The Line of Departure: A Postapocalyptic Novel (The New World Series Book 4) (23 page)

“I’m sorry, sir.”

“I don’t need your pity, Van Zandt, that’s life. Sometimes we get fed a shit sandwich.”

“That’s true.”

“Sorry for barking at ya. Anyway, I can’t surrender, I won’t let them win. I’m close to victory, very close.”

Gordon nodded slowly, understanding Barone’s need to be victorious. While he was appalled at what Barone had done, he understood the basic need to win, as it was also ingrained in him.

“Thanks, Van Zandt, but just so you know, you don’t have to kiss my ass for your lady friend. You’ve been a straight shooter and I always return the favor. You can take her with you, but she can’t come back here. If I see her again, I’ll serve the justice that you’ve saved her from,
capisce
?”

“Understood, sir.”

“What do ya think?” Barone asked, holding up the pad of paper he had been drawing on.

Gordon looked at it and saw a rectangle with some inscriptions and a symbol that looked similar to the Marine Corps’s eagle, globe, and anchor.

“What is it?”

“Every country needs a flag. This will be the one that flies over Salem as soon as I’m done cleaning up this mess here,” Barone said with pride in his voice.

Gordon looked closer and asked, “What does that say?”

“
Sublimis ab unda.
It’s Latin for ‘raised from the waves,’” Barone answered.

“I like it.”

“I’m envisioning a blue background to represent water, a mountain in the middle with an eagle, globe, and anchor, and the Latin phrase at the bottom.”

“I look forward to seeing it when it’s done,” Gordon said, his patience starting to wane.

“You know something, Van Zandt?”

“What’s that, sir?”

“I fucked up, I really did. I shouldn’t have killed all those people. I knew better but I let my temper get in the way. I’d like to blame all of this on the old bitch of a mayor, but I can’t. I ordered it, I gave my men the order to kill them all. If I could go back in time, I wouldn’t have done it. I had something good here but I fucked it all up. Listen to me whining like a bitch. What’s the saying about the ship has sailed? Well it has and I fucking sank it,” Barone confessed, still staring at his etchings on the pad.

A loud ring of a phone came from the other side of the bedroom door. The door opened abruptly, surprising them, but who was standing there shocked them more.

Covered head to toe in blood was Finley. In his left hand he held the ringing phone, in his right, a Marines pistol.

“I think this is for you,” Finley said, tossing the phone at Gordon. “And Colonel Barone, this is for you, compliments of President Conner.” He leveled the pistol at Barone and squeezed off three shots.

Barone reached for his pistol but it was too late. The first shot was all that was needed. It hit him in the forehead. The back of his head exploded and his body fell limp. The other two shots struck him in the chest. Blood quickly began to soak through his shirt and onto the white sheets.

Everything happened so fast that Gordon didn’t catch the phone. It fell to the floor with a thud but kept ringing. Stupidly, he looked down at it, still ringing, and thought about grabbing it, but what had just happened to Barone brought everything into clarity.

Finley pivoted to Gordon, pistol in hand, and said, “Sorry, buddy, but you gotta go too. Orders are orders.”

Gordon reacted quickly and hit the pistol out of Finley’s grasp with his left hand. The pistol smacked the floor and skidded under the bed. He then punched Finley with his right. Finley reeled from the blow to his face and stumbled backward. Gordon sensed he had the upper hand and charged Finley, tackling him. Both men hit the floor hard. A fierce grappling match began with Gordon on top of Finley. Gordon took advantage of his position and began to pummel him with one punch after another.

Finley tried to block but Gordon’s intense attack was too much. Dazed from the barrage of punches, Finley managed to do the one thing he knew would stop Gordon’s assault. He reached down to his side and pulled out the four-inch sheathed knife that he had just used to kill the two Marine guards. He gripped it tightly and thrust it into Gordon’s left side.

Gordon lurched backward and cried out in pain from the knife blow to his side. After an instant, he rolled off Finley and crawled toward the pistol on the floor just a few feet away.

Seeing a chance to finish Gordon off, Finley got up and jumped on Gordon’s back, forcing him to the ground. He hoisted the knife above his head, ready to strike, when the deafening crack from a pistol thundered in the room.

Gordon looked up and saw Simpson standing in the doorway, a pistol in his hand.

Finley bent over backward after the bullet ripped through his chest. With his last breath he tried to sit up, but Simpson prevented it by hitting him again with a 9-millimeter round. Finley fell onto his back and gasped before dying.

Gordon kept his eyes glued on Simpson in anticipation that he’d turn the gun on him, but it didn’t happen. Simpson holstered the pistol, stepped over Gordon, and went to Barone’s side. He looked over his old friend’s body, covered in thick blood.

“Rest in peace, Devil Dog,” Simpson said softly.

Gordon sat up but the stinging pain in his left side caused him to pause. He put his fingers through the hole in his shirt and felt the bleeding stab wound. “Fuck, that hurts.”

“You all right, Van Zandt?” Simpson asked.

“Finley came in and started shooting; he shot the Colonel and then turned to shoot me but I stopped him. The next thing I know is I’m stabbed and then I hear a loud boom, I look up and there you are, saving my ass.”

“Are you all right, can you walk?” Simpson asked.

“Yeah, just a small knife wound.”

“Let’s get you cleaned up and we’ll talk later,” Simpson said as he walked up to Gordon and put out his hand to help him up.

Gordon grimaced in pain as he stood. He looked at Simpson strangely; he couldn’t guess why he hadn’t shot him. Lord knows he would have. “Top, why didn’t you shoot me too?”

“Because I know you didn’t have anything to do with this.”

“How would you know that?”

Simpson pointed to a corner of the room.

Gordon followed his finger to a small bookcase but didn’t see anything out of place.

“Inside that little cherub angel is a camera. We’ve been monitoring you and your friend since the first day you arrived. We intercepted his calls and heard everything; this is why I know you weren’t part of this plan. Now go get yourself cleaned up and meet me later.”

“But I . . .”

“Van Zandt, you need some medical care. Go, we’ll talk later.”

“Roger that.”

Simpson patted him on the shoulder and left the room.

Gordon looked down at Finley’s dead body lying in the center of a large pool of blood. Then he looked again at Barone. The pad of paper with the flag he had shown him not minutes ago sat next to him, his blood smearing the ink, making the Latin unreadable. He stepped over to the nightstand and grabbed the bottle of scotch. He poured some on his side then tipped it back and took a long drink. Anything to numb the pain.

At the sound of a ringing phone, he swiveled and looked around in a frenzy. He knew it was Samantha and he had to answer it. The pain in his side became secondary to finding the ringing phone. He got on his knees and looked under the bed. He saw it there, the screen illuminating the darkness. He reached in as far as he could and grabbed it; his heart jumped, knowing he’d be talking to her any moment. He clicked the button and brought the phone to his ear, but the phone slipped out of his hands and fell on the floor. “Shit!” he cried out. He picked it up again and put it to his ear, but before he could speak a voice, not Samantha’s, spoke.

“Finley, are you there? Is it done? Have you removed Colonel Barone and Van Zandt?”

Gordon’s eyes widened when he heard the questions.

“Hello? Finley, are you there?” the unknown voice asked again.

“He’s here but he can’t speak to you,” Gordon answered.

“Who is this? Put Staff Sergeant Finley on the phone.”

Gordon looked at Finley’s body and said, “This is Gordon Van Zandt and Finley can’t come to the phone right now on account of I killed him.”

Cheyenne, Wyoming

Sebastian found transportation downtown via a shuttle that ran every hour from the base. He took in the city as the shuttle drove along, and was surprised by what he saw. Cheyenne was bustling with people in and out of the green zone. Cars were being driven and people were coming and going; and some of the windows were even illuminated with the bright glow of electricity. He knew the town’s progress was the result of the federal government focusing most of its resources on one location, but it was nice to see something that resembled the past.

He got off the shuttle in front of Pat’s Coffee Shop and looked through the large glass windows. The place was alive; people spilled out its doors and sat at small bistro tables on the sidewalk.

“Here ya go,” a man said to him, holding the door open.

“Thanks,” Sebastian replied. He walked in and the first thing that hit him was how loud it was. Laughter, chatter, clanging dishes and glasses, doors opening, and music, sweet music coming from the corner. A young girl sang a song he’d never heard before to the strumming sounds of an acoustic guitar. The inside of Pat’s felt as if it existed in an entirely different time. The only clues that gave away their present circumstance were the TVs that remained dark. Compared to how they were living in McCall, these people were living in luxury. He wished Annaliese was well enough to travel with him and see this.

He got in a long line of people ordering drinks, and was pleased that it moved quickly. A man came up. On his chest he was wearing a name tag that said Pat. Sebastian laughed to himself when he saw the name tag. Who wears a name tag at a bar? he thought.

“What can I get ya?” Pat asked.

“I need a stiff drink, what do you have?”

“Several things. Do you like sweet, spicy, or just regular?”

Sebastian raised his eyebrows at the selection and answered, “Regular, I guess.”

Pat turned but Sebastian stopped him.

“What’s the spicy?”

“It’s my homemade vodka infused with jalapeños.”

“Ahh, no thanks, I’m a gringo. I’ll go with the regular.”

Pat turned back, grabbed a mason jar, and half filled it with a clear liquid out of a plastic jug. He quickly spun back and handed it to Sebastian. “That’ll be three bucks.”

Sebastian looked at him oddly because he hadn’t been charged money for anything in a very long time. “I don’t have any money . . .”

“Have anything to trade? I can set you up with an account and you can pay me back with—”

Sebastian interrupted him and said, “Secretary Wilbur told me I could put it on her tab.”

“She did, huh?”

“Yeah, I’m in Cheyenne for a short time and she told me it was on her. A favor of sorts.”

“I don’t know you, but I’ll just have to trust you this time.”

“I’m not lying, believe me. My wife and I are over at the base. I guess you could say we’re guests of the president,” Sebastian added, hoping that referencing the president would make him seem more important.

“Guests of the president? Well, well. You must be a bigwig,” Pat joked. He handed over the drink. “Enjoy.”

Sebastian found a small table near the back in the corner and took a seat. He relaxed into the wooden chair and tipped the glass back. The bite of the “regular” vodka was present at the start and carried through all the way down. The second sip wasn’t as harsh and the third even easier. By the time he reached the bottom of the jar the vodka was having just the right effect on him.

“Need another?” Pat asked, hovering over Sebastian. The line had cleared down and he was making his rounds, checking in on the customers.

Sebastian smiled. “Yeah, that would be great, thank you.”

Pat soon returned with another glass. “I’m not boasting but I’m friends with President Conner so I was kinda playing with you when you mentioned you were here as a guest of his. I don’t know who you are, but just watch what you say. And if I were you, I wouldn’t wear that shirt around here.”

Sebastian looked down at the Republic of Cascadia shirt. It ended up in the bag that Samantha had packed, and he had thrown it on this morning without thinking.

“Why what’s wrong with it?”

“The president and many others around here don’t take kindly to separatists or secessionists.”

The door swung open and a group of soldiers walked in. Pat looked down at him. “Time for you to go. Sorry, but I have to ask you to leave.”

Sebastian looked at Pat in shock at his request.

“It’s for your own good. You can come back tomorrow or another time, but now is not a good time for you stay here,” Pat said with urgency.

“This is about the stupid shirt?” Sebastian exclaimed, standing up. No sooner was he out of his chair than Major Schmidt marched over to him.

“Take that fucking shirt off,” Schmidt ordered.

Sebastian looked at Schmidt and then at the four soldiers behind him.

“Are you deaf? Take the shirt off!” Schmidt barked.

“Last time I checked this was a free country,” Sebastian shot back.

“Major, please, I’ve asked the man to leave; he was just on his way out. I don’t need another altercation in here,” Pat pleaded.

Schmidt ignored Pat and pressed on. “I’m going to ask you one more time.”

“Then what, you’re going to jump me? You can’t fight your own fights, you need to come with your goons and threaten people?” Sebastian said.

The others with Schmidt fanned out in anticipation for a fight.

Sebastian never looked for fights in his life, but he never ran from them either. By the looks of it, if he struck Schmidt, he’d only get another hit or two before the other men took him down. He couldn’t see a chance to win. He then thought of Annaliese and his need to let his bravado go so he could make it back to her.

“I normally wouldn’t do what thugs demand but since you don’t plan on fighting fair, I’ll give in to your demands,” Sebastian said as he pulled off the shirt and held it in his clenched left fist.