M'tak Ka'fek (The T'aafhal Inheritance)

M'tak

Ka'fek

Doug L. Hoffman

Copyright © 2013 by Doug L. Hoffman

All rights reserved.

ISBN 978-0-9884588-7-1 

Published by

The Resilient Earth Press

http://resilientearthpress.com
 

Books By Doug L. Hoffman

The T'aafhal Inheritance Trilogy

Parker's Folly

Peggy Sue

M'tak Ka'fek

Non-fiction (with Allen Simmons)

The Resilient Earth

The Energy Gap

Preface

This is the third book in my promised trilogy about Earthlings finding their place in the galaxy. As many people have noticed, the T'aafhal Inheritance contains a number of plot devices that have been used before—the discovery of an ancient space ship full of advanced technology, human development being guided by aliens, mysterious evil alien overlords, etc. Yes, you are exactly right, but then there are only so many story lines in all of literature, let-alone in science fiction. I said from the start that I was going to write traditional science fiction, the type I grew up reading, and I have done just that. I make no apology for stealing plot ideas from previous authors going all the way back to Homer.

More to the point has been criticism of the events at the end of the second book,
Peggy Sue
, where Earth is laid waste by an alien attack. In the preface of the first book in the series,
Parker's Folly
, I expressed my disdain for what I termed dark, gloomy portrayals of post industrial dystopias, yet I went and destroyed the world. Not exactly. This novel is not about mucking about in the ruins of man's civilization, it is about humanity (and some polar bears) rising phoenix like from the ashes—not that there aren't challenges and mortal danger. Look at it this way, at least global warming is no longer a problem.

I would also like to say a word about military ranks. I have heard from a number of readers calling out the abbreviations that I have used for the ranks of various characters. Military ranks vary from country to country and among services within a country. For example, in the Royal Navy a low ranking officer might be a sub-lieutenant, while in the U.S. Navy this rank is called a lieutenant junior grade (JG). The abbreviation for the lowest officer rank, American designation O-1, is 2d Lt, 2LT, 2ndLt or ENS in the U.S. Air Force, Army, Marine Corp or Navy, respectively. I have tried to be faithful to the branch of service of the characters and use the appropriate abbreviation. However, I find that the U.S. Navy use of all capitals in their abbreviations looks disruptive on a printed page so I have used mixed case versions: Lcdr for LCDR, Capt. for CAPT, etc. The other thing to note is that when the Marines refer to Lt. Bear as LT it should be read as “el tee,” slang for lieutenant, not an abbreviation. 

Again, I must thank the multitude of friends and family members who helped me in writing this book. Heartfelt thanks go out to Rik Faith, Bobby Johnson, David Metheny, Clayton Ward, and Jesse Perkins, who provided many corrections and suggestions. Special thanks to Darina Semenova for help with Russian language idioms. The book was much improved by their efforts.

With any such enterprise, it is customary to dragoon one's family into reviewing (or at least listening to readings of) the book in progress. My mother Mary and sister Melinda both offered enthusiastic support which was greatly appreciated. The number of early readers is far too large to list them all here, but I did appreciate every review and word of encouragement.

I would also like to thank Allen Simmons, my coauthor on two previous works of non-fiction:
The Resilient Earth
and
The Energy Gap
. Al got me addicted to writing in the first place so, if you enjoy
M'tak Ka'fek
, at least some of the credit belongs to Al.

Lastly I would like to dedicate this book to my father, Clair J. Hoffman, who passed away while it was being written. It was he who taught me that life was an adventure and to never stop looking for new things to try. His book of autobiographical tales,
Son Of A Coal Miner,
was the first book I ever helped publish, so he was at the root of my foray into publishing and writing. 

This, of course, brings us to the obligatory disclaimers: all the characters in this book are fictional, not representations of any real person, living or dead; Any mistakes in the science, cosmology, engineering, etc. are purely my own and not the responsibility any of those thanked above. The book was written using LibreOffice4 and the cover art done using the GIMP. Ebook formatting was done using Calibre. This is the final book of the T'aafhal Inheritance trilogy, following
Parker's Folly
and
Peggy Sue.
I have greatly enjoyed writing these books and I hope that you derive some small pleasure reading them. 

Regards,

Doug L. Hoffman

Conway, Arkansas
October 8, 2013

For my father,

Clair John Hoffman

Prologue

Kansas, a week after the sky fell

Clem stood on the back of the tricycle, peering into the drizzling grayness. Around him were the scorched remains of Kansas, charred wheat fields stretching off to the hazy horizon. The trike was his only major worldly possession, built by his own hands out of the engine and rear-end of an old Volkswagen and the front-end of a wrecked chopper. Its wooden body boasted three fiberglass bucket seats and a sign on the rear that read “Jesus is coming, act busy.”

He hadn't seen Jesus, but this sure seemed like the end of days to Clem. Seven days ago the world came apart when gigantic meteors fell from the sky all around the globe. At least that is what the radio stations had said before they went silent. Since then there had been no radio, no TV, no word from the outside world except a brief message that Doc Lewis picked up on his short wave that said there was an enclave of survivors somewhere down in Texas.

That was where they were headed, a little band of survivors from a small town in southern Nebraska. Thirteen in all, a baker's dozen of frightened people whose world had been turned upside down in a single day when hell had come to Earth. After the tremors, the sky turned black and fire rained down from the heavens—ejected debris from the major impact in the Great Lakes region reentering the planet's atmosphere. Houses and corn fields were set alight in Nebraska, and evidently here in Kansas as well.

Just when the whole world seemed on fire the rain came—torrents of rain mixed with ash and dust, extinguishing most of the fires and coating everything with gray mud. After three days the deluge eased, replaced by leaden skies and seemingly perpetual drizzle. That was when the survivors decided to head south, seeking shelter and others who may have lived through the great calamity that had befallen their world.

“See 'em back there?” asked Lem, siting in the left side seat, huddled in a poncho against the drizzle. Lemuel Souther was Clem's best friend and riding companion. He had been visiting when the sky fell, having lost his last job as a motorcycle mechanic in Des Moines. Not that Lem was a bad mechanic, but a combination of the bad economy and a fondness for weed led to his dismissal and subsequent trip to visit his old friend Clement Mathews in Nebraska. A fortunate thing too, since Des Moines and every other human habitation within 500 miles of the Great Lakes was wiped out by a primary impact. 

“Yeah, I think I see movement back down our trail,” replied Clem, climbing down from his perch. “With this ash and mud everywhere it ain't hard for anybody to track us.”

“We're about the only people out here,” Lem observed, “'cept for those murderin' scumbags that's following us.” Two days ago, the Nebraska survivors' caravan—three SUVs, an RV and Clem's trike—came upon what looked like a police roadblock on the state road headed south. As usual, Clem and Lem were riding point and got a better look at what was happening up ahead. There were several cruisers with lights flashing and figures wearing smoky the bear hats motioning to an approaching SUV to stop.

Hopes of finding a vestige of civilization were quickly crushed when they saw a family being dragged from the stopped vehicle by the supposed police officers. As the two refugees watched with growing horror they saw a man, presumably the father, forced to his knees. The kneeling man was then summarily shot in the head while his wife and daughter were dragged, struggling behind the police cars. Another younger man, perhaps a son, got out of the vehicle and tried to intervene. He was also shot by one of the “police.”

Clem turned the trike around and sped back to the rest of the survivors' little caravan. Informed of what happened at the roadblock, they decided to give it a wide berth. The survivors quickly backtracked a few miles and headed down a different road, hoping to leave the false police and their hapless victims behind. Unfortunately, a few hours later Margery Lewis, Doc's wife and nurse, noticed that they were being followed.

For a night and half a day they had been running from the pursuing blockaders, whose number also included a clutch of national guardsmen in a pair of Humvees. At least one of the military vehicles had a large machine gun mounted on top with a man sticking up through the roof hanging on to it. Why these former protectors of society had gone rogue, turning on the people they were sworn to protect, was anyone's guess. Now that the thin veneer of civilization had been stripped away, brigandage must have seemed more appealing than trying to protect the helpless and hold back chaos. 

The fleeing survivors had hoped to lose their pursuers overnight, careening down darkened roads with their headlights off, pausing only to refill their gas tanks from jerrycans brought from home. Now they were running out of gas and running out of time.

After a quick consultation with the returning trike riders, the caravan members decided to circle their vehicles and make a last stand against their pursuers. Don and Sue Fredrick and their two children got out of their Jeep Grand Caravan and Don handed out weapons—a lever action 30-30 for his wife, and a pair of .22 rifles for their son and daughter, keeping a .300 Winchester hunting rifle for himself. The others in the pathetic little band were similarly armed with a hodgepodge of hunting weapons and small arms.

Clem and Lem were the best armed, each brandishing a Chinese made SKS rifle with after-market 30 round magazines. Both had put in time in the Army, enough time to know that they didn't stand a chance against the big .50 caliber M2 machine gun on the bandits' Humvee. Demonstrating a good grasp of the tactical situation, Sue told her husband, “Don, you use that hunting rifle and take out the man on the machine gun first.”

Don grunted in reply and fiddled with the scope adjustments on his rifle.

“Well, buddy, I think we've run outta time,” said Clem to his friend. Neither of them considered running out on the others in the caravan.

“It was borrowed time at best, Clem. If there is any justice left in the world we'll take a couple of those bastards with us.”

“Yeah, I think we need to be sure that the kids don't fall into their hands either,” he said quietly. The two friends' eyes met in silent agreement—they could both still remember the screams of the young girl at the roadblock as they sped away. If, make that when, they were overrun they would kill the children if they were still alive.

“What's that?” asked young Don Jr. holding his .22 rifle tightly. There was a low thrumming sound, barely audible above the gusting wind.

“Probably the Humvee,” said Doc, hunkering down behind a fender, 12 gauge shotgun in hand.

“No, that,” Don Jr. replied, pointing at a dark shape moving through the low clouds a few hundred feet above the sodden gray landscape. Whatever the dark shape was it was moving rapidly and quickly disappeared from sight.

“Get ready everyone,” called Sam Jenkins, driver of the fancy Lexus SUV. Sam was the town's lawyer and mayor. He had been made mayor mainly because no one else wanted the job and, as mayor, he provided the town with free legal services. His wife Amy, the town librarian, was huddled next to the side of their truck, almost catatonic.

The thrumming sound returned, growing louder. A large dark shape materialized out of the swirling clouds, descending into the space between the fearful refugees and the pursuing murderers. As the refugees looked on the brigands' column halted and the heavy machine gun on top of the lead Humvee began firing.