End Days Super Boxset (62 page)

For Josh and the others, complete darkness made captivity even more frightening. The cold cement offered no comfort. Their footsteps and voices echoed in the cramped and foreboding space. Josh felt around and nearly tripped over some mattresses on the floor in the corner of the room.

“Where are you guys?” Gabrielle said. “Who’s all there?”

“Take my hand,” Antonio said, reaching out.

Josh couldn’t see beyond faint shapes, and panic was growing within their claustrophobic surroundings.

Mark called out to his brothers. “Where are you guys? Where’s Allison?”

“Right here,” she said.

Carlos, Gabrielle, and Kelly plopped down next to him on the single mattress. It provided some relief from the hard floor but reeked of mildew and dankness.

He heard Mark, Luke, and Jeremiah make their way to the mattress near him. Then Allison unexpectedly tripped and fell right next to Josh. He caught her before her face hit the ground.

“Oh. Sorry,” she said.

Josh held her for a brief moment. Even with her long-sleeved shirt, she was cold and shaking.

“That’s okay,” Josh said.

“Who is that?” she demanded, moving away.

Josh let her go as she stood up.

“It’s me, Josh.”

“Oh,” she said. “Mind if I sit?”

“Not at all.”

For a moment, everyone just sat with little to say. The realization of being prisoners was just beginning to sink in. The room was stuffy and without any ventilation, and they could hear little from outside.

Frustrated, Antonio spoke up. “So how are we getting out of here? Josh? Anyone?”

“I’m thinking,” Josh said.

“Our parents will come for us,” Mark said.

“You sure about that?” Jeremiah asked.

“Why wouldn’t they?” Luke added.

They were getting nowhere fast. Josh stood up and felt along the cement walls as the group talked over one another.

“What are you doing?” Antonio asked.

“Looking for a way out,” Josh answered.

“Good luck with that,” Mark said.

Josh turned to the group, ready to start using his head. “The mayor says they need us for collateral, but that may change.”

Kelly gasped. “Why would they hurt us? We’re only kids.”

“Because they’re bad people,” Josh answered. “We need to escape as soon as we can.”

“What’s the grand plan?” Antonio asked.

“You still have your knife, right?” Josh asked.

“Yeah,” Antonio said. “And they have rifles. What’s your point?”

The locks clicked, and the door creaked open. Josh froze and went silent. No one said a thing. A large bearded man with an automatic rifle slung over his shoulder entered the room holding a kerosene lamp.

“What’s all this chatter in here? You kids plottin’?” He spoke in a scraggly voice as he held the light out, illuminating the room.

Josh inched back toward the bed. He could see the cracked, stained walls and barren floors. He saw Antonio reach into his pocket and touched his shoulder.

“Not now,” he whispered.

The guard took notice and approached, zeroing in on Josh. “You say something there, partner?”

Kelly spoke up, albeit in a naïve way. “Please, sir. We don’t belong here. We didn’t do anything wrong… Can you let us go?”

The man threw his head back and laughed. They could smell booze on his breath as he inched closer. “Little lady, it’s not up to me. That would be the mayor’s call. He asked me to leave this lamp being how kids are scared of the dark and everything.” He bent down and placed it inches from Josh’s sneakers.

Antonio pulled out his knife as the guard rose back up, grunting from the effort.

Josh grabbed his arm.

“What?” Antonio whispered.

“Not now!” Josh said with clinched teeth.

“Goodnight, you little shits,” the guard said, stretching. He walked to the door, laughing under his breath.

“I need to use the bathroom!” Gabrielle said.

The guard stopped with his back turned. “I’ll grab you a bucket.” He said no more as he left, slamming the metal door shut and locking it.

Antonio yanked his arm away from Josh. “What’s your problem, man? That was our chance!”

“No,” Josh said. “You could get us all killed going at him like that.”

Antonio stared ahead and said nothing as he folded the knife and put it back in his pocket.

“We’ll think of something soon. Trust me,” Josh said.

Their eyes drifted down to the kerosene lamp, watching it flicker, with nothing left to do but wait.

***

Reverend Phelps’s faith had never been stronger. Even though he and the remaining members of his parish had been captured walking through town as “intruders” and placed in captivity for the past two weeks, he looked to divine power for guidance. The mayor had taken keen interest in him since day one. When first captured, the congregants were taken into a warehouse, lined up against a wall, and shot at. It was a traumatic experience—a sadistic game—but no one was hit. It was meant to send the fear of God to them. The town needed people, prisoners or not.

At first, Phelps believed spiritual intervention had saved them. But the mayor had no intention of killing them. In the time he had been held in confinement, Phelps had only seen his parish of seven one time. Harvey and Beatrice Wilson, an old-fashioned couple in their fifties, were locked up in one room, while Zach and Erin Brantley were locked up in another with their two young children, Tyler and Sloane. He friend, Dale Ripken, a Long Island landscaper, had been placed on the wall and forced to work.

Arthur, the mayor, had a sizeable team working to construct a cement wall around the entire town. For something so ludicrous, Phelps was surprised to see how close the mayor was getting. He woke up that morning with a single ray of light from a small window high above. In his constant confinement, he had begun to lose track of the days. He stopped to work it out in his head. It was Wednesday, November 23: seventy-three days after the EMP.

Absent his Bible, he prepared his own lesson and prayers for the day. Breakfast would come soon—usually gathered bits from MRE packages with portions getting smaller each day. He took a swig of a nearly empty water bottle and stretched.

A knock came at his door. No one had bothered to knock before, and Phelps didn’t know what to say, if anything. He rubbed the stubble on his face, where a large bruise was still visible. The pistol-whipping he had received upon meeting the mayor was still vivid in his mind. The doorknob unlocked as the door opened, revealing the mayor himself. His had a haircut and a fresh shave. He wore a crisp white button-down shirt with the sleeves rolled up to his elbows and ironed black slacks. He held a pair of tan boots and dropped them on the ground.

Phelps’s dirty and tattered appearance was quite the contrast. He was barefoot and wearing the torn long-sleeved shirt and jeans he’d had on the day of his capture.

“You know, Rev, you really look like shit,” Arthur pointed out.

Phelps looked away saying nothing.

Arthur laughed. “Relax. That’s why I came here. It’s time you took a shower and got into some fresh clothes.”

Arthur turned back to him and spoke with a strained, hoarse voice. “What difference does it make at this point? Just leave me alone.”

Arthur placed his hands on his hips and shook his head. “Nope. Sorry, Rev. Not biting today. We’re not going to argue.” He approached the bed and spoke quietly. “Now, look. I know you still think I’m sore about you letting me down the other day, but I’ve moved on. I promise.”

Phelps stared ahead blankly and scoffed. “I don’t care what you think, frankly.”

“Come on, now,” Arthur said in a congenial tone. “I’m sure you don’t want to spend the entire day locked up in here, am I right?”

Phelps shook his head and stood up. The hard cement floor was cold under his feet. He couldn’t remember what had happened to his shoes. The day of their capture was still a blur—some parts more vivid than others. “What do you want?” he asked.

“Some respect, for starters,” Arthur snapped back. “I’ve let you have this room all to yourself. You know, we got some rooms where there’s four to five people packed in there.”

“I never asked for this, so don’t act as though you’re doing me any favors,” Phelps said.

Arthur took a step back and scratched his chin. “Things can get a whole lot worse, trust me.”

“I’m counting on it,” Phelps said, staring him down.

“Okay, Reverend. Have it your way,” Arthur said with a smile. “You’ll come around soon enough. Now, come on. I’m not letting you sit here and stink up this cell all day.” He pointed to the boots by the door. “You should be a what? Size ten?”

“Yeah.”

“Good. Put ’em on. We’re going for a walk.”

Phelps felt he had no choice but to comply. He didn’t want to stay in that barren room another minute. The urge to leave, combined with Arthur’s insistence, won him over.

“I want to see my people. They should all have the opportunity to shower and change into new clothes if I can.”

“In time,” Arthur said, leading him out of the room. “All good things come to those who wait.”

Harvey and Beatrice’s room was at the end of the ten-room hall. The walls were made of thick concrete, and the hall was covered with drywall to conceal it. Phelps had no idea what the rooms had been originally used for, but escape would be difficult, if not impossible. Arthur led him toward the warehouse floor and past what he understood to be Zach and Erin’s room with their two children. The accommodations, he supposed, were as limited as his own: bed, waste bucket, and sometimes, food.

Phelps followed Arthur out a door at the end of the hall, where dozens of freemen were congregated on the warehouse floor. There were unidentified boxes and crates everywhere. A large green military cargo truck was parked inside as well, taking up half the warehouse. The men looked to be preparing for something. They were all wearing tan military tactical clothes and vests. Many of the boxes were open, and Phelps could see more clothing sticking out.

“How do you like our big score?” Arthur boasted.

Phelps looked around. Arthur’s men studied him suspiciously. “What is all this?”

“Intercepted a shipment,” Arthur said. “Got a few scout teams positioned a few miles outside of town. They ambushed a truck, killed the soldiers, and took everything in it. Even the truck.”

Phelps stopped dead in his tracks and turned to Arthur. “Why are you telling me this? Are you proud of yourselves, murdering innocent people?”

“I tell you this so that you have a clear understanding of the situation.”

“What situation?” Phelps asked.

“Follow me.”

They walked to the double-door exit past a group of men digging through one of the boxes as though it were Christmas morning. Arthur pushed open the doors. The bright sunlight made Phelps squint. He hadn’t been outside in over two weeks. The fresh air was startling, and his lungs felt different with each breath. The grass under his feet was a big change as well. He wandered for a moment in a daze while holding his hand up to block the sun. Arthur put on a pair of sunglasses and motioned him alongside the building.

“Where are we going?” Phelps asked.

“Follow the dirt road,” Arthur said. “I wanna show you something first.”

They left the warehouse in the distance and walked about a mile and a half down a dirt road, kicking up dust with each step. Arthur seemed to be in conversation mode, although talking mainly with himself.

“I’ll tell you, Reverend. Just the other day I was ready for the snow to come falling down. Now look at it. It’s a bright sunny day.”

Phelps said nothing but was curious himself to see such spring-like weather so close to winter. It would have been a perfect day for a stroll through town under other circumstances. As they hit a rural stretch of paved road, they continued their journey. Arthur kept talking to him, but he said little in return. It didn’t matter. He believed Arthur just liked to hear himself talk. Given the opportunity, however, Phelps finally decided to ask some questions.

“Who are you?”

Arthur glanced at him out of the corner of his eye. “What do you mean?”

“You weren’t always like this, I imagine. Who were you before all this happened?”

“I’m the mayor. Who else would I be?”

“You weren’t always the mayor. You were a man. Someone normal, I imagine. And if you think back to who that person was, there’s a chance you can save yourself.”

“The hell are you babbling about?” Arthur asked.

“It’s never too late to fall under the grace of God.”

They passed a sign for the interstate as the road wound to the right. There in front of them was a sight that nearly made Phelps sink to his knees. There was a wall. Tall and threatening. Going both ways as far as Phelps could see, and blocking both the interstate exit and the entrance into town.

The concrete wall looked to be at least fifteen feet high. Too high to see over. A group of men at the base was working diligently to trowel wet cement from a wheelbarrow over the joints between the cinder blocks. Each man wore an orange shirt, as though they were prisoners on some kind of work release program. Two armed freemen sat in folding chairs under the shade of a maple tree, with their rifles in their laps.