End Days Super Boxset (207 page)

Russell knelt in front of the case and flipped up the latches. He opened the case to reveal a Vietnam-era M9A1-7 flamethrower. It looked like something that belonged in a museum, but he hadn’t brought it out to admire history.

He picked up the heavy relic and placed the tank pack over his back while clutching the handgrip of the long hose. The tanks were full of pressurized nitrogen gas. Russell had only used it once before and was hopeful that it still worked.

The firefight continued at the front of the camp, where the front gate had taken considerable damage. Billy and Quinn continued to fire on them from above but were quickly running out of ammo. Armed with his flamethrower, Russell left his cabin and walked to the front gate, staring straight ahead. His men, hunkered down behind embankments, looked at him as if he had lost his mind.

“Open the gate!” Russell commanded with a wave of his arm.

Kyle stood up but didn’t move.

“I said open the fucking gate!” he repeated.

Kyle signaled to two of their men, and they ran to the gate apprehensively.

As Russell got closer, he opened the handgrip valve and readied the trigger.

“What are you doing?” Kyle asked.

Russell kept moving without saying a word. His men stood by the gate as the battering continued from outside. The door had nearly cracked open. He held the hose up and pointed to the men with his free hand. “Now!”

They turned the locking mechanism and swung both sides open, taking the breaching team completely by surprise. The four masked men holding the log nearly fell over as they stumbled forward. They looked up at Russell in disbelief.

“Welcome to Camp Liberty,” Russell said. He aimed the hose, pulled the trigger, and incinerated them in a startling blaze that rushed from the flamethrower. A huge ball of fire consumed everything in its path. The remaining outsiders immediately ran, stumbling and crying, not knowing what to think or do.

Russell stormed after them, running past the charred bodies of those in his wake. Kyle and the other men inside the camp watched in disbelief. Screams of anguish tore through the calm of the forest outside the gates, but Russell wasn't giving in. One of the outsiders attempted to take a shot at him from behind a tree, but missed. Russell reduced the man to incinerated flesh in a heartbeat.

Flames then choked from the thrower as its tank became low. Russell knew he was nearing the end of the nitrogen left. He had scorched everything in his way without hesitation, and by the time Kyle and the others could react, it looked as if everyone outside had been killed.

James exited the cabin with Daren and Dillon behind him. He looked up in surprise to see the gates open and a fire blazing outside the camp. The gunfire had stopped, and it became patently clear to James who was on the losing side. Their hopes for escape vanished in seconds.

Russell walked around, proudly surveying the scene strewn with blackened bodies still burning. His head bounced up and down in satisfaction as he bit his lower lip. Kyle and the others hung back, still not knowing what to say. Russell then yelled into the sky at the top of his lungs in celebration. He turned around to face all the men whose eyes were trained on him.

“Now that's how you win a war!”

Sunday October 5, 2020: McDonough, GA

Having recovered somewhat at the hospital, the patient known as “John Doe” wandered the city streets of McDonough—part of the Atlanta metropolitan area—in an attempt to find some answers. He needed a vehicle; that much he knew. More importantly, he needed a vehicle that ran. Such wasn't the case in the congested intersections and crosswalks before him.

There were plenty of cars to choose from, but none that ran. In haste, he jumped atop a sleek red Honda Gold Wing motorcycle parked on the curb and tried to start it, to no avail. He quickly jumped off the bike and continued to walk down the street past abandoned shops, smashed windows, and blankets of vandalism that had consumed the city.

It had only been a few days since he was walking a rural freeway along I-75 and was hit by a large van, miraculously surviving. Now he had to pick up the pieces again and proceed with his ambitious plan to prevent the U.S. from suffering an even worse disaster than the EMP strikes. Few people would think that things could get any worse. John Doe, however, knew that it could.

Things were beginning to come back to him. There was a reason he had been in the most rural of areas outside of Atlanta. He’d had a car. That much he knew. His car had broken down in mid-drive and rolled to the shoulder of a road he no longer remembered. The bizarre occurrence was like nothing he had experienced before in a moving vehicle. But it also wasn't entirely unexpected. He had pre-existing knowledge of the EMP strikes, they had just happened sooner than expected.

Before his car died, he was trying to recover something hidden. At the moment, he couldn't recall where. He knew it was something small for a computer, but little else. The van collision had really messed him up. He was lucky, he supposed, to be alive. That's what the doctors told him.

After trudging through town wearing some baggy clothes donated by the hospital, his purpose was beginning to grow clear. It was something important, something related to the EMP strikes. He had been on the run, and there were people after him. His name suddenly came back to him: Mason Turner. He was thirty-six years old, a data analyst working for the NSA. He had top-secret clearance. He knew things—things that had become scrambled in his mind after the accident.

Exhausted, he leaned against a red brick building and looked up into the blurry night sky. He realized that he wore glasses but had no idea what had happened to them. The air was hot and there was danger all around him. Military trucks roared in the distance. Gunshots sounded. Small fires flared throughout town.
If it wasn't the apocalypse
, Mason thought,
they were pretty damn close
. The faint fumes of tear gas stung his eyes and gripped his lungs. There was likely a disturbance somewhere close, and he wondered to what extent law enforcement had control of things.

As thoughts of his own safety began to race through his mind, Mason noticed a group of men walking closely together toward him. Their silhouettes were hard to make out, but their quick movement toward the red building where he stood was unmistakable. They were coming for him. Suddenly, it dawned on Mason that he was being followed. Not only then, but on the night he had been hit by the van. He believed they had found him again, and he had no idea what they wanted.

Mason tried not to look at them directly. He turned his head to the side and saw them approaching at a faster pace now—three men in sport jackets, walking with their hands in their pockets. He looked for a possible escape route or somewhere he could evade the approaching men but thought it wise to keep moving. He continued walking, faster now, as the sound of footsteps became louder and closer behind him. He did his best to fight the urge to look back. He knew the men were gaining on him.

From what he saw, they weren't dressed like agents or government spooks. They wore street clothes, much like him. Perhaps they were undercover. Maybe they had been following him for a while and were just looking for the opportune moment to strike. Mason kept moving down the street, past another crosswalk and onto the next block.

He looked for a police officer or anyone who could help him but noticed even fewer people around. It seemed he was entering a worse part of town, a place one would have to be foolish to enter at night. The abundance of graffiti sprayed across every building and vehicle confirmed it. It was at that moment that Mason realized he had no idea where he was going.

The footsteps kept coming, and it was only a matter of time before they caught up with him. Mason was in no condition to run or fend off three men. As his heart raced, he tried to come up with a plan. He looked around, careful not to make eye contact with his pursuers.

There was an alleyway up ahead on his left. Maybe he could dart inside unseen and move as quickly as possible to evade them. But then Mason remembered that alleyways meant the potential of being boxed in and having to defend himself. He passed a high-rise apartment complex and briefly glanced at the entrance, up a few small steps, only to find it bolted shut. It was time to make a big move, so Mason casually crossed the street and continued walking down the sidewalk on the other side. All the while, he remained aware of the men following closely behind him.

The faster he moved, the faster the footsteps behind him moved. The street ahead looked even more dark and shady. The moment finally came to act. Mason took a quick turn left, down the next street, into further darkness. He looked frantically for a place to hide from the men that raced toward him like a locomotive off the rails.

Mason tried to run, lost his footing, and tripped on the pavement, face first onto the ground. The pain was excruciating. The men were on him in a flash. They grabbed his arms, pulled them behind his back, and yanked Mason up on his feet.

He felt disoriented and frightened. One of the men told him to walk as another held his arms back tightly. He could feel warm blood running down his face and blinked to keep it from getting into his eyes.

“Just keep moving, and pick up the pace!” the man holding his arms ordered.

They turned him back the way they had come, pushing him along. Mason figured they wanted information, but his memory was a fragmented mess—a wasteland of disjointed thoughts. He tried to get a good look at them but couldn't. The one holding his arms pushed him to move even faster, and Mason felt a searing pain in his left hip and knee. He shouted and nearly stumbled to the ground, angering the man further.

“
Vamos
,” the one man said.

“I can't go any faster. I was in an accident!” Mason shouted.

“Accident or not, you better put a little pep in your step,” the man said.

Mason tried his best to get up and walk normally. Every step he took sent crippling pain throughout his body. They reached a dirt path on the outskirts of the city and continued down it until they reached a dilapidated flophouse covered in graffiti with all its windows boarded up.

“We good?” one of the other men asked. He had a Spanish accent.

The man holding Mason nodded. They led him inside where it was pitch black. Before he could even speak, someone pushed him onto the floor, knocking him out completely.

Mason woke up, not knowing how long he had been out. He was seated in a chair in a dark, murky room. His entire body ached all over. Some of his hair had crusted onto his face as the blood dried. Looking ahead, he saw nothing but darkness.

“How did you find me?” he asked hoarsely. No one answered. “I know you're there,” Mason continued. “Show yourselves and quit fucking around.”

Suddenly, a match was drawn, revealing one of the men. He held a kerosene lamp in one hand and lit it with the other. The flame of the lamp revealed his tan, wrinkled face. He had a black goatee, graying hair, and brown, bloodshot eyes. A pack of Marlboros protruded from the pocket of his tattered green jacket.

“You sure got a mouth on you,
hombre
,” the man said.

“Answer my question,” Mason said.

“We're not answering shit,” another man said, stepping forward. His face was covered in deep stubble, and his head was balding at the top. He had small, circular framed glasses and spoke with a slight Hispanic accent.

“You dumb Mexican bastards better let me go, if you know what's good for you,” Mason said, trying to antagonize them further.

“Not going to happen,” the third man said, coming into the light. He was the tallest of the group, with a thick mustache and black slicked-back hair, wearing several golden necklaces over his black shirt. “And we're not Mexican,
pinche pendejo
.”

“What did you call me?” Mason asked.

“Maybe we can show this guy a map, Comandante,” the goatee man said. “You think he knows the difference between Mexico and Colombia?”

“Same shithole, different name,” Mason said.

The tall man, referred to as “Comandante,” signaled to his partner with the glasses. The balding, stocky man walked over to Mason and swiftly punched him in the face.

Mason's head jolted back and he winced in agony as the searing pain spread through his nose and into his brain. He covered his face in an attempt to stifle the pain. The punch had knocked the sass out of Mason's vernacular. His eyes watered uncontrollably and he looked ahead, breathing heavily.

“OK. I get it. You're from Colombia. What the hell do you want from me?” he asked.

“Not so fast,” the comandante said. “We ask the questions here.”

“I don't know what low-level agency put you thugs up to this, but you're wasting your time. I don't know anything,” Mason said.

The Comandante signaled his enforcer, the balding man, as goatee man set the lantern on the ground near Mason. Balding man opened a nearby toolbox and pulled out a box cutter. Mason caught on quickly. His adversaries must have outsourced the interrogation to the Colombian mercenaries. It all made sense to him. It was at that moment that he knew the three mysterious men meant business.

“I told you,” Mason repeated in a desperate tone, “I can't remember anything. Whatever information you're trying to get, it's gone. I was hit by a van.”

Goatee man sauntered casually toward Mason with blade in hand, not saying a word. The floorboards under his sneakers creaked with each step. Mason prattled on. “Listen to me! Whatever I did know is gone. Tell your bosses that I’ve forgotten everything!”

The man walked behind Mason and held the box cutter to his neck. Mason could feel the small blade digging in. “Talk to me!” he shouted. “I don't know anything. I swear!” He was sweating profusely and had turned white with fear.

Comandante raised his hand, signaling his balding enforcer to stop. He then looked at Mason. “It's funny, when you speak, I don't hear any words. Just bullshit.”

“It's the truth,” Mason said.

“Let's try this,” the comandante continued. “Tell us what you're doing in our territory, and we’ll go from there.”

“Territory?”

“You will pay a hefty price for the offense.”

“What kind of price?”

“Food, water, ammo...whatever you got.”

Mason couldn't believe his ears. “
Whatever I got?
Do I look like a man who has things?”

“Back home,
puta
,” the goatee man answered. “You take us back to your little gringo home in your little gringo neighborhood, and we take what we need.”

“Sounds fair to me,” the balding man added.

“It's the best deal you're gonna get,” Comandante said.

Mason looked around the room in disarray. They had managed to confuse him in ways that exceeded his own limited knowledge of interrogation techniques. He grasped at anything that would stall them or possibly let him go. Nothing came to mind.

“Look at that,” the balding man said, walking in front of Mason. “
El gato
got his tongue.”

“Last chance,” Comandante said. His goateed compatriot picked up a small two-by-four plank.

Mason was at a loss. He saw little hope in his situation and next-to-no way out of it. He shook his head from side to side while taking a deep breath. “I don't have a house, and I don't live around here. You have to believe me. I can't remember much beyond that.”

Comandante stepped forward—leaning close to Mason—and spoke softly. “I'm sure you'll recall something.”

He backed away and signaled his men, who proceeded to pummel Mason from both sides, quick and painful. They struck him in the face, chest, and stomach. White flashes consumed his vision as his face immediately began to swell.

Just when he thought the worst was over, goatee man raised his two-by-four in the air and smacked it down onto his already battered legs. It was the worst pain he had felt yet. He responded with an agonizing scream that startled his attackers. Comandante signaled the men off as they stared at the badly beaten man before them.

Mason squinted up at the men surrounding him. Along with a surge of pain and numbness, he began to remember things as if they were from yesterday. His mission—his entire purpose—rushed back to him in a recollection that was vivid and accessible.

“Talk, damn you, talk,” Comandante said.

Goatee man held his two-by-four high in the air, ready to bring it down again on Mason's legs. Mason shuddered. He was no soldier or master spy. He was a data analyst, with virtually no training in how to handle torture.