The Crimson Fall (The Sons of Liberty Book 1) (34 page)

“Mayday, mayday. This is the cargo ship Naut—”

His words cut off when he realized his voice was echoing in the storage room outside. A familiar voice, however, radioed back.

“Give it up, William,” the leader of the men outside said. “You have nowhere else to run.”

“Go to hell!” William shouted. “I won’t be a part of genocide.”

“Look, calm down, turn the green monitor on, and let’s talk about this man to man.”

William found the monitor and pressed the buttons next to it, lighting the screen up with the image of the soldiers outside. Only three stood in view. With the sound of two on top of the tank, William knew at least five of the eight had survived their fight at the stern. However, he and his crew had been armed with only knives and flares, and he doubted they had killed more than the one.

“You’re not going to reach anyone with that thing,” the man outside said. “Not in this storm at least. So why don’t we just take it easy and figure something out. We’re putting down our guns and we can talk about this if you’ll get out that thing.”

“I should have known you’d—”

Putting down their guns?
William realized the man outside was nervous.
Why would they be nervous? They’re the ones with the guns and ammo.
When he looked to his left and saw a stack of steel shells strapped down, it then became quite clear why the men outside were uneasy.

William had never loaded a tank before, but he was smart enough to know he could puzzle it out. He went to work as the man outside continued his negotiations. The man lied about the weapons at first, saying they were bound for a museum. William found that almost laughable and asked why he would kill the ship’s crew for discovering some museum trinkets. The man outside then lied again, saying they would double Williams’ money if he would get out of the tank. Every time William answered, the man outside responded with some new bogus story.

“Fine,” the man outside the tank eventually said. “Twenty million and we’ll leave the room before you exit. You have my word.”

“I saw the red crate,” William said. “Leave my cargo hold or I’ll—”

“Or you’ll what?” the man outside shouted. “Or you’ll kill me? You’ll go out guns a blazin’? You think that thing is waterproof? You’ll drown at the bottom of the sea with the rest of us.” The man turned to the side and shouted at one of his men. “Find the remote override and shut that asshole up. We don’t have time to let him bleed out.”

Remote override?
William had thought he had the upper hand, but he also knew he would lose all leverage if they shut the tank down. He flipped a red switch, hoping it would turn the engine on. Instead, it loaded a shell into the yellow turret beside him with the ratcheting of metal on metal. He grabbed the crescent-shaped steering wheel to his side—thinking that might start the tank—but all he managed to do was move the long barrel outside up and down.

“Wait!” the man outside shouted. “Stop! Just take it easy. You don’t have to do this. We’ll leave. We’ll go up top and leave. You have my word. You’ll never see us again.” The man motioned to his men who began backing up slowly. “Come on. What do you say?”

William wanted to resolve this peacefully. He wanted to live another day to help fight what he knew approached America in the other ships. But he knew he’d bleed out and lose consciousness before that day came. As much as he hated it, he understood that he was never leaving that ship alive. He located a red lever, said a prayer, and gave the man his reply.

“I say you’re not touching this country you son of a—”

He moved the turret to the side, aiming at the far hull of the massive ship, and pressed what he hoped was the correct button.

The concussion blew the light guns and cargo away from the tank as the far steel wall exploded. A flood of raging water immediately burst into the room, slamming into the terrified men as they dove for safety, foolishly believing they could escape the torrent of ocean water. The ship tilted sideways as it began to slide into the ocean. When the incline became too steep for the tank to remain fixed under its straps, it tumbled down, crashing into the bubbling surface with barely a pause. Water quickly began filling the tank through the barrel, and William knew he was about to die. As the interior lights turned green under the ocean water, he took his last breath and began to pray. The lights from the tank and submerged ship illuminated the weapons and crates that fell around him as he came to rest on the floor of the gulf not two hundred feet from the storming surface.

His head pounded and his lungs collapsed with the pressure as he began that final transition one makes at the end of life. However, he looked at the screen just before his consciousness fled for the last time and watched the red crate—the one that housed a stolen nuclear bomb—come to rest where he hoped no one would ever find it.

Minneapolis, Minnesota

Day Twenty-Five

Ralph Harlow closed his eyes tightly as the men behind him continued to shout and curse at one another. He had never been one for harsh language in his many years of corporate leadership, but even he had been forced to bite his tongue during the heated discussion. Everyone in the room knew what was riding on his decision, but in the end, it would still remain
his
decision. They had debated for three days on what to do with little or no progress. Even as they tried to figure out a solution that didn’t involve mass starvation and death, news had reached them that four more men had been murdered.

Or was it five?
He thought.

“How many have died so far?” Ralph asked solemnly.

“Forty-seven,” one of the vice presidents behind him replied. “Thirty-one of which were ours. Of course, that doesn’t include the civilians our drivers killed after they started carrying.”

It had been two weeks since the news arrived that a competitor’s driver was shot dead outside of Jackson, Mississippi while gassing up his truck. His rig had been ransacked, and the killers were never caught. Being a driver once himself and now the CEO of Harlow Foods—the second largest food corporation in the United States—Ralph felt heartbroken for the driver’s family and the hardship he knew they were facing. Emotions strained during the riots and the lack of any information from the FBI about what had happened only fueled the people’s anger. It was an anger that should have been completely directed toward President Chambers, but Ralph had no control over what was done or left unsaid. He had a company to run and he was trying to do just that.

If the first death was sad, then the next seven murders over the following two days were truly terrifying. Three had been his drivers, and the company had scrambled to formulate new policies regarding their safety. Fuel stops were to only occur at guarded stations, and the retail stores were to protect Ralph’s deliverymen when they arrived. But even with the precautions, the attacks continued. Ralph and the board scrambled to procure the newer, automated rigs, but the other food companies had already purchased the entire lot of driverless trucks. The tech companies had quickly stopped their shipments until things got better, followed shortly by the furniture and clothing industry. Even the third party logistics chains closed their doors within a matter of days. While most industries were choosing to wait the storm out, Ralph knew that he and the four other food companies fed over ninety-five percent of the nation. Harlow Foods alone restocked thousands of grocery stores between three and twelve times a day just to keep the people supplied. So, he had planned a strategy session with the other chains to bring about an end to the murders before things got too far out of hand.

And that—almost one week before—was precisely the moment three of the other four companies called in an early harvest of all their crops and cancelled their distribution contracts.

Suddenly, Harlow Foods and the one other remaining distributor found themselves as the only providers of food for the American people. The sudden plea to fill the new gap rapidly swelled the demand at Harlow Foods. Price estimates increased tenfold overnight and every consecutive night for the very food they were already struggling to provide. It took two days for the other company to collapse under the pressure. Ralph tried to petition the corporate farmers, the federal government, and even the local farmers’ markets that the big companies had tried to secretly destroy for years. But the corporate farmers no longer had fields of produce, nor did they know where it had all been taken. The federal government was ignoring him, and—in all likelihood—thought it had more pressing matters at hand. And the farmers’ markets knew they were the last line of defense and were making more in an hour than they had ever made in a month. But the weight of that demand had increased every day, stretching Harlow Foods to the brink of collapse, all while the drivers continued to lose their lives, leaving Ralph with few options left.

He had gathered the board that morning and asked them to try to convince him against halting shipments. They argued back and forth, some citing their duty to the people while others cited their duty to their own, but Ralph knew deep inside that the time had come to make the decision that would change America forever.

“. . . can’t just expect them to continue driving,” one of the board members was saying. “I propose that we—”

“There’s no more need for arguing,” Ralph broke in quickly. “I made this company what it is by standing on one simple principle. Remember the people. I believe time may have very well changed that motto into ‘remember the shareholders,’ but as we have grown, I have always tried to remember the people. And I will remember them now as I think back to the days when the people could simply walk into a grocery store and know they’d find their evening meal. Sadly, I believe those days have now come to pass.”

Ralph turned from the window, took off his glasses, and wiped away an all too painful tear from his cheek.

“As your chief executive, I have decided to shut down Harlow Foods effective immediately. Radio all drivers. Tell them to unhook and bobtail back to their barn as soon as possible. No excuses. No stops. It’s over. I don’t know if we will ever see those lost days again, but I do know that this country will never be the same.”

C
hapter
E
ighteen

Stoke the Flames

Nashville, Tennessee

Day Thirty-Four             

Jack Parker had been patrolling the streets of Nashville for nearly five years by the time the bullet that silenced Dan Martin ripped a ragged hole through the heart of America. Throughout his career, he had seen death and brutal violence that he hoped most people would never have to witness, but what had occurred during the interview with the president had shaken even him to his iron core. The fact that Dan’s death hadn’t happened at the hands of some drugged-up thug or angry gangbanger was what bothered Jack the most. The man had died simply because Lukas Chambers, the most powerful man in the world, had his dark secrets exposed to the world on live television.

Jack and his friend Alan—a fellow officer he had met in the academy years ago—had been working their beat on the west side of town when they watched Dan die on their department-issued tablet. In the weeks that followed the interview, Nashville had mostly remained untouched by the riots in New York and Washington. Nashville was a community that had always prided itself on big city living with a small town atmosphere. Though mostly everyone had initially been upset about what had happened, they hadn’t done anything foolish to display that anger. However, Jack and Alan knew—though they hoped against reason—that the growing violence elsewhere could very well arrive at their doorstep if things reached the tipping point.

After the first few weeks passed, the two officers noticed a rapid increase in violent crimes. Though small groups began leaving the city for the safety of the rural areas, others had started appearing in front of the courthouse and town hall to protest the growing violence and the local government’s unwillingness to do anything about it. While the ranks of protestors had steadily grown over the past couple of weeks, they had also kept their demonstrations relatively peaceful. To answer their concerns and counter the rising violence, the city had enacted a curfew for the public, and the police department required mandatory four-hour overtime shifts for all sworn personnel. They said it was purely a public relations move to ease the city, but Jack knew better. He knew if things elsewhere didn’t calm down soon, the worst in humanity would be on display in the heart of the Music City.

And that’s precisely what happened when the food ran out.

“Thirty-one Charles, thirty-five Charles, and all available units, please respond.”

Alan picked up the radio to answer the woman at dispatch. “Thirty-one Charles and thirty-five Charles to dispatch, go ahead.”

“Code six thousand. Multiple reports of a large group in front of the courthouse on James Robertson Parkway.”

“Ten-four,” Alan replied.

“Be advised, code three response. Reports of vehicles burning and multiple shots fired. Possible hostile resistance.”

“Thirty-one Charles and thirty-five Charles, en route.”

Alan flipped on the blue lights and siren as Jack floored the accelerator.

“You ready?” Jack asked.

“As ready as I can be,” Alan replied.

The buildings outside began to blur by as Jack’s adrenaline kicked in. He took deep breaths—inhaling and exhaling in an effort to calm himself and avoid tunnel vision.

“I’ll take Seventh,” Jack said. “Hopefully we can buy SWAT time.”

“You really think SWAT is coming?”

“Doesn’t matter. Grab the—” Jack was cut off mid-sentence by a piercing cry for help blaring out over their radios.

“Code twelve hundred! All available units! Code—” Gunfire cut the woman off, leaving the two officers with the sound of shouting men and woman on the other end. An earsplitting explosion filled their radios, followed by a loud and lasting static. A few seconds passed before a rumble like rolling thunder softly shook their speeding cruiser.

“What the hell was that?” Jack asked.

“Code twelve hundred is a breach of security,” Alan said. “I think the station’s been overrun.”

The two men rode together in relative silence—the oscillating whine of the siren the only sound to fill their ears. They were blocks away from the courthouse and even further from the station. However, Jack knew what Alan was thinking, and after a few more moments of silence, he spoke.

“The girls—”

“I know, man,” Alan said quickly. “I know.”

For years Jack and Alan had discussed if and when their duty to the city ended. Between the mountains of paperwork and the midday cheeseburgers that were free all too often, they had deliberated almost any doomsday scenario they could think up. But what had once been the speculative adventures of two daydreamers had just become a reality. They had always held strong to the idea that their wives would take precedence over their obligation to the people if things ever got really bad. While they enjoyed their jobs, they loved their wives more than anything. They had agreed that they would do whatever it took to protect them, even if that meant melting down their own badges to make one more bullet.

Both Jack and Alan had read the reports and seen the video capturing the beginnings of riots in the other major cities. In almost all cases, the hospitals were usually the first places to get hit when violence erupted. Dependence on prescription medications and painkillers had become more problematic than the illegal drugs that once ruled the streets. Addicts, as disconnected from the world as they were, were always quick to recognize an opportunity to feed their addiction under the protection of numbers and madness. On top of that, crazed citizens would stop at nothing to get what they wanted if they believed their supply was about to dry up. A few attempts to break into the hospital their wives worked at had been thwarted, causing the board to request a heavier police presence in recent days. However, those police officers could very well be on their way to assist the station or—in all likelihood—speeding toward their own loved ones. The hospital was easily five miles east and the time to make that hard decision was upon them. Their wives . . . or their jobs. Jack looked at Alan who gave him the nod.

Jack cut it hard to the right, tires squealing on the hot pavement underneath, and slammed the accelerator down again as the two men raced toward the women they loved.

When they reached the massive hospital, their hearts sank as they realized that it had already been attacked. The emergency room was easily identified by the billowing plumes of smoke pouring from the front windows. Sirens, along with random ‘pings’ and ‘pops,’ echoed throughout the city streets. They raced through the maze of narrow streets until they reached the Children’s Hospital—the wing their wives worked in. The large doors had a growing number of people in front of them pounding on the glass, and Jack figured it would be suicide to try to go through them. He sped around until he found a small alley adjacent to the building. He located a locked side door, slammed on the breaks, and jumped out of the vehicle.

“You got the bolt cutters?” Jack asked.

“Don’t need them.” Alan raised his shotgun and blew a hole through the lock.

The two men raced down the colorful hallways, stretching legs out in front of them that had run alongside each other for years, chasing after personal records on the track and criminals on the streets. They sprinted toward the intensive care unit—making a left turn down another vibrant, empty hall—but were stopped by two large metal doors when they rounded the corner. Using their flashlights, they signaled a security guard in a light gray uniform on the other side of the door. When the guard got close they stepped back from the small glass window so he could see they were police. The man on the other side opened the doors with a sigh of relief.

The slightly overweight security guard was visibly shaken, wiping sweat from his brow with an old, blue paisley handkerchief.

“You two are a sight for sore eyes,” he said as a young woman in a white physician’s coat approached. “How bad is it?”

“Dispatch is gone.” Jack replied. “Courthouse too, I think. We breached the side door, but I think it’s pretty well hidden. What’s the status here?”

“Uneasy at best,” the guard replied. “This here is Doctor Lillian Andrews from trauma. She arrived about twenty minutes ago after the ER was overrun. There’s a group at the front entrance trying to break through, but the doors are bullet proof and they’re not getting through without something heavy duty. We put the facility on lockdown and called nine-one-one, but you boys are all that’s shown up.”

“Well, I hate to break it to you, but I think we’re it,” Alan said as they started to walk.

“We have a handful of doctors and three times as many nurses hiding out in the NICU,” Lillian said. “I think everyone else fled when things started getting bad. But I knew people were going to need medical attention sooner or later, so I stayed.”

“That’s quite brave of you, Mrs. Andrews,” Jack said. “Possibly stupid, but brave.”

“It’s Miss Andrews, and I’m only doing my duty. Just like you.” That statement caused Jack to glance sideways at Alan, though his partner only looked back blankly as the woman continued talking. “Is Nashville really that bad?” she asked.

“Nashville?” Jack replied with a disheartened laugh as they entered the NICU. “What Nashville?”

Apart from the sound of crying infants and the constant beeping of monitors, the hall was relatively peaceful. The nurses were tending to those under their care as quietly as possible, though their general apprehension was palpable, made obvious by the nervous glances. When they rounded the corner Jack saw his wife, Leila, caring for one of her patients. He walked up to her, trying in vain to fight back the tears, and embraced her.

“I’m so glad you’re okay,” Jack whispered. “Leila, we have to get out of here. Now. There is a mob outside, and it’s only a matter of time before they’re in here taking what they can. It’s madness out there. Alan and I have our cruiser out back. The other nurses and doctors can take the last couple ambulances in the garage, but we have to go now. If that mob gets in, there’ll be no stopping them.”

“Jack,” Leila said softly, “I can’t. These kids are helpless if we leave.”

“But Leila, we have to—”

“I’m sorry Jack, but I’m staying and so are you.”

Alan walked around the corner with a somber look on his face.

“Christy’s not leaving,” he said.

Up to that point it had all been speculative, idealist thinking that they’d rescue their girls from danger and speed away to safety. Foolishly, blindly even, they had never stopped to consider what their wives would do with the children under their care.

“So be it,” Jack said. “Then we better secure those front doors.”

The two officers, their wives, the young doctor, and the security guard walked down to the wing’s entrance—descending a wide staircase before entering the main lobby. A handful of other nurses, doctors, and hospital employees were already in the vaulted foyer looking to block the doors off when Jack and the others arrived. Jack greeted them and ignored the shouting mass of people outside as best as he could as he surveyed the entrance, looking for a way to block off the massive set of stairs that led from the lobby to the second floor. Finally, Jack turned back to the others and spoke.

“We’ll need to locate any other stairwells they could use. We’ll shut off the power to the elevator and figure out if we can—”

“Look out!”

For a brief moment, Jack’s curiosity got the best of him. He turned around to see what the unnamed voice had shouted about just as the headlights of a speeding SUV reached the front doors.

The glass shattered, and Jack grabbed his wife, pushing her away from the SUV’s line of travel. Behind him, he could hear the sounds of glass shattering, a horn blaring, voices shouting, and metal bending as pandemonium filled the room. Screams erupted from those in the vestibule as the truck came barreling toward them, crushing anyone who happened to be in its path of destruction before slamming hard into a pillar, shaking the building and causing a haze of dust to gently fall from the ceiling. Jack and his wife were about to reach the stairs when something hard slammed into his back, sending him sprawling across the smooth floor.

For a moment, all sound was faded to a dull reverberation as though he was listening to events unfold underwater. He shook his head and looked back as the mob began to burst through the opened gap. He looked around for Leila but couldn’t find her. He cried out for her, his voice lost in the hushed uproar. He finally located Alan, who was shouting at Jack as he fired into the drug-hungry assailants. Within a matter of seconds Jack’s hearing returned and his training took over.

“Jack!” Alan growled. “We’ve got to move!”

“Where’s Leila?” Jack shouted.

“Up the stairs with the others. Let’s go!” Alan tossed a shotgun toward Jack, who caught it, pumped it, and in one smooth motion rotated and dropped the closest threat. He racked the gun and fired again. And again. And again—as he backed up the stairs toward the second level.

As the two men climbed the flight of steps, they let loose a barrage of bullets into those who just a month ago could have been offering them one of their free cheeseburgers or asking them for directions around a construction zone. But now the good citizens of Jack’s beloved city were running toward them in an effort to reach what they so badly craved. Normally, Jack would have led the fight away from those he was trying to protect, but the mob had become a bubbling mass of anger filling the large foyer. The enraged crowd might have left the nurses alone, but then again they might not have, and Jack was not about to take that risk.