Broken Worlds Super Boxset (68 page)

Sydney paced back and forth outside of Jake’s office for almost twenty minutes before he summoned the courage to walk inside. When he finally did, he gave a light knock and was answered with a harsh “What?”

Sydney crushed an empty coffee cup with his foot that was surrounded by similar cups on the floor. An empty coffee pot sat on the desk, and Jake was searching files on his computer, scanning through thousands of pages of data. “Jake?”

“I’m busy.”

“I know. It’s just…I was wondering. When I can go back to Topeka?”

“When this is over.”

“But when will it be over?”

Sydney had taken a few bold steps all the way to Jake’s desk, close enough to see the contents on the computer screen:

Frank Claire – Lieutenant General – United States Army
Retired
. Died 2/28/2001.

Mary Claire – Wife of Frank Claire – PhD Medicine. Taught at University of Oregon from 1985 – 1999. Died 3/2/2003.

Luis Claire – Son of Frank and Mary Claire. Commander – United States Navy – Active. Currently stationed at Everett Naval Station.

Emma Claire – Daughter of Frank and Mary Claire – Profession – Unknown

It was only there for a few seconds before Jake shut it down. “When we have the soil data. Now, unless you’ve made a breakthrough, I suggest you stop your bitching.”

“I was thinking maybe I could get my father to help?” Sydney asked.

The chair rolled back as Jake got up from his seat. He had his jaw jutted forward, and Sydney retreated backwards until he bumped into a wall. Jake blocked Sydney’s escape, and the proximity brought the stink of his breath. “We don’t need his help.”

Sydney closed his eyes, afraid that any movement would prompt an attack from the beast in front of him. When the stink finally went away, he opened his eyes and Jake was back at his desk. “Get out.”

Sydney rushed back to his lab, where he immediately shut the door and locked it behind him. His cell phone had been taken upon arrival, and when he tried to dial out on the phone in the lab, his access was denied. He went to his computer, and when he attempted to send his father an email through the Coalition server, it was blocked. Sydney could feel his heart beat faster. He rubbed the pale skin on his throat. This was Gordon’s doing. He didn’t want Sydney to be able to speak to his father. And if they were trying to separate the two of them, that meant Gordon thought Sydney was a threat. And Gordon was in the habit of eliminating threats.

Using the same method that allowed him to grant Jake access to the federal databases, Sydney logged on to an overseas server to act as a cover to communicate undetected. He coded a message to his father under the disguise of spam but designed it to where it couldn’t be deleted until he clicked on it to ensure the message was delivered. If he knew his father, the man wouldn’t let anything go unchecked. Sydney didn’t have much to go on other than what he’d seen so far and Gordon’s mission to find the soil data. At the last second, he added the information about the Everett Naval Station. His father would have the connections to see if that would lead to anything.

He took one final scan of the email just to ensure everything was in place, and then Sydney clicked send. He was about to log off when he stopped. If his father couldn’t get to him in time, then he would need another way out, and since he was on lockdown, there was only one other person on the outside he could speak with. Alex.

***

Rows of sentries stood at attention as Gordon walked down the line. He looked each of them up and down. Their silent acceptance of the mission was all the approval Gordon needed. Some of them were going to die, and he was the one signing the death certificate.

“You are fighting for your lives, boys. You’re fighting for your right to continue the lifestyle that you’ve been afforded. For the past three years you have had food, clothes, shelter, and comfort. All provided to you by me,” Gordon said, finally making it to the front of the group. Here he could see the unit as an entire entity. “And now I’ve come to collect my payment. And the price is your blood. If you kill them before they kill you, then your first payment will have been accepted. If you lose, don’t bother coming back here, because I’ll be the first to put a bullet in your head. Do I make myself clear?”

“Yes, sir!”

Their declaration of agreement resonated through the air around them. It was mechanical. A triggered response that had been predetermined to this particular question long ago. And now, Gordon’s machines would do what they were made to do. Kill.

Dean led them to their transports and the first wave of soldiers ventured south, heading for the fisheries of the Gulf Coast to test their medal against the valor of the United States Coast Guard. As the trucks left Topeka, he could feel a surge of electricity rush through him. This was his first step toward absolute power.

All of those years, toiling away as nothing but an errand boy and dealing with the sniveling bureaucrats of Washington were long behind him. He wouldn’t be taking orders from anyone. He wouldn’t have to appease multiple interests or compromise. No. He would be able to do whatever he wanted, whenever he wanted.

***

Despite Dean’s size, the Kevlar around his torso was starting to feel heavy. He kept adjusting himself awkwardly in his seat. It’d been a while since he had to wear one of them. A ring of sweat had formed around his collar as the climate changed from the cool Kansas air to the thick, humid heat of Louisiana’s swamps.

The brakes squealed and the truck came to a stop. Dean’s boots splashed into the thick black mud and he trudged to the back where the rest of his men waited. His quads burned as he lumbered forward, sweat already forming on his temples from the short walk. He flipped open the tarp where the first squad of sentries sat locked and loaded. “Let’s move.”

Pair after pair of boots splashed down into the mud, spraying each sentry’s pant leg with a splatter as they marched forward. Dean moved to the second truck, and another thunder of boots crashed into the ground. Once everyone was unloaded, he addressed the unit. “Kill any man or woman that’s not a civilian. And shoot down any civilian that stands in your way.”

“Yes, sir!”

The first village was just up ahead. Shacks with shabby walls and rusty tin roofs dotted the shoreline. Small docks jutted out into the bay. A few of the fisherman came outside to see the march of sentries into their neighborhood. The solid black uniforms, automatic rifles, and lifeless stares weren’t something they were accustomed to seeing.

Each house was searched following the same guidelines as a community within the Coalition. Dean took lead on the first house. It had an elderly man and two younger sons. Dean turned over every piece of furniture in the place. One of the sons tried to stop him and was introduced to the butt of Dean’s rifle. The boy couldn’t have weighed more than a buck thirty, and when his body hit the ground, he didn’t get back up. The old man rushed to his son, and his other boy ran to a back room.

“Stop him!” Dean shouted.

Two sentries followed the boy, and it wasn’t long before the house erupted in gunfire. Dean rushed in to see one of his sentries on his back, clutching the Kevlar on his chest, and the boy on the opposite side of the room with four holes in his stomach and blood flowing around the revolver at his side.

“Let’s wrap it up!” Dean ordered.

After the first house there wasn’t much resistance, which Dean usually found to be the case. All it took was the first body to drop, and the rest fell into line. The village they occupied only had about ten houses, so it didn’t take long before it was secured. Once each house was searched, Dean ordered all of the people outside to address them.

“My name is Chief Dean Grout of the Soil Coalition. I am here to inform you that your fishing village is now under our jurisdiction, and you will be held to the same standards and rules as the rest of our communities.”

The salt-crusted faces staring back at him offered no signs of aggression, but also no acceptance or compliance. The brother of the boy he’d shot earlier wouldn’t take his eyes off him. Dean had seen that vehement stare on thousands of faces. The fraudulent sense of righteous strength that came with such a stare had cost its hosts their lives. Dean wondered how much longer the boy casting him that glance would last.

“A sentry will be stationed at each of your homes until the rest of our supplies arrive from Topeka. Once that happens my sentries will move out, but we will have a permanent presence in this community moving forward. All of your personal effects will be confiscated and put under the review of our Coalition board. What the board deems acceptable for you to keep will be returned to you. Any items that the board deems troublesome will be kept. There are no exceptions. There are no appeals. Their word is final.”

The boy rose from his knees, and one of Dean’s sentries shoved him back to the ground. Dean walked over to him. The blood from the previous blow to his head ran down his face. The boy couldn’t have been older than fifteen.

“You’re angry. But you can’t win this, boy. I know what you’re feeling. I do. That anger can save you. It can keep you alive, but if you don’t recognize a lost cause when you see one, then your father will be burying two sons today instead of one.”

Spit flew onto Dean’s cheek. It dribbled down the side of his face, and Dean wiped it off onto his shoulder. He pulled the pistol from his side and placed the barrel on the boy’s blood soaked forehead.

“Chief,” a sentry said.

Two Coast Guard Patrol boats cut through the calm, glass-like surface of the bay behind them. They were smaller craft, around twenty-five feet, but each carried a M240 machine gun at its bow that could fire nine hundred rounds a minute. Dean pulled the pistol off the boy’s forehead and pointed to a few sentries. “You three with me. The rest of you keep these citizens subdued.”

One sentry flanked each of Dean’s sides as they made their way onto the old wooden dock. The boards under his boots creaked and bowed under his weight. Once the boats were tied off, the skipper stepped out onto the dock accompanied by four of his own men. The sailors stationed at the machine guns remained where they were.

“What’s your business here?” the skipper asked.

“Coalition business. This community is now under our jurisdiction,” Dean answered.

“No, it’s not. Take your men and head back to where you came from.”

The dock was narrow, only allowing the width of two men. Each of the sailors was armed with an M-16 carbine and covered in life jackets.

“I don’t see that happening, skipper,” Dean said.

“That’s unfortunate.”

One of the skipper’s men stepped forward and before he could reach for Dean’s wrists, Dean pulled the knife from the sheath on his left leg and sliced the sailor’s throat. Blood splashed onto the dock and the two other sentries behind Dean jumped forward, shoving two more sailors into the water, where their life jackets kept them afloat long enough for a bullet to the head.

Dean rammed his blade into the skipper’s belly where it stuck, and the skipper collapsed to his knees, clutching the knife’s handle. Before the sailors manning the M240s could turn the massive guns, Dean fired his side arm, shooting a bullet into the sailor’s forehead and sending him crashing into the water where he bobbed like a lifeless buoy with his comrades. The second M240 was taken out by one of Dean’s snipers on the beach.

With the threat neutralized, Dean bent down to collect his knife from the skipper’s abdomen. The skipper’s body was motionless, but a small twitch remained on the corner of his mouth and when Dean gripped the handle and slid the blade out, the skipper moaned in torment. Dean smiled, slowing his retrieval of the knife.

“You…won’t…win…” The words came out between gargled spurts of blood, spewing from the skipper’s mouth and onto the worn dock.

Dean shoved the blade back into the skipper’s flesh. He could feel the tough muscles and tender organs that the knife pierced. The light behind the skipper’s eyes finally dimmed and the tension in his body relaxed. Dean stepped onto the boat and took inventory. The handle of the CB radio dangled from the main console. A mechanized voice repeated the same message in a hurried tone: “Marlin RB-S, come in. Marlin RB-S, what is the situation? Marlin RB-S, do you read me?”

Dean let the radio static blow through and picked up a map on the main console. Small “X”s were marked along the Gulf Coast at both the shoreline and deep sea locations. Before Dean had a chance to look it over more thoroughly, he noticed that the voice from the radio had stopped. And it was slowly replaced by the loud hum of outboard engines. Dean snatched the pair of binoculars that sat next to the map and scanned the bay around them.

“Untie the boats,” Dean said. “I need a man on the M240.”

The boat rocked as the sentries boarded. Dean started the twin 300hp engines and reversed from the dock, knocking into the heads of the dead sailors. Another Coast Guard boat was heading their way. It was the same defender class vessel Dean had commandeered. Dean ordered his men to open fire, and the molting hot shells ejected from the M240 and rolled onto the boat’s bow.

The successive thump of the machine guns was only amplified by the acoustics of the cove that surrounded them. The bullets ricocheted off the water, sending salty sprays aboard the vessel. The boat’s engines continued to whine as Dean positioned them behind the now-trapped boat.

The pursuit didn’t last long as the sentries manning the M240s obliterated the outboard engines of their enemy, causing the boat to stall. Dean pulled up beside the enemy vessel, and his sentries boarded and collected the rest of the sailor’s weapons.

Once all of the Coast Guardmen were alone in the vessel after the sentries removed their weapons, Dean motioned to the radio hanging by the console. “Tell your command what happened here.”

The skipper hesitated a moment. He pushed through his men to reach the radio. He squeezed the receiver. “This is Skipper Lucas Hart. Three vessels have been commandeered by Coalition sentries and eight of our men are dead. Our current location is 29.9500 degrees North and 90.0667 degrees West. I count twe-”

Before the skipper could finish his report, Dean pulled out his sidearm from his belt and blasted a 9mm bullet right between his eyes. The skipper’s body hit the deck of the boat and the rest of Dean’s men fired their rifles into the remaining Coast Guards.

The majority of the dead weight from the bodies rested in the back of the boat, sending a river of blood mixed with salt water draining out the rear console. Dean waded through the stream of death and reached under the back of the motors and pulled the drain plug out, which flooded the hull with seawater. As the boat began its slow descent into the bayou, Dean tied off a piece of rope to one of the cleats and went around each of the dead Coast Guard’s waists, tethering them to the sinking ship. The back of the distressed vessel went under first, and the bodies floated for a little longer before the rope tying them to their sinking grave submerged them, too.