Dux Bellorum (Future History of America Book 3) (39 page)

The agent grunted and turned his attention back to the radio. Daniel heard it squawk something about incoming army units.

"Sssh," she said, brushing some strands of blood-soaked hair from his forehead. "You've been seriously injured, sir. They're doing their best to get you to safety."

"Who…?" he whispered again.

The kind smile returned her face—like the type of smile a mother would give to a favored son who had tried to show off for her and skinned a knee.
 

"My name is Lieutenant Colonel Caroline Edwards, United States Air Force."

Recognition flashed across Daniels eyes. He tried to shout, but found the gentle hand now became an iron vice around his throat. He feebly clawed at her hand, amazed she could choke him so easily.
 

The extent of his injuries came rushing at him like a ton of bricks. He had to warn the agents. She was supposed to be
his
prisoner, not the other way around.

"You are a dictator," she said, her face close to his. The smile vanished as his vision darkened.

No, no, no…it was that guy from the Air Force who…Hank!

"Sic semper tyrannis," she whispered before he lost consciousness.

Chapter 42

Heading Home

"Y
OUR
TURN
,
BUDDY
,"
SAID
Ted as he rubbed the fatigue from his eyes.
 
He immediately collapsed on the rough pallet they’d made out of cushions from a couch in the downstairs lobby of the visitor's center and closed his eyes.

Erik groaned and got to his feet.
 
He'd been up most of the night on watch keeping an eye on the people who picked over their van by candlelight.
 
When at last they’d began to disperse into the night, he and Ted were able to relax and get some rest.
 
Erik took the first shift, then was able to sleep while Brin took the graveyard shift.
 
Ted took the early morning shift so Erik could wake at dawn and take over.

He shuffled over to the window at the southeast corner of the building and peered out into the morning sun.
 
Their van sat in the same spot it had occupied all night, only all the doors were now open.
 
Bits and pieces from the glove compartment and one of the seats lay on the street.
 
The hood was up and Erik spied the battery on the ground.
 
Whoever found their van in the night did a decent job of dismantling it.

Erik sighed and let his forehead rest against the window.
 
The cool glass felt welcoming on his skin, compared to the slightly stuffy atmosphere of the visitor's center.

Now we have to find another car…

Brin stirred behind him and moved up next to him by the window.
 
"God, what a mess…"

Erik sighed.
 
"Yeah, guess it's time to go car shopping again."

Brin grunted and disappeared to go check on the children.

Erik sat at his post for the better part of an hour, watching the empty streets and counting the number of birds that flew overhead.
 
Around 9 o'clock, he gave a start as a helicopter appeared on the horizon to the south.
 
Brin and the kids rushed over to take a look and marveled together at the sight of the aircraft as it circled closer and closer.
 
Erik pulled out the binoculars and quickly realized it was no ordinary helicopter but a military Black Hawk.

"I wonder what he's doing over here?"

Brin shook her head.
 
"Whatever he’s doing, I don't want any part of it.
 
You remember what that stadium looked like?"

"I think we better get started on finding a new car quicker than we thought," Erik observed.
 
He lowered the binoculars and put them on the window sill.
 
"You're okay with the kids?"

"Yeah, go ahead."

Erik grabbed his rifle and tousled the hair on Teddy’s head before snagging a bottle of RV water from their pile of supplies.

He stepped out into the early morning air and closed his eyes, relishing the crisp air that enveloped him.
 
He closed the door quietly and walked across the street toward the van, sipping his water.
 

He examined the remains of the van and cursed.
 
The scavengers had taken several sections of wiring from the engine area and it looked like they’d dismantled part of the radiator as well.
 

"What the hell were these guys doing?"

He sucked air in through his teeth when he examined the van’s interior.
 
They'd slashed open all the seats, removed some of the foam padding and taken two of the captain's chairs with them.
 
The glove box was completely empty, and the rudimentary toolkit stowed with the spare tire was gone as well.
 

He shook his head, took a final drink of water and slipped it into a mesh pouch on the side of his pack.
 
Slipping the rifle sling over his shoulder, he adjusted the weight of his pack and decided to pick his way around the pile of cars blocking the street to the north.
 

He stepped up on the sidewalk close to the brick wall by the library.
 
On a hunch, he quickly stuck his head over the wall and looked down its length north and south.
 
Empty.
 
At least he wouldn't be surprised.
 
He made his way across the street and stuck close to the trees that lined the front of the next few buildings.
 

Cautiously peering into the windows, Erik checked for movement.
 
Nothing.
 
As he listened to crows and blue jays calling in the distance, an eerie sensation settled on his shoulders.
 
It was like walking over someone's grave.
 
By the time Erik traveled two blocks, he almost hoped to run into someone just to relieve his anxiety.

He crouched down at the corner of a building and peered around, looking for signs of activity.
 
An empty plastic bag carried along by the breeze scraped the sidewalk on the far side of the road.
 
In the distance he saw another barricade of cars at the far end of street.

This place is creepy as hell.

Over another colonial-style building a block away, he saw a parking garage in the distance.
 
Erik trotted off with a purpose.
 
He covered the distance in short order, pausing only to look into the windows of the buildings he passed.
 

Most of them had been smashed out.
 
A few of the buildings he passed looked like they'd been gutted by fire.
 
Whatever had happened here, it looked to be violent and swift, but not as completely destructive as what had swept through Leesburg, Virginia.

On the second to last building before the parking garage, he saw a cacophony of spray paint on one of the brick walls.
 
Most of it had been covered over in layer upon layer with different paints, except the top right corner which proclaimed in bright orange paint:
e=mc
2
.
 

He stood for second and stared at the graffiti.
 
Unable to make out what had been covered up by previous layers, he shook his head at the sheer madness of it all.
 
To the left of the famous equation, a partially covered fist raised in the air in black spray paint had been crossed out with a red spray paint.

Something weird as hell is going on here.
 

He didn't know what to make of it, but knew the parking garage he’d seen was just behind this building, so he slipped around to the west.
 
Moving low beneath the windows he passed, Erik crept through the bushes until he was able to spy his target.

The parking garage had one entrance, blocked by two cars parked at angles.
 
He cursed his luck as he saw the curved metal spikes also preventing people from going in the exit.

If there’s any cars in there, someone sure wants to make sure nobody gets them.

Erik decided to scope out the situation for a while.
 
He made himself comfortable and slowly removed the water bottle from his backpack, taking a few sips to pass the time.
 
He choked down his last Russian protein bar and counted birds.
 
He watched a few chipmunks skittering through the bushes nearby.
 
Across the street he watched as pigeons relentlessly picked at the gravel in the street, looking for food.
 
He wondered what pigeon and chipmunk pie tasted like.
 

An hour went by, then another and Erik began to nod off.
 
He decided it was time to make a move.
 
Ted and Brin would be starting to worry soon enough.
 
He'd been gone almost three hours already—it would be noon in a few minutes.

Erik pushed the bushes back and slowly rose to a crouch.
 
Keeping his rifle at his shoulder, he scurried across the street and pressed himself against the wall of the parking garage.
 
After a quick scan of his surroundings revealed no immediate threat, he ducked around the corner and disappeared inside.

He paused and crouched behind a large concrete barricade, letting his eyes adjust to the dim light inside the garage.
 
His nose detected the routine smells of a garage— rubber, gasoline, and oil.
 
Everything seemed normal.

Emboldened by the lack of contact, he moved forward and grinned as he saw row upon row of parked cars waiting to be plucked like fruit ripened on the vine.
 
He'd hit the mother-lode.
 
Erik beamed ear to ear, relishing in his first real stroke of good luck since the power had gone out.

Finally, things are turning our way.
 
I can have my pick of the litter!

He trotted up the rows of empty cars, looking for something appealing.
 
Most of them appeared to be compact cars.
 
Reaching the ramp that led up to the second level, he found four-door sedans and a few small trucks.
 
By the time he was halfway through the second floor, most were larger cars and SUVs.
 
Keeping his eyes peeled for a van, he was disappointed turn after turn as he continued to work his way up toward the upper levels.
 

The cars thinned out by the time he reached third floor. On the fourth he found only six vehicles, but the first was a blue Ford Expedition.

Erik had the place completely to himself.
 
The vehicle was locked.
 
His luck hadn't been perfect after all.
 
He slung his rifle over a shoulder and put his hands on his hips, pondering what to do next.

He walked around the big blue Ford and tried to figure out how to get inside.
 
After a while, he concluded it was best to just smash a window and be done with it.
 
He walked over to the passenger door, took one look around the deserted parking garage and raised his rifle.
 

He aimed the butt directly at the bottom corner of the glass and swung it as hard as he could.
 
The rifle bounced right off and the upper receiver nearly kissed his forehead.
 
Surprised at the rifle's inability to shatter the window, he smacked it again, again, and again.
 
The dull thumping sound of the rifle stock on the glass made him grit his teeth in frustration.
 

It's never this hard in the movies.
 

Then he remembered seeing a news story years ago about carjackings in Tampa and how the crooks smashed windows.
 
What did that reporter say?
 
Erik sat on the driver side running board and rested his rifle on the ground for a moment.
 
He remembered seeing the newscaster trying to smash a car window with a hammer and failing over and over again.
 
The heavy hammer should have busted right through the window, but the curved glass deflected it every time.

"What the hell did that guy do to finally break the window?"
 
Erik mumbled as he adjusted his helmet and wiped the sweat from his forehead.
 
This shouldn't be so difficult.
 

"Some survivor I am," he muttered.
 
"Can't even break into a car."
 
He stood and paced around the vehicle, thinking.
 

I've got to get inside this thing.
 
Think.
 
The reporter had a hammer and he couldn't break a window.
 
I've got a rifle and I can't smash it open either.
 
Why?

The memory suddenly came to him—the hammer and the rifle stock were both
flat
.
 
He needed something with a sharp point to shatter the glass.

Sharp point, sharp point…what the hell do I have with a sharp point other than a knife?
 
Erik walked back to the passenger window and pulled his knife from its hip sheath.
 
He held it like a dagger and took a swing, point toward the glass.
 
The knife skittered across the glass.
 

"What the hell?" he asked, rubbing his arm where the vibration had nearly caused him to drop the blade.
 
"What do I
 
have to do to break this damn thing?"

Erik sheathed the knife, cursing at the bent tip and put his hands back on his hips.
 
"This is ridiculous."

As he stood there thinking, he almost didn't register the sound of a shout echoing in the distance.
 
When he heard it again, his ears pricked up, and he spun around.
 
He scrambled around the SUV and scooped up his rifle on his way to the edge of the platform.