Apocalyptic Visions Super Boxset (188 page)

Mike put on the shirt the hospital staff gave him. He buckled his pants, tied his shoes, and ran his fingers over the scars on his chest.

The doctors took out four bullets. Even though it had been a few weeks Mike still couldn’t push himself. The doctors told him it would take another three months of rehab before he could do anything physical again, but Mike didn’t have any plans on staying here.

He knew the doctors couldn’t make him stay once he was able to start getting up and moving around on his own. The only time he’d left the hospital previous to this was when he buried his family.

It was a few weeks ago. He declined to speak during the funeral. What little hope he held onto was that his family knew how much he loved them. And he knew they couldn’t hear him anymore anyway.

Dr. Wyatt requested to see him before he left. Mike didn’t want to speak with the man, but that was the one condition upon his release. This place was as much of a prison as it was a hospital.

Mike walked into the waiting room and Dr. Wyatt was there, reading a magazine.

“What do you want?” Mike asked.

Mike’s tone was dry, heartless. If he had a weapon on him he would have killed Wyatt on the spot.

“I’m asking you to stay. You’re still not well enough to travel and be on your own yet. We’re just now starting to set up supply routes to get the rest of the country up and running, but it’ll take a few more months. It’s still not safe out there,” Dr. Wyatt said.

“It’s not safe anywhere.”

Mike reached into his pocket and pulled out the pocket watch that belonged to his father, which he passed down to his own son. Now both his father and his son were dead. Mike tossed the watch to Wyatt.

“I don’t want it,” Mike said.

“It’s something you should keep. It belongs to your family.”

“Then bury it where the rest of my family is.”

Mike turned to go, but Dr. Wyatt stopped him.

“Here, take this,” Dr. Wyatt said, handing him the journal.

“Why?”

“Because I didn’t hold up my end of the deal. This journal has enough evidence for you to do whatever you want to me.”

Mike grabbed the journal, stuffed it into his bag, and left. As he walked down the streets of Cincinnati he realized there wasn’t anything left in this world for him. He decided to go back to the one place where he could be alone. The cabin.

The only thing he had to worry about now was how he was going to choose to leave this world. That was one choice he wasn’t going to let anyone else make for him.

The judge brought the gavel down hard.

“Order. I will have order in this courtroom,” he said.

Mike still had his handcuffs on and he was sitting next to his appointed attorney.

“Mike Grant,” the judge said, “you have pleaded guilty and provided a written statement to the crimes against the United States government and its people, correct?”

“Yes, Your Honor.”

“At this time you are able to make any opening statements before the proceedings take place.”

The courtroom was small. The only people that were allowed inside were a few high-ranking government officials, the attorneys, the judge, and sitting directly behind Mike was Agent Sullivan.

Mike dug his hand into his pants pocket and felt the cool outline of the his father’s silver watch. When the guards patted him down he was allowed to keep it.

“I have done terrible things. Things that have cost me everything I hold dear. When the power went out we didn’t just lose the lights in the cities, we lost the light within ourselves. We became dark, and twisted. We killed each other. We lost our way,” Mike said.

Everyone in the room was looking at him, staring, waiting for him to finish so they could walk through the dog and pony show and get to the execution, delivering him to justice.

“I watched my father, my wife, and my daughter die in front of me. I’ve felt their blood on my hands. It’s a stain I still haven’t been able to wash off. And when I found out that my son had been murdered, I didn’t think I had anything left to live for.”

Mike gripped the pocket watch harder. He was holding onto it for dear life.

“I thought I wanted to die. That’s why I came here, why I turned myself in. But then I remembered something my father told me a long time ago. He said that as long as one member of a family is alive, the rest live with them. They live on through the choices you make,” Mike said.

“What are you getting at, Mr. Grant?” the judge asked.

“Every single event that I listed in my statement happened—the EMP explosion, the planned coup to overthrow the government, all of it. But I wasn’t the one who planned it.”

Mike’s attorney started typing furiously at his laptop. Everyone started talking. The judge banged the gavel hard again.

“Order! Order! Mr. Grant, do you have any proof of your statements?” the judge asked.

“Yes, I do. There is a small cabin just outside of Carrollton, Ohio. It belonged to me. Inside you’ll find a desk and in the bottom drawer is a journal. The journal belonged to a Dr. Quinn Wyatt. In it you’ll find all the evidence you need of who planned the attacks.”

Mike turned around and looked at Agent Sullivan. Ben was smiling.

“In light of these recent events I move that we take a recess. I would like both counselors to join me in my chambers,” the judge said.

Mike’s attorney disappeared and an officer came and escorted Mike out of the courtroom. Before Mike left Ben grabbed his arm.

“What changed your mind?” Ben asked.

“My son.”

***

Once the authorities confirmed the journal was at Mike’s cabin a new investigation was launched. Agent Sullivan was hailed for his thoroughness and diligence, and Mike was told that he would be set free.

Up until his release Mike was allowed to see visitors. This time he chose to see two.

“Mike,” Katie said, wrapping him in a hug.

Sean was by her side. He gave Mike a slight smile.

“I can’t believe you’re alive. All of this is… crazy,” Katie said.

“How did you know I was here?”

“The trial was on the news. The government was comparing catching you to catching Osama bin Laden.”

“Except I turned myself in.”

Katie gave him another hug and the three of them sat down.

“How have you been holding up? How are Mary and her sisters?” Mike asked.

“We’ve been okay. Mary and the girls have been staying with us. My company is finally getting back up and running. We’re going to be moving out to California in a few weeks so I can start heading up the West Coast division. It’ll be a nice fresh start.”

“That’s good.”

Katie grabbed Mike’s hands.

“Mike, I… We’re alive because of you. What you’ve been through, the price you paid… It’s not something I can ever repay. I am in your debt for the rest of my life.”

“It’s okay.”

“No, it’s not. If you ever need anything, and I mean anything, it’s yours.”

“Thank you.”

***

Mike was given his personal effects when he was released. And when he walked outside Dr. Wyatt was waiting for him.

“I’m surprised you’re not locked up yet,” Mike said.

“They cleared me on a few conditions.”

“What are you doing here?”

“Mike, I can’t fix what’s already been broken. We both know that, but the reason I wanted to come find you was because I want to prevent these types of disasters from happening again.”

“People don’t want to change. They just want things to be back to the way they were.”

“Not everyone.”

Mike cocked his head to the side.

“What do you mean?” Mike asked.

“As part of the terms of my ‘pardon’ I’ve been asked to be a part of a new agency that would be in charge of preventing these types of attacks and disasters from happening again. I want you to be a part of it.”

“And why should I trust you?”

“How about me?” Sam said.

Mike turned around and the two men smiled and embraced each other in a hug.

“It’s good to see you, Mike.”

“You too, Sam.”

“Mike,” Dr. Wyatt said, “you’re not the only man who wants to work off the debt of death that we accumulated during the blackout.”

“So what do you say?” Sam asked.

Mike pulled out the silver pocket watch. He flipped open the cover and inside was a picture of his family.

“When do we start?”

With the sun dipping behind the mountains in the west, the fading light cast a brilliant glow over the fields. The tall blades of wheat wavered and caught the dying light, offering the illusion that the ground had liquefied into gold. Which, for Frederick Mars, was close to the truth.

Thick layers of dust and earth that caked Fred’s body crumbled from his arms as he peeled the gloves off his hands. He cracked his knuckles, wincing from the stiffness, and took a moment to admire the rows of churned earth and let out a satisfied grunt. The horse attached to the plow whinnied, and Fred unhitched the stallion, which nodded in gratitude. “Long day.”

Fred ran his rough, dirtied hands down the soft black hide of the animal. “Still, it beats the other places we’ve been stuck in.” Dust blew from the horse’s nose as he puffed and shook his head, tossing his black mane back and forth across his neck. Fred gave the horse a firm touch. “Well, I don’t miss it.”

The horse’s hooves kicked up sprays of dirt as Fred led the animal back to the barn. Periodically through the walk, Fred continued to grab his right hip. Any movement, any sound, any feeling that made him uncomfortable triggered the motion of reaching for his sword. It was a habit he hadn’t been able to break since the war, and it was an affliction he thought he’d never cure.

While the nightmares had stopped a few years ago, he lost track of the number of nights he woke up in a cold sweat, screaming nonsense that his wife, Mary, could never decipher, or the self-loathing that came along with it. Whiskey only numbed the memories so much, and he discovered that no matter how much he drank, or how stinking drunk he became, he was never able to rid himself of the horrific atrocities of war.

When the past became so burdensome to deal with that it was affecting his future, Mary forced him to open up. And while the depletion of his memories helped, he watched it change Mary, or at least the way she looked at him. The differences were subtle, like the way she lingered before she touched him, or the way she’d avoid confrontation with him. But even with everything she learned about the things he’d seen, the things he’d done, he knew she wouldn’t leave. The woman was a rock. And if he thought he could get angry, god help him if she ever did.

Fred tossed a pile of feed into the horse’s bucket while he brushed him down and wondered if animals felt those memories of war. He wasn’t the only one that traded a blade for a plow after they’d won, but there were times Fred was certain the horse missed the battlefield. God willing, the animal would never get his wish to go back.

“Dad!”

Fred turned, and his youngest came sprinting into the barn with nothing but a pair of shorts on, covered from head to toe in dirt. “Sam, what are you doing, son?”

“I found the biggest lizard you have ever seen.” The boy proudly lifted up the reptile clutched in both hands, grinning like a man who’d just found El Dorado. “Do you think Mom will let me keep it?”

“About as much as she’ll let you eat dinner like that,” Fred answered. “Let the animal go, and get washed up. Supper will be ready soon.”

The boy lowered the lizard with a defeated frown, and Fred couldn’t help but chuckle as the boy sulked away. On Sam’s way out, his eldest son, Kit, brushed past him, leading his own horse in from the fields. He ruffled his brother’s hair as he passed, and Sam pushed him away, offended. “I hate it when you do that!” Then he sprinted off.

Kit grabbed the feedbag and dumped what was left into the bridle for his black mare. “I swear he spends more time catching lizards than he does doing his chores.”

“Only because you keep helping him,” Fred said, giving his son a grin. “You bail him out too much.”

“He’s only seven.” Kit peeled his gloves off and rubbed his hands, the skin raw and red. “He shouldn’t have to worry about chores as much as I do.”

              “And you shouldn’t have to worry about life as much as I do,” Fred retorted. Kit was only a boy of seventeen but spoke, worked, and acted like a man in his thirties. Fred feared that the same burden of duty and honor that had plagued his life so much had been passed on to his son. “How’s the west field?”

“Found some rot on a few stalks, but it doesn’t look like it’ll spread. I think I caught it in time.” Kit picked up the water bucket and splashed his face, sending streaks of dirt down his face and neck.               “It shouldn’t affect the harvest.”

Fred watched Kit brush down his horse. His eldest son was becoming a man right in front of him, and it wouldn’t be long until he ventured out on his own. Fred walked over to him, and while his son was thicker than he was, Fred still had six inches of height on him. He knew he’d grow taller, but he took Kit by the shoulders and looked down on him like he did when he was little. “I’m proud of you. You’re turning into a good man, one that I know your grandfather would be proud of as well if he were still here.”

Kit blushed and stared at the tip of his boots. “Thanks, Dad.”

“Finish washing up. I’ll meet you inside.” By the time Fred made it to the house, the sun had completely disappeared, and the only light that offered him any guidance were the candles in the windows of his home.

This was his favorite part of the day. Just before walking up the front steps, he stopped, taking in the sight of Sam helping Mary set the table for dinner through the open window. The home itself wasn’t half as beautiful as who was inside it.

It was a beauty he appreciated every day, never taking it for granted. This place was a beacon of life, while the lands beyond it still decayed of a rotten waste from a war long ago fought not by men, or guns, or swords, but by computers and buttons. It was a war that had cost billions of lives, or so his father told him.

Billions. It was a number he couldn’t fathom, one that sounded more of legend than fact. But still, he knew there was truth to it. He’d seen the harsh lands and broken cities that his father had once said stood as marvels of civilization, now merely empty husks of what they were. But here there was no decay, the skies were clear, the water was clean, and the soil black and rich.

The smell of dinner escaped the kitchen and filled Fred’s nose the moment he set foot on the staircase. And in the same instant, his hand reached for his right hip and grabbed at the cloth of his pants in such haste that he almost ripped through the fabric.

A powerful heat hit Fred’s back, and a rush of orange light along with it. He turned to see flames engulf the barn and embers and ash float into the night sky, fighting for attention against the night’s stars. Fred sprinted to the barn, the heat only becoming more scorching the closer he moved to the flames. “Kit!” But before his worry had a chance to escalate, his son came rushing out, guiding their two horses by the reins and out of the inferno.

The horses trotted off, and Kit collapsed onto the dirt, sucking air, his lungs polluted with the thick carbons of smoke, his face caked in soot, with burns up and down his arm and right shoulder. Fred scooped his son up and rushed to the house, where Mary and Sam were already standing on the front porch.

“Sam! Get back in the house now!” Fred’s tone sent the young boy back inside quickly. It was odd at how easily the authoritative voice reserved for the battlefield returned. “Mary, wet clothes and a bucket of water, now!” His wife disappeared and returned in a flash, and when Fred placed the cool pieces of cloth over his son’s charred flesh, Kit winced.

“Dad.” Kit pointed to the fields, where subsequent blazes had been set. The weeks and months of work taken to sow the fields only took seconds for the flames to consume.

Fred scooped Kit up and set him on the couch in the living room, with Mary following closely behind. “Stay here.” Fred rushed down the hall and the staircase that led to the cellar. A large wooden chest rested in the corner, and he flung the lid open.

Neatly folded uniforms rested inside, which Fred removed hastily and grabbed the rifles and pistols underneath. He clutched two rifles with one hand then holstered the pistol in his belt, grabbing both ammo and gunpowder. Just before he shut the lid, he saw the faint glimmer of steel, and he pulled the sword from the chest as well.

Back upstairs, the flames had circled the house, licking the edges and trying to make their way inside. In between the roar of the growing fires, he heard the pounding of hooves. He double-timed it to the living room, where Mary already had Kit to his feet. “Mary, stay with the children, take them into the cellar.”

“Dad, I can help.” Kit tried separating himself from his mother, but the pain from the burns had sapped whatever strength was left. Bits of charred cloth intermingled with red and scarred flesh on his arm. Kit’s eyes were bloodshot from the heat and smoke, and he struggled to keep his eyelids from staying shut. He could barely stand, let alone hold a gun.

Still, Fred knew the boy could shoot. He pulled one of the pistols from his holster and slammed the handle into Kit’s palm. “Take your brother, and head out to the storage cellar. Stay there until we come for you or morning light. If you don’t see us, head into town and get your uncle.”

The moment Fred extended the pistol to Kit, Mary snatched one of the rifles off of Fred’s shoulder along with ammo and gunpowder, which she packed down into the muzzle. Before Fred had a chance to protest, she held her hand up. “If it’s clan raiders, you’ll need the help.”

Gunfire shattered the kitchen window, and the three of them ducked to the floor. Six men on horseback passed across the backdrop of fire and smoke circling the house. Fred held Kit’s chin, looking his boy in the eye, and closed Kit’s fingers tight around the pistol’s handle. “You don’t let anything happen to you or your brother. Understand?”

“Yes, sir.” The light from the flames flickered in Kit’s eyes. Mary gave him a kiss and helped him down the hall until he had enough grit to stand on his own. When she returned, she huddled close to Fred by the living room wall.

Without a word, Mary grabbed Fred’s hand and squeezed. He set down the rifle and powder in his hands and pulled her close, kissing her hard on the lips, huddled underneath the front windows. “I love you.”

“I love you too.” Fred picked up the rifle. The gun felt heavy in his hands, heavier than he remembered, but despite the time that had lapsed, the fluidity returned with ease. “You stay in here by the window, and use the house as cover. Wait for your shot, and keep an eye on anything that tries coming around the left corner of the house. I’ll watch the right.”

Mary nodded, and Fred gave her one last kiss before he burst out the door, dropping to one knee, and fired, his shot burying itself into the leg of one of the riders, sending him to the ground and his horse trotting off to escape the flame and smoke. The other riders returned fire, and Fred rolled right, evading the shots behind the porch bannisters. He stuffed the powder and lead down into the muzzle while bullets splintered the finished wood and shattered the glass of windows.

With one of their men already down, the raiding party split into two, each group heading to a different side of the house. Fred ducked low, keeping a bead on one of the riders to his left. The horses sped past. He squeezed the trigger, and the bullet zipped by the bandit and sent up a tuft of dirt behind the horse.

The heat from the flames surrounding the house had become unbearable. Fred’s clothes were soaked with sweat as he rushed back inside to join Mary at the front windows. “They’ll try and come through the back.” He looked to the couch where Kit had lain and found a comforting relief as well as a gut-wrenching stab that his boys were gone.

Both Fred and Mary hacked and coughed from the smoke making its way inside the house, replacing the smell of freshly baked goods with the harsh scent of charred crops. The thump of hooves rounded the left side of the house, and the end of Fred’s rifle followed the sound until the riders came into view out front beyond the window. He fired, killing the horse, and the rider dropped to the ground as the second rider raced for cover on the opposite side of the house.

Fred poured more powder and lead down the rifle’s barrel when the back door thundered open with a smack that echoed through the house. Fred shoulder-checked the kitchen table, knocking it to its side, and pulled Mary as he dashed behind it for cover as bullets peppered the thick oak Fred had wedged between him and his wife.

“I didn’t think the clans had that many weapons after the treaty,” Mary said, keeping her head low while the wild shots redecorated the inside of her kitchen.

“They didn’t.” Fred rose from behind the table’s barrier, lining up the small iron sight on the rifle. The raiders swiftly moved through the house, darting behind furniture, walls, anything that would shield them. Fred had fought the clans before, seen them on the battlefield. They relied on savagery, brute force, and the beating of their war drums. But the way these raiders moved, the way they fought, it was evasive, tactical.

Flames devoured the living room, rushing toward them like a fiery freight train. Fred grabbed Mary by the hand and sprinted out the front door, his lungs struggling to filter the heavy smoke. Once outside, both he and Mary collapsed in the dirt, wheezing. The rifles lay at their sides, and Fred did his best to keep his eyes peeled for the raiders.

“Fred!”

A burst of adrenaline coursed through Fred’s veins from Mary’s scream, something he hadn’t felt since the Island Wars. With lead and death and fire surrounding him, flashbacks of screams of dying soldiers under his command filled his ears, and he did his best to silence them with the pull of his finger against the trigger.