End Days Super Boxset (212 page)

“We've all been through some shit, Terrance,” Mark said. “It hasn't been easy.”

“Sun’s going down,” Terrance said. “Let's move these bodies and go back to the bug-out house.”

“We take James, let the rest of 'em rot,” Mark replied.

“I know how you feel, but the smell alone isn't worth it. We have to bury them all.”

Janice stepped forward, visibly upset. “I can't believe we're even having this conversation right now. I think I'm going to puke.”

“Let's try to keep it together. It's important for us, and it's important for the kids.”

“Easy for you to say,” Mark said.

Their argument stopped when they heard Christina squeal from afar, obviously ecstatic to be reunited with Richie and Tobias. Whatever horrors they had faced together or separately subsided momentarily after hearing a brief moment of joy.

It was almost too much to take in at once. After they set up a small makeshift enclosure near the bug-out house, Terrance was told everything that had happened during his absence. He was told of the fire, their journey through the woods, and their arrival at Camp Liberty. Though they had only been split up for a few days, it seemed that he had missed an eternity. They told him of the townspeople and their attack on Camp Liberty, and then their eventual escape.

“After James was shot, well, that's where you come in, Terrance,” Mark said.

Terrance was speechless, as were Richie and Tobias. They couldn't believe that their little sister had endured such hardships. Their innocence seemed lost now.

They would all sleep on the ground that night in an improvised shelter made from sticks, rope, and their extra clothes. Terrance pulled out what was left from his emergency food kit and divided it up to be rationed later. It was a quiet, solemn evening for the most part. Of course, there was concern about the remaining members at Camp Liberty and possible retribution. Mark and Janice were confident, however, that without Russell, there was no real leadership and the militia would soon disband. Maybe the Wilson boys and the college students would have some hope after all.

The biggest obstacle they faced was the loss of James, though it seemed too surreal to believe. Gone was his bug-out house. Gone were their vehicles, all but the van. And gone, finally, was James. He was the reason they had come out to Milledgeville in the first place. He was their unelected leader, their organizer, the man they trusted with their lives.

His body was wrapped and buried in the front yard of the home he loved. As for the others, Mark and Terrance dug a hole out in the forest—with what shovels remained near the bug-out house—and buried them. Mark only puked twice. Terrance seemed largely unaffected. He had never buried bodies with such wounds before, but for some reason, it had little effect on him.

That evening—as they hydrated themselves from their water reserves and leftover scraps of food—the question came up of where they were going to go next. There wasn't much for them in Milledgeville, and according to James, things were only worse around town. They had Terrance's van, but not much fuel to go a great distance. Another fuel run would be necessary.

Their next move would have to be a careful one. Recent hardships had placed some genuine burdens and stress on the fragile bonds within their group. It might be better for them to go their separate ways after all. Later that night, as the kids slept in their sleeping bags, the adults sat outside their shelter, under the stars, to discuss their options.

“We have to keep moving,” Terrance insisted.

“Yes, but where?” Janice said.

“How about D.C.?” Mark suggested.

Everyone stopped and looked at him. It seemed an insane suggestion.

“Why D.C.?” Christina asked.

“The crime there alone is concerning,” Janice added.

Mark held his hands up defensively. “Hear me out for a moment. Look, I know D.C. is bad news. Here's the thing, though. I can remember during one of Russell's rants, he made the claim that Washington D.C. was one of the few areas still completely operational in terms of power and mobility and all that. Seems to me that if we really want some answers to this thing, we're going to find them there.”

No one said anything, but they were considering Mark's point. They had few other options.

Mark continued. “Either that, or we hide in the woods eating leaves. Or we go back to our homes and hope that everything fixes itself in time.”

Janice spoke up. “I'll take the fixes itself option.”

“Well, in that case, would you guys mind taking us back to Savannah?”

Terrance stood up. “I think we're all forgetting what this is all about in the first place. I know that everyone has been through a lot. Richie, Tobias, and I have our own stories to tell. We came here to work together. We came here because we believe in each other and our ability to adapt and survive. We didn't ask for that EMP strike. We didn't ask for none of it, but here we are. Do I want to go home? Of course. We all do. But it ain't the same as it used to be. None of it is. Without James, I know all of this feels pointless. But you all damn well know he would have wanted us to stick together.”

Terrance sat back down, somewhat satisfied with his speech.

“I just don't know if D.C. is the answer,” Janice said after a pause.

“Janice, it's all we have at this point,” Mark said.

Terrance turned to Christina. “What do you think?”

“I think that if we can make it there, we can make it anywhere.”

Janice leaned in. “You mean physically make it there? Because even that's in doubt.”

“I mean that we have to try.”

It seemed decided among the group. They would pile in the bug-out van and make the drive to Washington D.C. It wasn't too far away, but a gas run would undoubtedly be necessary. The prospect of answers was too alluring to deny. Their lives were no longer what they were before the EMP strikes. Too much had happened. Mark screwed the lid off his canteen and held it up in the air.

“To James,” he said. “The finest man in Milledgeville.”

Everyone grabbed their water bottles and held them up. “To James,” they said in unison. They took a sip of refreshing water and continued to watch the fire in silence.

In the darkness of the front yard, a cross made from two sticks bound together stuck out of the yard, overlooking the ruins of a once-practical home. It had become the silent resting place of a man whose roots were now one with the land he so revered.

Mason had little trouble stealing a military Humvee. It seemed like his first big break. He watched the soldiers outside the hospital from afar, waiting for an opportunity. It came when the prospect of coffee was mentioned, and the soldiers scattered to the nearest tent inside the hospital gate to line up.

They were, after all, National Guard soldiers who had been guarding the same checkpoint for weeks with limited information from their higher-ups. They had done all that could have been expected of them and more, even though it meant being away from their families during an unprecedented crisis. They were also kept in the dark about the true extent of what was occurring throughout the country. Had it been known, the state would have a more difficult time keeping them at their posts.

Mason simply strolled to the nearest Humvee at the front gate, got in, and turned the ignition switch to the glorious sound of the engine's roar. He looked back quickly to see if anyone took notice. The thought of being pulled from the vehicle and tackled to the ground entered his mind, but he tried to stay positive.

The sound of the engine had been heard by many of the soldiers lined up for coffee nearby, but they had all assumed that someone was watching the gate. They grew no more suspicious when the Humvee drove off. As far as they were concerned, it was a night patrol. Mason knew he was in view of the soldiers and didn't speed away to arouse suspicion or alert them of the theft. Once he was out of sight, he floored it to the nearest highway exit. He only hoped that he could remember how to get to his destination.

Mason would have his own share of troubles trying to get to D.C. He had to backtrack before leaving Atlanta and find the farmhouse where he had hidden the USB drive. His memory was still hazy, and he was still in bad shape physically. The Humvee had terrible gas mileage and wasn’t the most inconspicuous vehicles around either. Once he found the USB drive, he’d then have a 700-mile trip to make where anything could happen on the way. The odds of succeeding in his mission seemed abysmally low. Had the Colombians killed him, he wouldn't have to contend with any of it.

Maybe he was
naïve
to think that a thumb drive could prevent a world war. The government was being played by infiltrators from within, as were the American citizens. Mason felt he had to alert the clueless government to what was happening from within. He, like other selected targets, had been marked for death. His colleagues had already been killed, and he was the only remaining outsider with knowledge of the conspiracy. Revealing the truth behind everything was now up to him.

There were many things to contend with—government agents, the police, the military, even former associates who were working against him. It was the stuff conspiracy theories were made of, but no one in the country cared about a bunch of dead NSA employees—not when they didn’t have power, food, or water.

Mason had no doubt that the President and his administration were devising war plans against the Middle East in retaliation for the EMP strikes. How they could even fall for such a ruse was beyond him. If the terrorist-sponsored states wanted to attack America, they would have used a nuclear warhead, dirty bomb, or a chemical agent. They wouldn’t have wasted their time using an EMP. Mason knew this.

The Middle East was full of serious, fanatical leaders who believed that the annihilation of America was a part of their fundamental purpose. Would they risk their own destruction in retaliatory U.S. strikes? World affairs were fragile enough, and now everything was soon going to be up for grabs. It was only a matter of time.

Mason was on the outskirts of Atlanta, approaching the rural enclave where he would find the abandoned farm. Somewhere on that farm was a pumpkin. In that pumpkin, in a sealed, airtight bag, he would find the USB drive. It was his life insurance policy, but it was also the reason he was marked for death. If captured, they would keep him alive in order for him to disclose its whereabouts. He would no doubt be arrested and tried for treason. But the real traitors were conveniently inside the government, where they could do the most damage. Exposing them meant everything to him.

Back in Milledgeville, the sun was rising over the trees, illuminating a light-blue sky patched with clouds. Everyone awoke to the somber reality of their situation. It was a busy morning, with no time to spend for recuperating. They were preparing for a new journey, but with little hope, since nothing yet had gone as planned. Because of this, there was a fair amount skepticism about going to D.C.

Without James, there was no real reason to stay, and everyone knew it. Their rural hideaway—their self-sustaining safe house—felt no freer from thugs than the cities they had gone to such great lengths to avoid. Going to Washington wasn't going to change anything. Their actions as a whole weren't going to change anything. The only option they had left, it seemed, was to stick together and survive.

Their final morning in Milledgeville was a somber affair. Christina and Tobias were already up loading the van with the remaining fuel, food, weapons, and ammo. They hoped that they could scrounge up more supplies somewhere along the way. Additional weapons taken from the dead among Russell's militia were added to their arsenal. As they loaded the van, Terrance worried about the van’s condition. It was a relic, something for emergencies. He had already pushed it driving to Atlanta and back. To push a van as old as he was for an additional six hundred miles seemed like wishful thinking.

He alerted Christina to his concern as they put the last box of their supplies in the van. “I'm not completely sold on this whole D.C. idea yet.”

“It's been decided, Terrance. What’s the issue?”

“It's the van. Over two hundred and fifty thousand miles. Half a tank of gas. Only two five-gallon cans left of fuel. You tell me, does that sound like a recipe for success?”

“We can't be doubting ourselves right now.”

“I'm on board with the plan,” Terrance said, closing the back doors. “We just need to be prepared in case we only make it half the way.”

Christina breathed in, preparing to speak, but Terrance cut her off. “And if halfway means a place with power, that's where we'll stay. Ain't nothing in D.C. but crooked politicians, drug dealers, and criminals.”

“Hey, we have friends who live there. Have you forgotten about them?”

“You know what I mean,” Terrance said, shaking his head.

As Terrance and Christina talked near the van, Mark and Janice were busy trying to boil coffee over the fire. Richie, Tobias, and Paula crawled out of their sleeping bags looking exhausted but eager to move on.

“Good morning,” Janice said to the kids as they rubbed their eyes and began to stand on wobbly legs.

“Morning,” Richie said. Tobias and Paula looked too dazed to respond. They didn’t completely understand how or why James was killed. Their parents tried to shield them from the truth by calling it a tragic misunderstanding, but Paula knew better.

After dividing a small amount of food from their reserves stash, which included almonds, dried banana chips, and powered drink mix, they prepared for an exodus into the unknown. Terrance tried to remain optimistic for his children, telling them that everything was going to be OK.

“Just put it all out of your heads for now. We're moving to greener pastures,” he said.

Richie, Tobias, and Paula nodded. The sight of the bug-out house in ruins was just as unbelievable to them that morning as it was the night before.

As everyone got ready to leave, Mark and Janice took one last stroll around the ruins of the bug-out house.

“You don't regret leaving home, do you?” Janice asked.

“Not at all,” Mark said. “We did everything we were supposed to. Things just didn't work out. But I'm glad we're in this together, because I don't know what I'd do without you.”

Janice did her best to muster a smile, which wasn't much. “Me too.”

The group gathered by the van and took one last look at their former bug-out house. Terrance started the van. Christina insisted Mark sit in the front. She wanted to be as close to her children as possible. Janice squeezed into the back and sat at the end of the first bench seat. Richie, Tobias, and Paula sat on the second one behind her. Christina shut the door and sat next to Janice.

“Everyone good to go?” Terrance asked.

The group nodded. He put the van in Drive and drove down the hill leading away from the house, past James's grave in the front yard, and onto the dirt road that took them onto the state road out of Georgia. Their fortunes were riding on an ambiguous plan based on second-hand information. They were taking a risk, but their options were limited. They wanted answers and had nowhere else to find them.

***

Outside Atlanta, Georgia: 9:05 p.m. Sunday, October 4, 2020

Mason sat behind the wheel of the rattling Humvee squinting into the distance at the long, darkened road ahead. One of the headlights had gone out, making it harder to see. He had pushed the vehicle to its top speed of fifty-five, in a hurry to find the pieces to the elaborate puzzle he hoped to solve. If pushed any harder, the vehicle felt like it would simply explode. He was not yet out of Georgia and still had over six hundred miles to go.

Under the bulbous moon of a dry night, he navigated through the endless abandoned cars in his path. The interstate seemed to have no end, much like the torment of his physical pain. In every sense, it was a miracle that he had so far survived. Being hit by the van should have killed him. Just as the beating he had taken from the Colombians should have. He would have felt invincible had he not been in so much pain.

Mason did the math and figured that he could get to D.C. in ten to twelve hours at his current speed, if he was lucky. Such a prospect seemed hopeless. Fuel was a primary concern, but Mason was a resourceful man in addition to having a good sense of direction. He had served in the Air Force for four years, attended college, and earned a degree in computer engineering, He soon entered the private sector as an IT administrator but lost his job in a series of mass layoffs.

By 2015, Mason was notified of a job opportunity in the NSA after months of unsuccessfully searching for work. After taking the position and passing the subsequent security requirements, Mason soon found himself working again on behalf of the government.

This time, however, he couldn't believe the things they were doing, and the extent of NSA monitoring at home and abroad. But he kept his mouth shut about his role in the government's massive and unprecedented spy program, one that harvested the personal information of 300 million American citizens.

He had seen what happened to whistleblowers in the past. They were ostracized, expelled, charged with espionage, and forced to flee the country for their own safety. They lost their jobs, their retirement pensions, and had their security clearances revoked. Sometimes it was better just to do the job and remain quiet. What the American public didn't know wouldn't hurt them.

The official reasoning behind the NSA's wide-ranging surveillance was based on the need to protect Americans, but it made little sense to Mason that the net had to be cast so wide. There was no longer any differentiation between those who posed a threat and those who didn't. Everyone had a file. Actors, reporters, governors, congressman, Supreme Court justices, generals, gardeners, teachers, cab drivers, homemakers, writers, doctors, self-employed handymen, children, retirees—it made no difference; the NSA was watching them all. It wasn't long before the national surveillance program, known as OPTICS, extended beyond the U.S. to monitor the activities of foreign nationals, leaders, and governments.

With this extension, clues to the EMP attacks were inadvertently gathered and stored. When shown some of the encrypted messages, Mason couldn't believe that such an elaborate scheme was being seriously considered. But the information only went so far before being stifled. The NSA had been infiltrated at the highest levels, and it wasn't long before other data analysts starting disappearing.

One evening, Greg, a friend and coworker of Mason's, set up an urgent meeting at an old coffee shop. When they met, Greg was paranoid and shifty. He explained his findings and said that all confidential data relating to the EMP strikes had been destroyed, and anyone possessing knowledge of the upcoming attacks had been dealt with accordingly.

“This goes beyond the President,” Greg said as sweat poured from his round melon-shaped head. “We're talking New World Order shit. Under their plan, America doesn't even exist anymore. Certainly not the way we think of it today.”

Greg left in a hurry, but not before leaving behind something for Mason under a napkin. It was the USB drive, full of every bit of information that would prove the mass conspiracy now evident before him. Mason would most likely have ignored Greg's pleas for him to go into hiding had he not came home to find his apartment ransacked and his girlfriend, Rebecca, lying strangled to death on the floor. It could have been considered nothing more than a tragic home invasion, but Mason knew better. They must have gotten to Greg, and now they were after him. It was that simple.

Many memories had come back to Mason since the van accident. He had hidden the USB at a farm on Oak Street, twenty miles outside Atlanta, south of Athens. He was close, he could feel it. He wasn't sure why he hid the USB drive in the pumpkin in the first place. He also couldn't remember how he had ended up in Georgia; after all, he lived in Woodbridge, Virginia. Perhaps he had been running as far from Virginia as possible.