Max Ryker- The End Begins

by David Wayne

  “It feels damned good!” I yelled.

  I crumpled the note, throwing it like a fast pitch against a burnt log in the fire pit. I swung hard at a bush, scraping my hand, but yelled out, “I don’t care,” at the shrub. I gave the MRE a good, hard football punt and watched it tumble head over heels, smash into a tree, and spill its contents all over the dirt. That was the last of the food. “So what,” I screamed out. “Nobody cares.” I started to give a big boulder a swift kick but stopped in midair; that wouldn’t feel good.

  “Max, you’re having a temper tantrum and talking to yourself out loud in the empty forest,” I said, out loud into the empty forest. Now I felt stupid and sat down on the large stone, forcing myself to breathe slowly. Calm down, son. You’re Max Ryker.

  Just because I didn’t say I love you right back, the sister was angry. These things take time. A man can’t be rushed into such serious matters.

  “Damn right,” I said out loud.

  The truth was, she was being a big baby. I’d spoiled that woman, and that was on me. She was being pushy, and it wasn't fair. A one-way ride down sister highway. I wouldn’t have it.

  “Max, now you’re having a pity party,” I said to the trees. “You’re not in kindergarten. Remember, you’re Max Ryker. Solve the problem.”

  “Exactly what is the problem, Max?” I said.

  “She’s gone,” I replied honestly. This was no time to pull punches.

  “What are you going to—”

  “Shut up,” I snapped. “I need to think.”

  She was gone, and I had decisions to make. I’d traveled two journeys over the past month, one physical and one emotional—one conscious, the other subconscious. The physical road trip was planned and executed, not perfectly or without mishap, but ultimately achieving the desired result. The emotional one? A tentative, hodge-podge effort in which, when faced with the day of reckoning, I’d come up short and was left wanting.

  She’s gone.

  Gones-ville.

  Moved to the corner of fuck-off street and have-a-good-life avenue.

  I was no longer angry or feeling sorry for myself. Now I was freaked. I looked at my watch. It had only been an hour since sunrise. She couldn’t be far. I snagged up my stuff and hauled ass.

  Chapter 62

  The terrain was fairly smooth but hilly. Whenever I hit a high spot, I paused to scan the horizon. People from all directions were heading toward downtown Atlanta. They looked like ants—moving with purpose at a steady pace, physically unaware of each other, yet sharing a collective goal. It was eerie, made more so by an unfamiliar backdrop, a noiseless major city with no visible, modern-day activity—smokeless stacks protruding from manufacturing plants, empty cloverleaf overpasses, and highways cluttered with lifeless vehicles. The visual impact was one thing, but it was the sounds that were most disturbing—there were none. No airplanes buzzing through the sky, no horns blasting their impatience. Just a mysterious blanket of silence, occasionally pierced by a sudden, startling interruption—distant gunshots.

  It was like being in a 3-D movie, perhaps based on Stephen King's City of the Dead, except he has no such book—this was reality. I’d been living with mental shock for several months, but this was a jolt to the senses, not just the brain. I found it the more potent of the two.

  I was constantly scanning for Susan, but there were too many people. By the time I made it down to the gates, I’d seen no sign of her. I have no idea how long I stood in line. It could have been hours or days—I just didn’t care. I used my CIA identification card, the legitimate fake one, and was subjected to five, instead of three, checkpoints. My credentials were counterfeit, but the agency was my largest customer, and I knew their inner workings like the back of my hand. In fact, they had actually supplied me with the bogus ID documents. After endless hammering by various people, I was eventually rewarded with a purple wristband. It held the highest security level. I was provided a briefing on the benefits, and responsibilities, associated with my newfound purpleness. I was instructed to report to the federal courthouse building by three p.m. for detailed instructions on my required duties. I barely listened, because I had no intention of showing up. As I was escorted through the last gateway into Atlanta, the guard offered some last-minute advice.

  “Sir, I suggest you head directly downtown and speak with Commander Lucas— he’ll provide some background intel so you’re better informed at the three o’clock operations meeting. You can’t miss the courthouse. It’s one of the oldest buildings in Atlanta—very ornate, lots of stone. You’ll recognize it by the big, wooden doors. Someone tore down the sign.”

  “Thank you,” I said.

  “You’re welcome, sir,” he said, saluting me. I don’t have formal military training, I’ve always worked for the intelligence agencies, so I wasn’t sure of the proper response—so I mimicked his. It seemed to work.

  A light rain was falling, and the temperature had dropped to what I overheard to be a record low. Either the guy was a walking weather almanac or was talking out of his ass. It didn’t matter, it was wet and chilly, and I wasn’t interested in weather statistics.

  Once I reached the downtown area, I was approached relentlessly by children, women, and men; they begged for food, water, medicine—you name it. They offered sex, information, and trinkets in return. I moved my hidden chest holster to the outside of my shirt, wearing the .357 in plain sight. Now, I was avoided by all—which was my intent. I walked around, skirting the city; it could only get worse the deeper in I went. I regretted giving the MRE a boot. That was stupid. I was famished.

  Over the last couple hours, I’d rethought my position. Maybe it was best Susan and I parted ways. I was being uncharacteristically emotional and, frankly, thinking with the wrong head. The truth was, I’d avoided an uncomfortable good-bye—and gone out with a bang instead. I’d tried to say the words she wanted to hear, make the commitment, but I just couldn’t do it. The past is a cage not everyone can escape. I would miss her, but I’m a lone wolf, and I run solo.

  The more I chewed on it, the more I came to believe she had reached the same exact conclusion about herself—even if subconsciously. As a nun, she walked alone as well, and had her own ghosts. Like me, Susan was returning to what she knew best. Blaming me was just easier than pointing those arrows inward. At her time of reckoning, she had chosen to run. Now, it was time for both of us to move on. A new page and a new chapter.

  Like with all heavy decisions, it felt refreshing to cast off its burdens. The thought of mingling with fellow law-enforcement types sounded excellent. It was an environment that would feel instantly like home. I wouldn’t be scolded for cussing or farting. Invariably, there would be a bottle passed and a buzz had.

  Meeting first with Commander Lucas was a superb idea. Get the lay of the land, hit the ops meeting afterward, get new orders, and move on to a new mission. Sister Susan was already fading, just like past missions always did. I made a beeline toward the courthouse.

  Chapter 63

  The drizzle was carried atop a cool breeze, the mixture biting into my body. I made my way downtown, finding myself standing in front of an ornate building, crafted from stone, built many, many moons ago. The craftsmanship of marble columns, elaborate exterior carvings, and intricate decorative cladding was a talent long lost—never again to find its place in contemporary architecture. Those expensive designs have long been replaced by cheap concrete and glass.

  I stood staring at the ancient wooden doors. They were old, naturally dark, and thick as a tree trunk. They were supported by large brass hinges that creaked when opened. I wondered what would come of the meeting hidden behind them and the brand-new life that awaited there. Was I ready to live with my decision? There was only one way to find out. As I opened the massive doors, the interior warmth came rushing out into the damp afternoon air. I walked quietly down the aisle and sat in the front pew.

  She turned around. "How did you find me?”

  “I’m a super
spy. The name’s Bond. James Bond,” I whispered.

  She cocked her head and frowned.

  I smiled. “I saw a priest and asked where the gang was hanging these days. He said at the old St. Ignatius Church, by the courthouse.”

  She chewed on that a moment. “What are you doing here?”

  “Your note said when I was ready, to come for you,” I said casually, giving her a wink. “Here I be.”

  Someone hissed shhhh.

  She lowered her voice. “But that was only several hours ago.” Oddly, she was blushing.

  “Hey, when a guy knows what he wants, he doesn’t mamby-pamby around. I’m a decisive dude. What can I say?”

  She stared at me blankly and then raised an eyebrow. “You? Decisive?”

  “No one understands matters of the heart like Max Ryker. Back in Jersey I—”

  “Oh, spare me, please,” she said.

  “Shhhh, do you mind?” someone said, much louder than we were talking.

  Susan waved for me to join her. There had been lots of firsts this past month, so I might as well add getting on my knees to the list. I knelt beside her.

  She leaned over and whispered, “I’m waiting.”

  I thought for a second, looking around. Maybe they were bringing out shots of wine and pizza. I whispered back. “Waiting for what?”

  “You know.”

  We were back to the old guessing games. “No, I’m afraid I don’t.”

  She looked at me with a deep frown. “You have to declare.”

  “Oh… That’d be weird, Sis, here on our knees. Let’s maybe do that later, in private.”

  She shook her head. “There might not be a later; word gets around quickly. Lots of men want a shot at my hand. I’d do it now if I were you,” she said with a shrug.

  Deep breath, long sigh. I leaned over. “I love you,” I said and, after a pause, added, “And that’s the bottom line, Jack,” earning me a good, swift elbow to the rib cage. I took that to mean we were back to normal.

  We left the church and talked about our experiences entering through the gates. Hers was straightforward; it was easy to convince a priest of her background. After explaining my process, I was ready to find some grub and then spend the afternoon getting honey on my stinger. The suggestion of blowing off the operations meeting, in favor of sex, freaked her out.

  “We’ll do no such thing, Max Ryker. You have a duty, and an obligation, to help humanity. You can’t simply shrug it off and go on your merry little way. The—”

  I didn’t catch the balance; I tuned her out. A man-tuner is a special gift from God to the male species. When her jaws stopped flapping, I tuned back in, and we settled on a plan. I’d attend the meeting with my cute little purple band, and she’d return to St. Ignatius Church to see if there was any word on Father McGeegen and his flock from Birmingham. With that, I bounced up the stone steps of the courthouse.

  Chapter 64

  I walked in at 2:58. As I entered, an armed guard checked my band, glanced over my papers, and pointed toward another guard, who walked me down a hallway and through a brown metal door.

  The room was warm, the air stale. It was an interior office, so it was lacking outside windows. About nine others, all with matching purple wristbands, stood in a line. We were searched and relieved of our weapons. All but two of us carried firearms. No one had a peashooter. I felt naked; no gun, no knife—nothing but a wristband. The way the others shifted their feet and glanced nervously around, it was obvious they shared my discomfort. Next, we made a journey out a back door, marched down a dark hallway in single file, trotted up some carved marble stairs, and entered a conference room. It was brightly lit, with sunshine and fresh air pouring in through open exterior windows. I welcomed the relief; the trip through the interior had been like walking through underground caves; the atmosphere was dank and dark. The place was running off a generator, but apparently it lacked the juice to power air conditioning.

  A uniformed air force officer sat at the head of a long, cherrywood table. She invited the group to sit, and everyone complied. I would have preferred to stand. Close to the exit.

  “Good afternoon, my name is Major General Alice Senko. Presently, your credentials are being authenticated before we can begin the debriefing. In the interim, I will provide some cursory information. I advise persons with questionable creds to voluntarily leave this meeting immediately—no questions asked. Be advised, this will not be the case momentarily. You have one minute,” she said, looking around the room. There were no takers, but I seriously considered it. My ID was forged, prepared for me by the CIA, which I guess made them authentic forgeries. To the trained eye, the last digits of my security code would give away that fact. I wondered if this might get me killed as a Hogwog spy.

  Without further ado, she continued, “To state the obvious, something around ninety-seven percent of the population has perished in what is commonly referred to as the Event. As such, there is no government, military, or any other organized structure to run our country. In just under sixty days, lawlessness and atrocities have set in as food and other resources have dwindled.” She glanced around and received a group nod. “We have set up a temporary government here in Atlanta, whose immediate goal is to maintain a semblance of law and order and to provide basic necessities—to the extent that we can. We have only been in existence for five weeks. Our current structure consists of a twelve-member governing board, of which I am second-in-command. Other members are former high-ranking officials from both the military and intelligence communities, who survived the Event and found their way safely to Atlanta. No one was sent by the federal government.”

  “Ma’am, can I—”

  “I’ll thank you in advance for not asking questions until all credentials are checked and authenticated.” She stated this without looking at the speaker. “We have created a Safe Zone here in Atlanta, and we refer to ourselves collectively as The Citizens. The criminal element, which is also growing and organizing, is called Hogwogs, or ’Wogs.”

  At this point, the door opened, and three beefy soldiers entered—along with a short, disheveled fellow. He looked like a bean counter and was holding paperwork. She held up her hand at them and looked around the table. “Last call, folks. Leave now or forever hold your peace.” No one moved. No one got up to leave. I had to fight the urge to bolt. If that fella understood serial numbers, I’d be caught.

  The beanie leaned over and whispered a few words, passed her some handwritten notes, and left. The guards stayed put. She scanned the papers, pausing at one point before resuming her review of the document. Finally, she looked up and scanned the assembly.

  “Mr. Doran, could you please raise your hand?”

  Damn it, that was me. The name on my documents identified yours truly as Greg Doran. I raised my hand casually, as if I were being selected to receive an award rather than getting busted. I was immediately encircled by the three bulky guards. One held a handgun to the back of my head.

  “Good-bye, Mr. Doran, or whatever your name is. Retribution against Hogwogs is swift these days. I hope you understand. You were certainly forewarned,” she said, her eyes sharp and focused on me before drifting away dismissively, as if I were already forgotten, or worse—dead.

  I felt myself physically lifted from the padded chair and dragged by the three young apes. One was purposely squeezing my neck, reducing the flow of blood and oxygen, the effect of which I felt straight away. No one in the room batted an eye or even bothered to look my way. They were ready for the meeting to begin but understood the trash had to be removed first.

  As they half carried, half dragged me to the exit, the door flung open and a short man strode confidently through. He paused and stared at us, obviously thrown off by stumbling into a scuffle. His facial expressions were changing rapidly, like a color wheel switching colors—first shock, then mild recognition, followed by full recognition. The final look was smug amusement.

  “Hi, Ryker. Long time no see. How you d
oing, buddy?” he laughed. “Oh, not so well at the moment, it would appear,” he said, pausing to consider his next words. He was watching my neck being squeezed off and was loving every minute of it. I had a smart remark ready to fire back, but it couldn’t fit through the gnarly hands clamped around my throat.

  “At ease, soldiers,” he said, almost reluctantly. Without hesitation, they let go, and I fell against the wall, gulping for air and rubbing my larynx. My head was a little dizzy from lack of oxygen.

  “Hi, Marty,” I said, finding it a bit hard to maintain my dignity while choking for air. “I almost didn’t recognize you without the three-thousand-dollar suit and the overdone hair gel.”

  He scowled. “Funny, Ryker. Now sit down before I forget you’re one of the good guys.” The major moved and he took her seat. Just my luck Farty Marty was the number one shirt in Atlanta.

  “Hello, my name is Martin Meissner. I’m acting chief of the Citizens interim government. Previously, I was assistant director of Homeland Security, which makes me the ranking official here in Atlanta. I’m prepared to provide some answers now, and some later, depending upon which tier within the organization you are placed in. Data is provided on a need-to-know basis only,” he said, looking around the table. “Any questions?”

  “I got one. What the hell’s the ’Wog still in here for?” an older guy barked. He was maybe late fifties, well built for his age, and had a very bad dandruff problem. I guessed him as a marine sergeant.

  Martin looked amused. “Well, that’s a damn good question. Seems like Mr. Ryker here decided to crawl out from underneath the rock he was living under, down in the beautiful city of Birmingham. Look at him as the rebellious child in your family. We all have one of those. They cause trouble and frustration, but you must love and accept them because they’re family. So, he stays… for now.”

  The old guy made a spitting sound, minus the spit.