse. Unlike the old westerns, Jared kept his rifle slung across his back and not stored in a holster attached to his saddle. Within seconds, everyone was where they needed to be for the group to move out. Jared had the map committed to memory and knew they would have to travel back west toward San Jose on Mount Hamilton Road before they could make a right-hand turn onto Mines Road, where they would spend the next few days winding and twisting their way through the California mountains just east of the Ohlone Regional Wilderness.
Jared led the group up the dirt road, and before long they reached Mount Hamilton Road. Jared dismounted and cut an opening in the fence, not bothering to replace the wire like he’d done in the past. He no longer cared if anyone came to the ranch house, it was no longer their sanctuary. For the time being they had no home, no sanctuary, no safe place to lay their weary heads at night. This thought caused a chill to creep up Jared’s spine as he realized they were on the road again, subject to the dangers and hardships the ranch house’s remoteness previously protected them from.
He’d been on the road, and been on it recently, but it was in the company of John and Barry and not an old man, three women and two kids.
Calvin’s grizzled old voice broke the silent rhythm of the horses’ hooves pounding the pavement. “Hey, where the hell is the kid and that damn dog?”
“Calvin!” Shannon snapped, jerking her head back in Essie’s direction.
“Ah, sorry, lass,” Calvin apologized.
Jared, who was in the lead, turned in his saddle. “Devon took Crank and my bike, went ahead to scout us a place to sleep tonight.”
Calvin relaxed and tried not to make eye contact with Shannon, who was still glaring at him for swearing in front of the children. Finally, Shannon dug her heels into the horse’s sides and caught up to Jared. Essie’s hair bounced as the horse trotted up next to him. Jared turned and smiled at the young girl. He needed to spend more time with her, take her out and start teaching her some of the lighter things Bart and John had already taught him. He could show Essie how to fish once they arrived at lake Del Valle, but until then the trip would be a grind with time for little else but the demanding push forward.
Jared smiled at Essie again, and she gave him a quizzical look.
“What?” Essie asked as she clung to Shannon’s midsection, her legs splayed by the sheer girth of the horse’s rump. The soles of her shoes were actually facing outward instead of dangling down like the adults’ were.
“We missed your birthday, Essie. It was, like, two months ago. You’re eight years old now.”
Essie’s lips parted, but no words came as Shannon shot Jared a quizzical look. Shannon’s brows furrowed as she wondered how in the world Jared knew Essie’s birthday.
“When we get to wherever we are going, Shannon and I will figure out a way to make you a proper birthday cake,” Jared added with a grin.
“When was it?” Shannon inquired, an expression of genuine curiosity written across her pretty face.
“October fourth,” Jared
answered, looking back at Essie, who returned his stare, unsmiling.
Jared’s birthday proclamation reminded Essie he’d gone to her home and without a doubt had seen her father lying on the floor bloodied and dead, as she remembered him. Essie wondered if Jared went next door and saw the remains of her mother as well. Until now, Essie forced herself not to think of her life before Jared whisked her from the nightmare, but now Jared had involuntarily jolted the memories back into the light of her mind’s eye. Essie shuddered, causing Shannon to rotate in the saddle to make sure the little girl was alright.
Jared and Shannon exchanged veiled looks of concern as Essie physically withdrew, hunching her shoulders forward and lowering her chin as she tucked her elbows as close to her sides as possible while keeping her arms wrapped around Shannon’s torso. Jared pulled up on his mount’s reins, maneuvering the animal so he was even with Essie as they rode.
“Essie,” Jared said, reaching down and patting the girl’s leg. “Essie,” he pressed.
Essie turned her head, but only halfway, using her eyes to make the final shift needed to meet Jared’s gaze.
“I’m sorry if I upset you, but we did miss your birthday, and we are going to make it up to you.” Jared wasn’t sure how to handle the girl. Jared had seen Essie upset in the past to the point of physically assaulting him. Bart had thankfully put a stop to the girl’s outburst with a gruff command, which the girl responded to immediately. Now, Jared wasn’t so sure gruffness was the answer for Essie’s long-term healing process, but he also wasn’t convinced mollycoddling the girl was the appropriate approach considering the rough life that lay ahead of them all.
Jared rode next to the little girl as she transitioned back and forth from staring at the ground and then back at Jared, who never broke eye contact with the waif.
The Jared Chronicles | Book 3 | Chains of Tyranny Page 3