Dux Bellorum (Future History of America Book 3) (10 page)

"We're on recon for the rest of the Battalion.
 
Bunch of us have been sent in all directions heading north.
 
We're looking for food, fuel, supplies, and local populations willing to help."

Erik counted to ten before the sheriff responded.
 
"Well…don't know how much we're gonna be able to satisfy any of those you're looking for, captain.
 
Things around here got real bad recently."

While the sheriff and Ted talked, Erik focused his attention on the men he could see.
 
Before he'd lost his radio, Ted mentioned a few cars coming from the north.
 
If they were anything like the pickup trucks that came from the south, he estimated there were at least 15 armed men out on the road.
 
So far no one had spotted him, but he couldn't stay hidden behind a truck forever.

"… all went kinda crazy of a sudden."

"That meshes with what we've seen from the other communities further south.
 
How many did you lose?"

The sheriff leaned against the hood of his cruiser.
 
"Lost most of my force.
 
Only got three deputies left.
 
And the posse."
 
He waved an arm, indicating the man in and around the pickup trucks.
 
"Had to deputize these good old boys just to help me keep the peace.
 
With the election coming up–"

"Election?" asked Ted.
 
Erik risked another glance and saw Ted lean over the side of the M-ATV.
 
"Sheriff, I don't mean to sound rude, but don't you think we got bigger things to worry about than elections?"

The lawman laughed, a bitter sound.
 
"I reckon you might be right.
 
Ain't up to me though—the mayor up and died an' the people need
someone
to lead them."

"You gonna ask them if they can help?" asked one of the men from the pickup trucks.

Erik couldn't hear what the sheriff said in reply, but he stared at the man until he looked down and away.
 
"I'm sure the Army has more important things to worry about than a small town election."
 
He turned back to the M-ATV.
 
"Am I right, captain?
 
How's the fight against them Russkies doing?"

Ted rested his elbows on the edge on the rim of the M-ATV turret.
 
"Not good, not so good at all.
 
The front collapsed along the Orlando-Tampa line.
 
They've probably pushed us up to the border by now.
 
We lost comms a few days ago."

The sheriff cursed.
 
"A few days ago?
 
Took you that long to get up here?"

Ted glanced south.
 
"Lotta roadblocks—towns don't want visitors coming through.
 
I can't tell you how many wrecked cars we had to move out of the way.
 
It's been real slow going.
 
In fact, that's why we're here."

"Do tell," said the sheriff.
 
Erik couldn't help but notice the subtle tone shift in the man's voice.

Ted noticed as well.
 
"Now, we don't mean to impose," reassured Ted, "but my mission is to find supplies and report back.
 
So far we haven't found squat.
 
But this pig is in need of repairs," he said slapping the roof of the M-ATV.
 
"It's been a rough trip.
 
We stopped here hoping to pick up a civilian vehicle.
 
Maybe a big SUV," Ted said.

The sheriff stared at him for a moment.
 
The only sounds Erik heard were the insects in the grass and the M-ATV’s engine at idle.

"I'm afraid I can't let you take anything, captain.
 
Law and order's already breaking down.
 
I let you walk off with private property, things'll just go from bad to worse."
 
The sheriff looked up at the M-ATV with an appraising eye.
 
"But that don't mean we can't come to some sort of understanding, you hear?"

Erik didn't like the way the men by the trucks mumbled and nudged each other as they looked at the big army vehicle.
 
The locals had a predatory look about them.
 
He remained silent, thinking.
 

It'd been almost five months since terrorists had taken out the power grid.
 
In that time, Erik had seen enough suffering and depravity to fill up dozens of horror novels.
 
The people, if the sheriff could be believed, should be starving, sick, or at least a
little
apprehensive about seeing a big military truck rumble into their hometown unannounced and alone.
 

Yet these men looked like hunters.
 
They appeared well fed, well rested, and if Erik could trust his judgment, a few of them looked drunk.
 
He checked his watch.
 
7:52 AM.
 
Something was off.

"That sounds like a mighty fine proposition, Sheriff Jonston," Ted's voice called out.
 
"Will you give me some time to consider my options?"

"Time is not something we have a lot of just now," began the sheriff.
 
"I tell you what—you take as long as you want—just so you don't take more than ten minutes.
 
After that, I'm gonna have to ask you to clear on out of town if you won't help."

Erik tried to control his breathing as he leaned against the side of the truck.
 
He cursed his situation.
 
He been so tired from the previous night's driving he didn't even pay attention to what deal Ted and the sheriff and just worked out.

He leaned his head forward until his helmet touched the barrel of his rifle.
 
If only he could have a few hours of sleep to clear his head.

"Nobody do anything stupid," said the sheriff in a lower voice.
 
"Nothing we got can punch a hole through the side of that thing.
 
So we just wait them out, you hear?"

The men near the pickup trucks mumbled the responses, too soft for Erik to pick up.
 
Whatever was going to happen, he'd have to stay where he was and hope no one spotted him.
 
His only option was to wait until Ted and Brin rolled out of town with the M-ATV.
 
After the locals dispersed, he'd slip off to the countryside and meet them at the rendezvous point.
 
He was not looking forward to a long hike through unfamiliar terrain.

"Erik?
 
You read me?"
 
The little radio squawked.
 
Erik's heart skipped a beat.
 
He turned and glanced out into the no-man's-land and stared at the little handheld radio playing face up in the gravel.

"You catch any of that?"

Erik swung his gaze back to the locals.
 
Damn it, Brin, stop talking!
 

All but one of the men kept a wary eye on M-ATV.
 
The man closest to the road, sporting a filthy white T-shirt and baggy jeans, scratched at the stubble on his cheek and adjusted the Atlanta Braves hat on his head.
 
He looked over his shoulder and said something, but the others waved him off.
 
He took a few wobbly steps off the road and down into the high grass.

Oh shit, oh shit, oh shit…
 

Erik gripped the rifle in his hands and prayed he wouldn't set the damn thing off by accident.
 
The man grew closer and his legs disappeared into the weeds.
 
Erik watched, waiting to see what would happen and saw the man close his eyes as he unzipped his pants.
 

Erik sighed.
 
That was close.

Ted's voice crackled in the near silence.
 
"All right, I have to assume you can hear me…"
 

Erik watched in horror as the local relieving himself in the weeds opened his bleary eyes.

"Ted says the local sheriff offered us a deal.
 
They’re having some issues in town and they need some muscle to keep the peace.
 
They can't give us any vehicles or supplies, but if we help them, they'll trade for what we've got."

Erik held his breath, watching as the man took a cautious step toward the line of cars.
 
Please stop talking…

The radio broke squelch again with a little chirp.
 
"Erik?"

The local zipped his pants and drew a pistol from his belt as he stepped through the weeds and onto the gravel parking lot.
 
"Hey!
 
There's a radio over here on the ground!
 
I think the guy in the army tank—"

"It's a
truck
, you dumbass!" someone shouted back.

"Whatever!" the yokel responded over laughter.
 
He picked up the radio.
 
"He's trying to talk to somebody!"

Erik swallowed as four sets of eyes swiveled in his direction.

Awww shit.

Chapter 11

Survival

L
IEUTENANT
C
OLONEL
C
AROLINE
E
DWARDS
would have killed someone to be able to scratch the back of her leg.
 
She'd been bound and gagged, then blindfolded—the Russians had even gone so far as to put a bag over her head.

The rebels had found her in Washington Park after she'd bailed out of her F-16 and since then she'd been passed from one group to another, never staying long with any of her captors.
 
It was like everyone was nervous having her in their charge and couldn't wait to give her away to someone else.

Not like anyone bothered to give me much to eat or drink.
 
I don't take up a lot of resources…

She tried to adjust her position and bumped her lower back against the metal wall of her small compartment.
 
Trunk.
 
It had to be a trunk.
 
She didn't remember actually being placed in a vehicle.
 
She'd fallen asleep on her side in the corner of a room that smelled like it had been used as a urinal for a few years.
 
She huddled in the corner, going over all her SERE training and trying to find a way to break free of her constraints as inconspicuously as possible.

When the Russians had first taken custody of her from the ramshackle group of rebels—teenagers with guns, really—they'd slapped cable ties over the crude duct tape restraints already in place.
 
When they blindfolded her, she started to worry.
 
Then the hood came down and blocked out what ambient light slipped around the rotten cloth.
 
Her world plunged into darkness and there it had stayed.

She didn't know how many days had passed. All she thought about was escape.
 
She focused her other senses to try and figure out her location.
 

At first, she heard nothing but Russian—she had no idea what they were saying, but judging from the muffled explosions and the frantic pace of footsteps in the hallway, things weren't going well for the invaders.
 
She hoped whoever the hell was fighting back was doing so without mercy.

She remembered one dreadfully loud explosion that shook the entire building—suddenly giving her an acute case of vertigo as she imagined herself in a high-rise, swaying in the wind.
 
Everything in the hallway went quiet.
 
Only the chatter on radios broke the silence in between explosions and the roar of jets streaking overhead.
 

The pitch was off for Falcons, so she knew whoever was flying wasn't her squadron, but couldn't quite place the type of engine.
 
Fighters, certainly, and a lot of them, but friendly or hostile?
 
She had no way of knowing and so tried to block them out.

Eventually, when her knees began to ache and then go numb, someone stomped up to her and dropped a metal plate next to her.
 
She felt something splash against her check.
 
Groping about blindly as the footsteps retreated into the distance, she found a bowl of what she hoped was water.
 
She sniffed it.
 

Please let it not be piss…

After a tentative sip, she discovered it was indeed water.
 
She'd gulped it down greedily, not caring that some spilled down her chin.
 
It was hard to figure out where to place the bowl with the hood tied tightly just under her nose.
 
The voices in the hallway grew quieter until finally a lone radio squawked then faded as the owner walked way.
 
She'd been left alone.

That was when Edwards truly felt afraid.
 
They'd left her to rot, bound, gagged, and blinded, in a building deep inside an active combat zone.
 
Would anyone find her?
 
She didn't have long to wait.
 
Before the air battle died down, another group of people entered the area speaking English.
 

They joked to each other and marveled at the jets criss-crossing the sky, pointing out damaged buildings and exploding bombs—she was sure they were missiles—and made their way through the rooms near hers.
 
It sounded like they were scavengers, calling out radios and weapons as they found them.
 
They sounded young.

They turned out to be a group of rebels sent to reconnoiter the abandoned Russian outpost.
 
They were none to happy to find her and a furious debate had raged over what to do with her.