Executive Orders: Part 2 of the Homeland Series (8 page)

*****

“Sarge,” Cole heard a voice whisper. A hand shook his shoulder. “Sarge. Wake up.”

He jerked wake, fist drawn, ready to fight, searching the darkness for a threat.

“Easy, Sarge.” It was one of his group. A private. Not a day over nineteen years old from the look of him. A kid. “You wanted last watch. It’s time.”

“Thanks. Good job…” He strained his eyes to make out the name on the youngster’s uniform. “Private Castillo.” He rubbed his face to wake himself, feeling the scruffy start of a beard on his cheeks. “Try to get some more sleep. We’re all gonna need it.”

“Thanks, Sergeant.” The private made his way over sleeping comrades and wedged back up against his battle buddy.

Cole shivered in the freezing gloom, watching the ground churn with the tosses and turns of the sleeping wretches who shared the hellish repository of humanity. Snores and sickly wet coughs echoed constantly from the squirming sea of misery that lay before him. Slim beams from guard tower lights peeked in at him through gaps in the warehouse’s walls and ceiling, revealing the pitiful state of the men inside. Their skin was covered in dirt and muck. Hair and beards were matted. Clothes were filthy and tattered. Many feet went shoeless.

There was empty ground for several feet around his groups’ perimeter. The other residents were giving his men a wide berth. That was a good thing. It would cut the risk of disease as well as thievery and violence.

His stomach growled. He hadn’t eaten since lunch the day before. From the lean appearance of the men here before him, nutrition was not a priority for their caretakers.

Cole watched the writhing mass, wondering if it was a glimpse of his own future. Dread renewed its grip on his insides.

He spotted a figure approaching in the corner of his eye. It moved slowly and deliberately on spindly arms and legs, picking its way over the slumbering bodies of the living dead. Cole froze, not sure if what he saw was real or nightmare. The thing stayed low, moving on all fours with the arachnoid nimbleness. It stopped at the edge of the clearing around Cole’s men and sat there, staring at him, its eyes twinkling in the darkness.

Cole turned his head to face the night crawler. “Go away.”

The wraith raised its hands in supplication. “Take it easy. I just want to talk. You’re the leader, right?”

“I said go away.”

The thing crept closer, squatting just out of arm’s reach. It was close enough now for Cole to make out details. It was a man—filthy and emaciated. His unkempt hair and beard gave him the wild look of a madman, as did his bulging eyes and odd grin.

“Welcome to Hell,” the man said.

Cole didn’t respond.

“I’m Alex, Alex Whittle.”

The man held out a grimy hand. Cole didn’t take it.

“Maybe you’ve heard of me. I used to have a radio show called Edge of Midnight. You’ve probably heard of it.”

Cole just stared.

“I was on the air every night for years, warning people that this was coming, but they wouldn’t listen. They called me a conspiracy theorist. They said I was paranoid—even crazy. I tried to warn ‘em. The signs were everywhere if you knew where to look. Everybody just laughed at me.” His eyes widened. “Guess who’s laughing now?”

Cole looked Alex in the eye. “You’re insane.”

“Ever listen to late-night radio? I was on from midnight to three. Maybe you know my tag-line, ‘Slashing government lies with the sword of truth.’”

Cole sat, stone-faced.

“No? How about ‘Us versus the New World Order,’ or my YouTube channel, Patriot Resistance?

“Never heard of it.”

Alex sighed. “Well, somebody heard it. That’s why I’m in here. I was one of the first, you know. They got me months ago. There were more than a hundred of us in that original group. Bloggers, activists, alternative media types like me, people they saw as trouble makers. We built this camp with our bare hands. The warehouses were already here, of course. We put up the fences and towers and the like. We even built the guards’ quarters. They’re a heck of a lot nicer than this hole—especially Foucault’s place. I’m the last of those guys. The others are buried in a mass grave across camp.” He sighed. “I’m the senior resident here. So if you want to know anything, I’m the guy to ask.”

Cole asked, “What will happen tomorrow?”

“We will work.”

“What do they have you building now?”

“We don’t build things anymore. We break them.”

“What kinds of things?”

“Electrical facilities, telephone lines, cell phone towers. Power and communication nodes. They want to make sure none of it ever works again.”

“That doesn’t make any sense.” Cole wondered if this was more deranged rambling. He looked around the massive cell. “Why aren’t there any women here?”

“They’re on the other side of the camp.”

“What do they do?”

“I don’t know. I heard rumors in the early days about them making uniforms. Others said they were used as comfort women for the Green Guards and the few DHS agents that hang around to keep an eye on things.” He motioned to Cole’s uniform. “You guys are soldiers, eh? Fort Campbell, right?”

“Mind your own business.”

Alex nodded to himself. “Yup, definitely Fort Campbell. 101st Airborne by the looks of you.” He waved a hand at the sleeping inmates. “We have a few other Army types here, but they’re all National Guard guys. We had some other guys from the 101st a while back. Officers. They didn’t last long.”

That got Cole’s attention. Homeland Security arrested most of the officers of his battalion and sent them away after the grid went down. “What happened to them?”

Alex drew a finger across his scruffy neck. “Citizen Foucault didn’t like ‘em.”

“Do you remember their names?”

The man shook his head. “I don’t learn names here anymore. It’s easier that way.”

“Then why are you talking to me?”

“Because I think you got what it takes to get outta here.” Alex smiled, revealing a mouth full of mossy teeth. “And I know how.”

“Tell me.”

“Not so fast.” Alex held up a bony finger. “I’ll tell you on one condition. You have to promise to take me with you.”

“Deal. Now tell me how to get out of here.”

Alex beckoned Cole closer.

Cole leaned in to listen, his heart pounding at the thought of escape.

“We drive out the front gate, of course.” Alex’s chest wheezed with laughter.

Cole slouched back and sighed. “You really are insane.” He couldn’t decide whether to punch the man or pity him.

Hicks groaned behind Cole. His broken ribs and constant shivering colluded to keep him on the edge of sleep without the ability to actually rest.

Alex looked at the private. “He’s not gonna make it. I’ve seen plenty of guys in his shape. It’s not pretty.”

“We’ll take care of him,” Cole snapped, “He’s going to be fine.”

The door rattled, clunked, then slid open with a grinding shrill.

Cole expected the men inside to rush the entrance as they did when he and his men arrived. But none moved. He asked, “What’s going mmff…”

Alex covered Cole’s mouth, putting a finger to his own lips.

Foucault appeared in the entry, flanked by Green Guards wielding flashlights and pistols. He covered his nose with a kerchief as he stepped into the putrid prison. The warden walked silently among his prisoners, pausing every so often to study a terrified individual before moving on.

Alex removed his ratty shirt and put it over Hick’s head. Cole reached to remove the covering. Alex grabbed his hand and shook his head. Cole withdrew.

Foucault made his way to where Cole and Alex sat. Alex feigned sleep, but Cole met the prison master’s cold gaze. They stared at each other for a long moment. A cruel smile crept across the warden’s face. He moved on, finally stopping next to a shivering, fair-headed youngster, no more then eighteen. He nodded to the guard on his left and strolled to the exit.

“No!” The young prisoner yelled.

The teenager was snatched up and dragged, flailing from the building. “No! Please! Help! Somebody! DON”T LET THEM TAKE ME!” The door slammed shut behind him.

Alex uncovered Hick’s face. The exhausted private was still asleep. “Sorry,” he said to Cole. “I didn’t want Foucault to see him. He likes the young ones.”

“What’s that supposed to mean?”

“Exactly what you think it means. Foucault comes in here before dawn every few days to pick a new ‘playmate.’ He feeds him, cleans him up, then has his fun with him. When he gets tired of that, he kills him. He does the last part slowly and at night so we can all hear the screams.”

A hazy skylight began to glow above them. It was morning.

A shrill siren sounded outside.

“It’s time.” Alex’s eyes darted to the door. “Keep your head down and your mouth shut if you want to live another day. Trust me on that.”

Moments later, the door slid open. Shouting guards with barking dogs appeared in the entry, forcing the detainees out into the cold morning air.

The shivering prisoners were lined up in a yard between the warehouses and the front gate.

Foucault’s voice sounded over the camp loudspeakers. “Stand at attention for the People’s Anthem!”

America’s new anthem blared over the sound system. Guards beat anyone not standing straight enough for their liking. “Sing!” one of them ordered as he struck a man with the butt of his rifle. The men mumbled in compliance.

A giant flag climbed a silver pole by the front gate. It was the new flag of the Second Founding. The music ended as it reached the top.

Citizen Foucault sounded over the speakers again. “Get to work!”

Once again, cargo trucks waited to take them to some unknown destination. Cole helped Hicks into one of them, then made sure the rest of his men boarded without incident.

The ride lasted hours. The trucks finally stopped and their passengers disgorged onto the empty parking lot of an electrical facility next to a mid-sized town. He recognized the place. It was Cookeville, a college town halfway between Nashville and Knoxville. Guards handed out axes, hammers, shovels, and other tools to the prisoners.

The head guard raised a bullhorn to his mouth. “This site will be cleansed. If I find so much as a flashlight battery in working condition, somebody dies. You will eat and sleep when you are finished, not one second sooner.”

The laborers hoisted hammers and shouldered shovels, then set to destroying the place. Cole and Hicks spent the morning chopping down electric poles and bashing transformers. The private hadn’t the strength to lift his axe, so Cole did the work of two men to avoid the guards’ wrath.

Cole counted his captors, estimated distances, and factored rates of fire in the calculation of his possibility of escape. The numbers weren’t good. When he accounted for Hicks’ condition, the figure fell to zero.

Midday stretched into afternoon. No water. They kept working. No food. They kept working. The sun sank low. No rest. They kept working. Cole’s hands bled. His limbs ached. His stomach roared with hunger. He felt himself growing weaker with each passing hour.

Hicks fell, coughing, to the ground. Cole helped him to his feet. He put the soldier’s arm around his neck and took a step. Both men fell.

Cole tried to pull his friend to his feet. “C’mon, Hicks. You gotta get up or we’re both dead.” But it was no use. The young man’s strength was spent.

Alex grabbed Hick’s other arm and helped get him up.

“Back to the trucks!” the bullhorn called as the last light of day retreated over the horizon.

Cole and Alex got on each side of Hicks, putting his arms over their shoulders, and walked him to the waiting vehicle.

“What’s wrong with him?” A guard sneered as they hoisted Hick’s into the back of a cargo truck.

“He’s just tired,” Alex said with a smile. “He’ll be ready to go again tomorrow.” He and Cole climbed aboard.

Once ten men were in the cargo hold, guards raised the tailgate and tossed in two MREs. Alex scrambled for one of the bagged meals. Others dove in. Cole was shocked at the dog pile of scratching, clawing, biting to get a share of the food. They looked more like ravenous beasts than human beings.

The bag ripped open. It’s contents scattered on the floor. The scrambling intensified. Alex grabbed an olive-green metallic pouch. A ragged man jumped him. Alex’s eye went wild. The man swung at him. He dodged the blow. The man grabbed for the pouch. Alex launched into him, biting the man’s ear. The man howled in pain. Blood ran down his neck. He released his grip. Guards laughed outside as Alex darted over to where Cole and Hicks sat, his chin wet with gore.

Alex tore the package open and removed a beef patty. “Here.” He tore it into three pieces and shared it with Cole and Hicks. “Our daily bread.”

“This is it?” Cole held up the paltry morsel.

“Until tomorrow.” Alex popped the food into his mouth, closing his eyes as he chewed.

“Two meals for ten men.” Cole ate his portion. “If we don’t escape, we will die here.”

“That’s what I tried to tell you last night,” Alex said, still chewing his dinner, “I can get us out.”

“Yeah, right. Through the front gate.” His words dripped with sarcasm. “Or we could grow wings and fly out.”

“You think I’m crazy.”

“I know you’re crazy.”

The engine started and the truck lurched into motion.

Alex said, “I told you. I built that camp. I know every inch of it.”

The truck sped up. Autumn air rushed through the canvas awning and bit into grimy flesh.

Cole pulled his collar to his neck. “You have a plan?”

Alex nodded. “It’s risky, but it’ll work.”

Cole glanced at Hicks. The private hadn’t touched his food. His face was twisted in pain.

He looked back to Alex. “Whatever it is, I’m in.”

7

HANK

Freeport, Tennessee

“We need more food, Sheriff!” a man in the crowd shouted.

“My kids are starving!” a woman yelled.

Several hundred ravenous citizens filled the Food City parking lot this wintry morning. Hank was doing his best to keep the crowd from becoming a mob, wondering how much longer that would be possible. He had already increased the guard to four officers at all times. It looked like even that was no longer enough.The lines grew longer as more people exhausted whatever food stores they had in their homes. Each day saw more mouths and less food. Hank knew it was the mathematics of famine. The mood grew angrier as stomachs grew emptier.