Max Ryker- The End Begins

by David Wayne

  “Now, to answer the question that’s burning in everyone’s mind, just what the hell has happened?” Marty said.

  This was met with loud murmurs from around the table.

  He shifted in his chair, taking on the look of one preparing to share a story he’s told more times than he cared to admit. “Let me be up-front here, I don’t have all the answers—”

  The room broke out in loud moans and semi-angry comments; people wanted answers. He banged the table with clenched fists. “I will have order, or you’ll be removed. Is this understood?” he yelled, looking each participant in the face, forcing them to acknowledge in the affirmative. When it was my turn, I blew him a kiss.

  “Here’s what we know. First, a scientific briefing for the eggheads in our midst,” he said with a small chuckle. Nobody joined in. “When a star collapses, or explodes if you will, a supernova occurs, causing an electromagnetic event called a GRB. These energetic explosions cast optical, microwave-type wavelengths through space. Scientists have observed many of these in distant galaxies, far from earth. It appears, at approximately three a.m. eastern time, such a collapse occurred close to earth.” Marty paused, hiding his amusement at the confused looks. “The gamma rays cast by the explosion reached, and then penetrated, our atmosphere. These tidal forces bore holes through the troposphere, allowing massive amounts of toxic radiation to rain down upon on the population. Further, where these openings occurred, all oxygen was removed from the air, like a vacuum—causing inhabitants within its boundaries to suffocate and die.” He said this with a slight shrug, nodding along like a doctor explaining a simple wart removal procedure.

  This was Marty’s standard shtick. Dazzle with fake brilliance and then provide a simple, show-and-tell version for the dumb kiddies. He didn’t understand the technical jargon; he’d simply memorized it. Satisfied he’d established himself as the smartest dick in the room, he reached under the table and brought out a spaghetti strainer. I leaned back and prepared for Marty, Act Two.

  He sat the strainer on the table with a loud plunk, sighing at having to provide the dumbed-down version of the Event. “For those who prefer the simple version, one may observe thusly,” he said, like a professor grappling with how best to explain a complex subject to young children. “When the star exploded, it came at us like a shotgun blast,” he said, picking up the strainer. “This is the earth’s atmosphere. The scatter-gun pellets penetrated our ozone layer. But unlike this strainer, the holes were not small and perfectly round, or dispersed symmetrically. Instead, they were irregular-sized perforations, formed randomly.”

  “How big were the holes?” the sergeant asked, scratching an unshaven jaw.

  Marty smiled at him tightly. He wasn’t known for his patience. “I was getting to that, solider. The openings were as small as a city block and as large as a major city.”

  The sarge nodded, as if a puzzle were coming together. “And they appeared in a hodge-podge-type pattern?”

  “That’s what formed randomly means,” Marty snapped. It didn’t bother the old guy. Military men are accustomed to dealing with know-it-all political twerps.

  “How long did they stay open? Those holes?” the sarge asked, scratching his chin and shedding a liberal amount of dandruff. It looked like snow falling.

  Marty scowled at him but bit his tongue. “Long enough to suffocate or fry about ninety-seven percent of the earth’s population.” As the reality of Marty’s comments sunk in, the room grew quiet—giving new meaning to the words stunned silence.

  The sergeant popped the quiet bubble. “You’re telling us, in the aftermath of a catastrophic event, the government's only plan is walk to Atlanta, and whoever stumbles in with the highest rank runs the show? I didn’t need a goddamned science lesson to know almost everyone’s dead. That much is obvious. What I want to know is, what the hell are we gonna do about food, water, and supplies?”

  I looked at Marty and waited for him to explode—which he did. “Don’t confuse your ignorance with a lack of intelligence that’s above your pay grade. We have matters well under control. I am in direct contact with the highest level of government, and we are in possession of detailed protocols designed specifically to address the precise conditions in which we find ourselves. Understood?”

  “Yes, sir,” the sergeant replied, sitting at attention in his chair.

  I couldn’t help but smile and shake my head.

  Marty replaced his angry scowl with a fake smile and then raised his hand. The guy looked dead tired. “I’ll remind you, it’s only been a short time, and we’re still regrouping. It’s imperative we stay calm, to prevent mass hysteria and riots from the public at large. Remember, we’re the professionals. Now, everyone is to be back at 0800 tomorrow. You’ll be broken into groups and debriefed further, based upon your need-to-know. Dismissed.”

  I tried to sneak out but didn’t make it. “Ryker, you stay back.”

  Chapter 65

  As the room cleared, I grabbed a bottle of warm water from a stack in the corner and sat back down. Martin Meissner was the ultimate political weasel—liar, backstabber, and pitchman. There was never an idea too good for him to steal or a problem too big to blame on others. To call him power hungry was like calling Niagara Falls a spillover. He was the number two at Homeland Security, and when we worked with that agency, he primarily interfaced with my boss. Occasionally, I got sucked into those meetings.

  I already knew what was coming. He’d go into everyman mode, dropping the formal tone and becoming “one of the guys.” Which he wasn’t. He was a pencil pusher who’d never seen a day in the field. He would try to bond, then give a patriotic pitch, and then try to reel me in to handle black ops for him. As he walked in the room, I prepared for Marty, Act Three.

  He walked up and put a man clamp on my shoulder. “How’s it hangin’, Ryker? How’s life, dude?”

  I ignored the small talk. “Quite a show you put on in there, Marty. I don’t think you could’ve bleached it any cleaner. You should have handed out some rose-colored glasses.”

  “Whatever, Ryker, always the smartass, huh? Even when the freaking world is crumbling.”

  “What’s the bottom line here? What do you want from me?” I said.

  “You tell me. You showed up for the job.”

  “I’m not here looking for a job. I don’t work for the man anymore. I came to hear the show and watch the tap dance,” I said, shucking my shoulders.

  He led me to his corner office, which afforded an expansive overview of downtown. It wasn’t a pretty sight. He retrieved a bottle of scotch and poured out two shots. He picked his up and walked over to an open window, looking out over the city. “We did a lot of work together over the years, Max, good work. We didn’t always agree or get along, but—”

  “Hold on. I never liked what follows your buts. It usually entails me risking my butt while you sit on yours.”

  He frowned. “Yes, as I was saying…” His voice trailed off, as if he was reminiscing about the good old days. It was all for show, because there weren’t any. “Remember when we shut down that terrorist faction in New Orleans? They were going to blow up the levies and flood the place; it would’ve drowned the entire city, killing untold thousands of people? Man, that’s when the system really works,” he said, pouring us both another shot.

  “Let’s skip memory lane and get down to it, shall we?” I said, looking at my watch before glancing over at the door.

  He was working hard to suppress his anger, which I enjoyed goading. “We need you. The whole country does. This isn’t a small terrorist clique or the bombing of a courthouse building. The whole fucking world just blew apart,” he said.

  “Spare me the patriotic speech. I’m not some new recruit. I want details, not bullshit, or I walk.” With politicians, you’ve got to smash them over the head with bluntness, or they keep spinning the spin.

  “There’re certain things—”

  “Nope, don’t go down the top-secret rabbit hole. I�
�ve got top clearance and even know some things you’re not privy to,” I said, standing up and walking toward the door.

  “Okay, Max. Wait.”

  I turned around but didn’t walk back.

  “Ask away. I’ll tell you what I can, but…there’s still a lot of unknowns. Please, sit. Let’s have a drink,” he said, pointing at a chair.

  I sat down and pushed my empty tumbler toward him. If I couldn’t get any real intel from the dork, at least I’d walk away with a good scotch buzz.

  He lit a cigarette. “Fire away.”

  “Start with DC,” I said, helping myself to a smoke.

  He shrugged. “Wiped out same as everywhere else. I was in Savannah, visiting my folks. Their gated community was spared. I came here.”

  “The president?”

  “Unknown. At least by me.”

  “What are the comms?”

  “Two-way radios, but the feds don’t answer incoming. They’ve provided us barebones intel only. Occasionally, we get a taped broadcast that basically says hang in there. People who aren’t dead are still scrambling to organize. Whatever’s left of the federal government is no different.”

  That made sense. It was an odd phenomenon. People knew that most of the population was wiped out but assumed the government and military were somehow immune and would ride in at any moment and save them.

  “Where are the other safe-haven cities?” I asked, nodding toward my empty glass. Marty pointed to the bottle, so I helped myself.

  “Where you’d expect; in cities that are already major distribution hubs—Chicago, Los Angeles, Houston, Atlanta,” he said. “They’ve got monster-sized warehouses full of food. Down the road, their highways, train lines, and all the rest will be crucial infrastructure for future trading and rebuilding.”

  I noticed he’d left off Memphis and the greater Kansas City area, which indicated possible locations for covert government hubs. Could be useful information down the line.

  “Which bunker is housing the federal government?” I asked.

  “I can’t tell you that, Ryker. That’s over even your clearance level.”

  Marty had a tell. When he lied, the corner of his mouth dipped down, forming the slightest hint of a frown. He didn’t know where the feds were hunkered down, because it was above his pay grade. He rambled on for another thirty minutes, mainly about the potential of Atlanta as a central US hub, and the power it would have in the big picture moving forward. I tuned most of it out. Instead, I was daydreaming about night things with Susan. Man, did she have a pair of—

  “Ryker, are you even listening to me?” Marty said, trying to hide his irritation.

  “Of course, Marty. You were just moving on to the part about what you want from me?”

  He shot me a politician’s smile. “Yes, I was just getting to that. We’ve had our differences, but the past is past. I want to start fresh,” he said, nodding—a sales trick to get me nodding along in agreement. I gave him a blank stare instead.

  “Let’s team up. I could really use a good Call Guy, and you’re the best of the best.”

  I couldn’t argue on that point, so I didn’t. I was preparing to push off. The hot air was getting thick.

  “Think about it, Max,” he said, walking over to where I sat, sitting on the corner of his desk. He started to place his hand on my shoulder, but changed his mind when I raised my eyebrows. “You could be a real hot dog around here; this is a ground-floor opportunity, for Christ’s sake. No more covert stuff, no more flying under the radar. I’ll commit to placing you in charge of Special Forces, right now on the spot,” he said, shaking his head as if he had just amazed himself.

  I didn’t respond. My face expressed nothing.

  He pretended to ponder a moment. “And, to sweeten the deal, I’ll also make you head of security. That would effectively make you the fourth top official in the new administration, bam, just like that,” he said, snapping his fingers. He tried for a serious look but was unable to hide his excitement.

  “You mean the number four guy within the interim government, right?” I said.

  Now he took on a solemn expression, tapping his index finger against his chin. “We can’t let the country linger forever, Max. Things can remain temporary for only so long. People need permanence. They want to rebuild and start anew. I think I’m the best man for the job, and I’m offering you a seat at the big table—seize the opportunity, man. Besides, where else would you go, Monte Carlo?” he said with a smirk. “You’ve had your time off, did your little bit in Birmingham, now it’s time to come home. All the roosters eventually do.”

  “I’ll think about it,” I said, heading toward the door.

  “Max,” he yelled to my back. “You used to be a stick of dynamite. Now you’ll be a nuclear bomb.”

  “Great analogy, Marty, just like always.” I didn’t bother to turn around. I made haste toward the exit; the office was too small for his ego and my person. Like I’d suspected, there were no detailed protocols, no direct contact with a higher authority. Marty was winging it, and he was what he ever was—a two-bit salesman who believed his own bullshit.

  I hurried through the crowded lobby, pushing my way through a sea of people. I needed to be gone. I wouldn’t put it past the little bastard to have me detained, force me to sign up. As I burst through the doorway, I welcomed the Georgia sun, even though the air was smoggy. People were scattered around, hurrying here and there. Not quite pushing and shoving, but not far from it. I headed off toward the church to find Susan and ran right into her at the bottom of the courthouse stairs.

  “I found him, Max. I found Father McGeegen.”

  Chapter 66

  We slept in an apartment building in downtown, the one set up for officials wearing purple bands. It was heavily guarded by rent-a-cop types, but I didn’t feel safe or secure and decided to find a new pad for us. If Hogwogs decided to attack, the house of the purple bands would be their first target.

  The only thing I loved about Atlanta was the sex. Susan wasn’t a bit shy and was as eager to explore as I was to accommodate her. Her appetite was insatiable. I suppose thirty-three years of pent-up sexual energy can do that to a person. She did get one rude awakening—male plumbing needs a break and time to recuperate. She thought it worked like movies-on-demand. I wish.

  She’d learned that Father McGeegen showed up each day at St. Ignatius Church around nine a.m., right after breakfast. She could barely contain her excitement at the thought of reuniting with him. We split up early. I went to find new digs; she went to wait at the church. I was supposed to meet her at nine but arrived an hour and a half late. The new place I found was a good piece out of town.

  I found them sitting in the front pew, bawling their eyeballs out. I spun quickly around, the big wooden doors my bull’s-eye. No way was I getting pulled into a cry-fest. That was Susan’s job. I was ducking out, quickly.

  “Max, come back here. Where are you going?” she yelled in a loud whisper voice. I’ve always thought a whisper yell was a weird thing.

  “Huh? I forgot my—”

  She was shaking an angry no with her head. Both her arms were around the father. She waved me forward with her Max, I’m so disappointed in you look. I walked down to the pair. This was not going to be pleasant.

  “Hi, Father, how you doing? What’s going on?” I asked, dreading the answer. He looked up at me, his eyes red and puffy. He looked defeated and beaten down.

  “I lost them, Max, all but six. I wouldn’t listen. You told me; I just wouldn’t listen,” he said, and then broke into an uncontrollable wail.

  I sat next to him on the wooden pew. “Father, Father, get a grip here. You didn’t do anything, the world just exploded; you did what you could. Now, get yourself under control and tell me what happened.” I placed a firm hand on his shoulder, forcing him to face me.

  Susan glared at me, but my words had the intended effect—the priest pulled himself together. He wiped his nose on his rumpled shirt sleeve.<
br />
  “Take a few deep breaths, and I’ll get you some water,” I said, starting to stand. He grabbed my arm.

  “No, I’m fine, really. Sit, Max. Please sit back down,” he said.

  “Tell me what happened on the trip, Father.”

  He shook his head, his chin almost touching his chest. His body was bobbing back and forth; he hadn’t shaved in weeks. He looked frail, as if he might crack at any moment. This was not the priest I knew from Birmingham. This was somebody else entirely.

  “It was awful, worse than what you predicted. We weren’t on the road forty-five minutes before we were attacked by thugs. Two of our young men, barely twenty, were killed, and three of our women were snatched before we ran those heathens off. By the time we made it to the I-20 bridge, to cross over the Coosa River, our numbers had dwindled from fifty to thirty-eight. In just three days. That’s when we actually encountered the devil, I’m sure of it—right here on earth, camped on the Coosa bridge,” he said.

  I looked at Susan, who was looking at me. We both remembered the Hogwog gangs controlling the Coosa bridge. They’d looked rough through the field glasses. I could only imagine them up close.

  The trip had taken a physical toll on Father, as well. He looked truly ragged—bruised, scratched, and sporting a large, deep gash on his forehead. He was missing a front tooth. He no longer wore his clerical clothing; it was replaced with ill-fitting pants, held up by a rope belt—the white collar was gone. Beyond his rough exterior appearance, I sensed deep, emotional damage. This gentleman, who’d spent his entire life dedicated to helping others, was permanently scarred—probably beyond repair. It was a truly heartbreaking sight.

  He noticed me staring and became self-conscious. “I’m sure I look like death warmed over, but—”

  “Father, please, it's fine, no worries,” I said, patting him gently on the back.

  He gazed off and took a deep breath. He was still rocking back and forth. “It’s almost too horrifying to explain. As we approached the bridge, we were accosted by three evil hoodlums. Big men, drinking whiskey from a bottle, cursing and swearing, hooting and hollering. It was like one big party for them. They presented us a simple proposal, leave our belongings and all females fifteen and older, or be shot where we stood. The lead bandit offered it like a favor, as if he were helping us out,” he said. White foam was forming at the corners of his mouth; he talked with a severe case of cottonmouth, yet seemed oblivious to it.