CHAPTER THIRTY-EIGHT

  Morning arrived and the sun rose, flooding through the uppermost windows and lighting the Evansville terminal. It had taken all night to secure the airport, encountering only minimal resistance. Whoever these armed guards had been, they certainly weren’t trained, and bore no signs of obvious allegiance to anyone.

  Shayde Walters walked with Max along the endless row of human suffering. Every inch of the terminal was filled with wretched masses. So far, they counted five thousand. Nearly a quarter of that count lay deceased among the dying.

  “I’ve never seen anything like this,” Shayde admitted. “Even overseas the human suffering wasn’t this bad. These people haven’t eaten for weeks, but the soldiers were certainly well-fed.”

  Max said nothing. He had seen this before. Cowardice and fear is what causes suffering like this, and he recognized it right away for what it was.

  “They had a leader,” Shayde said. “We found his body in one of the administrative offices. Blew his own brains out, weeks ago, by the looks of it, but his few soldiers never noticed. They kept standing watches, despite having no leadership or direction.”

  “Can any of them speak for the group?” Max asked softly, rubbing his wounded shoulder. “Is there a leader willing to stand for the others?”

  “Not yet,” Shayde replied. “They’re all so weak, and most are still in shock.”

  “At least we learned what happened to the residents of the city. It appears they fled north when the river rose and found shelter wherever they could. We should search the hotels, schools, and department stores for the rest,” Max suggested.

  “Have you had any luck?”

  “Finding my family? No. Thankfully they weren’t here, but that doesn’t mean we won’t find them in a similar state.”

  Shayde paused when they reached the baggage area door. “Are you sure you’re ready for this?”

  Max nodded. The other Marine had promised him a surprise, but no clue what he’d found.

  Walters pushed the door open and Rankin gasped. This group, whoever they were, had been busy over the past few weeks, gathering and storing resources. The room, used for sorting luggage, wasn’t large as far as airports go, but was filled with every sort of rifle, pistol, and ammunition—enough to outfit an army.

  “Look at these stencils, Max. They raided the National Guard Armory. There’s all sorts of ordinance, even grenades.”

  But Max stared at towers of boxes next to the arms. They contained meals ready to eat and dried rations, enough to last months if rationed. There were thousands stacked as high as the ceiling.

  “That son of a bitch,” Max said, letting the words out with a gasp.

  “Which one? The dead guy in the office, or the Colonel?”

  “You know I mean the Colonel.”

  “You think he knew about this?” Shayde asked

  “Why else would he send us on a mission like this? He said they were hoarding supplies, and he probably knew these people weren’t captives. He sent us here to bring all this back, but made up that story to appeal to me—to convince me to come.”

  “Would you have, if only to bring this back?”

  “Not a chance in hell.”

  “There’s fresh water,” Shayde pointed, “lots of it. Purification tablets, too.”

  This angered Max the most. “All these people could have been saved... fed and hydrated this entire time. None of them needed to die. We have to take it all back, Shayde,” he said softly. “Even the food.”

  “I understand taking the hardware, but the food and water? These people won’t make it if we do.”

  “If we leave it here someone else will take it, especially now it’s unguarded. That’s our reality, now—survive or die.”

  “So we let them starve? They’re too weak to walk back to The Shelter, and we can’t leave them with nothing!”

  “No,” Rankin said, “we’ll leave enough to keep them alive for a time, then come back with more. But this is how the Regiment builds the Colonel’s dream of rebuilding society. We control the resources. We’ll keep it safe from selfish hands like those who hoarded it, and teach these people to rely on us. That’s how the Colonel secures his new government.”

  Sergeants Walters and Rankin fell silent after that, each considering how to haul it all safely home.

*****

  Cathy Fletcher awoke earlier than usual, desperate to be free of Hank’s bed. She had been wrong to believe she could handle any man, forced to give herself over to his wishes. She’d be dead if she hadn’t, and that would have been okay if it weren’t for Josh. The boy needed his mother, and she would do whatever she must. Survival was the only thing that mattered in this world.

  She slid off the mattress and pulled on clothing, eager for a shower to wash away the night. That thought prompted shivers, remembering how a single bath had put her in this predicament. Either way she needed one, and running water sounded nice. Glancing at the small table in the corner of the shack, she spied two bowls of stew from the night before. Hank had brought them, devouring his as ravenously as he had her body. Hers stood cold and unwanted, a symbol of what she gave him.

  Hank stirred behind her on the bed, moaning softly. His sweat from spent passion had soaked his side of the bed. Cat wrinkled her nose and swallowed a little bile at the thought of his touch, then gathered both bowls and spoons before stepping next door. Careful not to wake Steve, she picked up his dish and stacked it with the others. She couldn’t wait till these men were dead, and smiled at the thought of their fate.

  Soon, she thought. They’ll die in a fever, sweating and retching their insides.

  Cathy paused as the blind man muttered in his bed, rolling over and tossing a blanket on the floor. She moved closer, listening to his murmurs.

  “Cold,” he said. “It’s so cold.” Then he rolled over and vomited.

  She watched with wonder at the sweat pouring from his back, then crept closer and carefully reached out a hand. Repulsed, she felt his skin. It was afire with fever. He retched again.

  No, she thought. Not yet.

Still holding the bowls, she hurried to Hank’s shack. Pulling the blanket from his shoulders, she marveled at the amount of sweat pouring from him as well. Her eyes fell upon the bowls in her hand, suddenly thankful for her lack of appetite. Placing them on the nightstand, she rushed to her satchel and felt the lining for the stitching. It was gone. Someone had stolen the Ricin.

  She searched her thoughts of the day before, rushing past the hellish events of her wedding night.

  When was it out of my sight? she wondered, then remembered.

  How did she get it into the bowls? she questioned. Then it dawned on her. They’re officers and eat apart from the enlisted. They’re served by a different pot.

This story has been taken without authorization. Report any sightings.

  Cathy slid quietly from the shack and moved across the balcony. She peaked inside the adjoined hootch, pulling open the flap and holding her breath. A man and a woman lay within, lifeless and laying in a bed of vomit. The next she checked was the same and so on. The Colonel would suspect her right away.

*****

  Max rode atop a long train of baggage trolleys, each linked together and trailing three horses. Chad Pescari rode the lead mount, sitting high in the saddle and beaming with pride at his ingenuity. It was his idea to check the surrounding horse farms and commandeered two mares and a stallion. He also suggested they link the carts to haul the supplies back to The Shelter. Both Dan and Jack lay at Max’s feet, zip-ties binding them tightly.

  The ride into town had been slower than he liked, but no one had challenged them or attempted to take their haul.

  “We must look a ludicrous sight,” Sergeant Walters said from the next cart back.

  “We’ve got a bigger problem once we get home,” Max replied.

  “Oh? What’s that? Where to put all this stuff?”

  “How to get rid of the carts. We can’t just leave them outside The Shelter, they’ll draw attention. We have to dump them.”

  “I hadn’t thought of that,” Shayde admitted. “But there’s a tire store a few blocks away. We can stash them there till we need them again.”

  “And the horses? How the hell are we going to keep those alive in the city? We have to let them go.”

  “They’ll be useful!” Chad yelled from ahead.

  Max laughed. “I can’t believe the only cowboy among us is a New Yorker.” Turning around to face Shayde, he asked, “Why do you think the Colonel made all that up? About retribution. What was his angle? He could’ve told me anything to get me to come along.”

  Shayde shrugged and pointed at the men at Max’s feet. “Ask one of them. If they shot you intentionally, they may have answers.”

  “We do have a bit of time for interrogation,” he agreed. “How about it, Dan? Jack? Why’d you shoot me?”

  “We told you, it was an accident!” Jack maintained. “We didn’t expect you to step out and thought you were one of them!”

  “I get it,” Max said, gripping the leather wrap of his Ka-bar and squeezing it angrily, “because we all look the same?”

  “No!” cried Dan. “It was the heat of battle! I just kind of reacted. I didn’t think! I reacted and I’m sorry!”

  Max fumed, but fought to calm his emotions. Have to be sensible here. I don’t know what really happened. But deep down he wondered. Some people could have made a mistake like that.

  But not me, he realized.

  Mike Salwell, the kid playing gangster—Tom’s friend—had been right. It was time to choose a side.

  He lifted his eyes from Dan and Jack. They were close, merely two hundred yards from The Shelter. He could slit their throats now, but then what? Would Shayde let him live? He seemed an honest man, but also a soldier—motivated by duty. He’d gun him down.

  So what if he does? Without Betty and Tom, what purpose do I have?

  Up ahead, Chad’s horse snorted then danced anxiously.

  “We’ve got trouble, Sarge!” the young man shouted.

  The sound of gunfire echoed inside a building, answered by the sound of metal ringing all around.

  “We’re sitting ducks!” Shayde realized. “Get down!”

  Chad fell from his mount and his horse reared. A patch of red formed against his temple. Max shook free of his thoughts, understanding they had ridden into ambush.

  He stood and sprinted atop the baggage carriers, racing forward just as the horses decided to bolt. With a dive he grabbed the lead trolley, losing footing and falling over the side. A bullet ripped through a box of rations next to where his head had been. His fingers splayed out for the edge and barely caught it, stretched above the street as the horses ran. His boots nearly dragged.

  Behind him, Shayde and the others had leapt free of the train, locked in a tense gun battle on both sides. He turned away from them, realizing the carts could flip at any moment. He tried to pull himself up, but found he couldn’t. His rifle hung from its sling, hooked on the fender of the trolley. It was taut, and he would have to lower himself before getting free. The whiteness around his knuckles told him that would never happen, he would be free when the grip failed and he plunged to certain death.

  His right hand frantically felt his side, finding the leather grip and drawing his Ka-bar.

  He sawed against the sling, sending the gun crashing to the street and under the tires of the baggage cart. He had no time to re-sheath the blade, and let it fall to the ground as well. Only then did he find strength, pulling himself atop the lead cart and scrambling to find the knot. He prayed he could release it in time, longing for the knife now laying useless on the street.

  Successful, the horses scrambled away down the street and the heavy trolley slowed, crashing into the side of The Shelter.

  Breathless, he looked toward the sounds of gunfire. Shayde and his team had entered the buildings, clearing each room as shots rang out within. Behind him, the doors of the Soldier Sailor Memorial abruptly crashed open and several enlisted Regiment men raced out. They ran headlong toward battle.

  Good fighting men, Max noticed, men with instincts.

  He tried to stand, meaning to find his gun and help, but exhaustion buckled his knees and he collapsed in the street. Two pairs of combat boots approached and he followed them upward with his eyes, taking in the tactical fatigues and web belt around each pair. Two soldiers had found him, but they weren’t of the Regiment. Max tried to focus, but he must have hit his head in the maddening rush to free the horses. Wooziness caused his vision to swim.

  One of the soldiers spoke behind the gaiter around his face.

  “See, I told you he chose a side,” a boy’s voice said.

  “Yeah, you were right,” Tom replied.

  Max knew his son’s voice at once, and tears of joy fell softly against his face. “Son...”

  “No,” Tom said angrily, looking over his shoulder toward the gunfight. “You don’t get to call me that. You’re a sellout and Mom’s dead because you weren’t home.” He raised his rifle, pushing the muzzle against his father’s forehead. “You were never there for us, always choosing the road!”

  “I’m not a sellout, Son. You’re fighting the wrong war,” Max said tearfully, the emotion of several weeks of worry mixing with the joy of finding his son. That Betty had not survived caused his chest to heave, sobbing mournfully for the only woman he had ever loved. “Come inside with me, Tom, you too, Mike. There’s a place for you in the new society... it will be for all of us!”

  Tom pulled down his gaiter with one hand, but shoved the flash suppresser deeper against his father’s skin with the other. The sound of boots on pavement warned the battle had ended and members of the Regiment were racing to help their own. He turned toward them briefly, considering which direction he should choose.

  But, in the end, his son chose violence over love. “There’s no place for me in their world,” the boy said angrily, pulling the rifle away, and taking off down the street. Mike followed at a sprint.

  Shayde raced toward Max, him and his team pulling up breathlessly. “Chase them down!” he ordered.

  But Max found his own voice of command. “No! Let them go!” he said.

  The soldiers hesitated, looking from sergeant to sergeant, unsure of whom to follow.

  “That’s my son,” Rankin said, climbing to his feet. “He only needs time to think.” But inside Max’s heart, the father was momentarily gone. He was a soldier, trained to push aside emotion to carry on the fight. Soon, all that would remain was the Marine. “Where’s the Colonel?” he asked. “We need to talk.”

  “There’s a problem,” one of the soldiers replied. He was young, but brave. One of the men who ran out to help while most of them cowered inside.

  “What’s your name, Private?” Shayde demanded.

  “Parker... James Parker, Sergeant.” Two women stepped outside, and James turned toward them. “Cat, Linda, please go inside,” he said.

  “You’re friends with them?” Max asked. “You’re the soldier who tried to help them?”

  “Yes, Sarge.”

  “They can stay. Neither have seen daylight in quite some time. Now tell me, what’s the problem?”

  “The officers... They’re all dead, Sarge. Every single officer died in the night. None of the men know what to do or who to follow. That’s why most stayed inside and didn’t help. They’re trying to decide how to split up the resources and go separate ways.”

  Max exchanged a look with Shayde, then asked, “All of them dead? The Colonel too?”

  “All of them.”

  “I think it was poison,” Cathy Fletcher said.

  “Then have the doctor confirm,” Max ordered. “We need to know.”

  “He’s dead too,” she replied. “I’m the only one here with medical knowledge, and it looks like Ricin poison to me.”

  Turning to Shayde, Max suggested, “Here’s how we settle this. Take these men and restore order. Get control of the armory first, then establish your authority.”

  “My authority?” Shayde asked.

  “You have a problem with that?”

  “Yeah, I do. You’re a better leader, Max. You’ve got the best mind for battle. I’m just a mortar and C4 guy who likes to blow shit up. I choose to follow you, and so will most who follow me.”

  “Well then,” Max said calmly, “seems we really do have a problem, because I don’t want it.”

  “It has to be you,” Shayde insisted, “and it has to be now. I’ll help you take over the Regiment and help keep it together. It’s our duty!”

  Duty. There was that word again. Max swallowed. There was no getting away from it. He nodded. Betty was gone and Tom had disowned him. All that remained was a Marine with a mission. “Then let’s go do the right thing,” he said. The pain in his heart over wife and son would have to wait.