Judgment Day -03

Other Books by Dr. Arthur Bradley

Handbook to Practical Disaster Preparedness for the Family

The Prepper's Instruction Manual

Disaster Preparedness for EMP Attacks and Solar Storms

Process of Elimination: A Thriller

The Survivalist (Frontier Justice)

The Survivalist (Anarchy Rising)

Available in print and ebook at all major resellers or at:

http://disasterpreparer.com

The Survivalist

(Judgment Day)

Author:    Arthur T. Bradley, Ph.D. Email:    [email protected] Website:    http://disasterpreparer.com All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means without prior written permission from the author.

Illustrations used throughout the book are privately owned and copyright protected. Special thanks are extended to Siobhan Gallagher for editing, Nikola Nevenov for the illustrations and cover design.

© Copyright 2014 by Arthur T. Bradley

ISBN 10: 1495265471
ISBN 13: 978-1495265471

This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, businesses, places, events and incidents are either the products of the author’s imagination or used in a fictitious manner. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, or actual events is purely coincidental.

CONTENTS

FOREWORD

CHAPTER 1

CHAPTER 2

CHAPTER 3

CHAPTER 4

CHAPTER 5

CHAPTER 6

CHAPTER 7

CHAPTER 8

CHAPTER 9

CHAPTER 10

CHAPTER 11

CHAPTER 12

CHAPTER 13

CHAPTER 14

CHAPTER 15

CHAPTER 16

CHAPTER 17

CHAPTER 18

CHAPTER 19

CHAPTER 20

CHAPTER 21

CHAPTER 22

FOREWORD

Religions teach that every man and woman will eventually be judged. Most faiths believe that mankind’s final judgment will follow an apocalypse, a cleansing of its sinful footprint from the Earth. Christians believe in the Second Coming, Hindus in Pralaya, Jews in Rosh Hashanah, and Muslims in the Day of Resurrection. While specifics differ, many religions share this common thread of judgment and reckoning, followed by rebirth and eternal life.

Even before this final judgment, however, most would agree that there must be accountability and justice in everyday life. Whether such judgment is found with the pounding of a gavel, at the wrong end of a gun, or from the firm hand of our Creator, everyone must eventually answer for their transgressions. 

Some would follow the Code of Hammurabi, forcing an eye for an eye. Others would advocate a softer, more learned approach to dealing out justice. But when blood is spilled and loved ones are lost, it falls upon a few to ensure that those who committed the offense learn that nothing is without consequence.

Retribution is not always swift; nor does it resurrect those who have been lost. It does, however, allow hands to stop wringing and tears to be wiped from bloodshot eyes. Fear of judgment is rarely enough to keep evil at bay, but it remains a righteous beacon to those who have suffered. If this light of equity were ever to fade, darkness would surely threaten to overtake us all.

“Conflict follows wrongdoing as surely as flies follow the herd.”

John Henry "Doc" Holiday 

1851-1887

CHAPTER

1

Nakai was a short man, lean and strong, with leathery skin, thick black hair, and eyes lined with deep creases, as if he had been squinting at the sun his entire life. He wore a set of wrinkled black fatigues and rested his hand on the butt of a Sig Sauer P226 pistol as he watched over the operation. Directly beside him was an eighteen-wheeled tractor-trailer with the bright red words “Wonder Bread” painted on its side. Four other trucks, each with different markings, formed a procession of rigs behind the first.

A huge black man, carrying an AK-47 equipped with a tactical stock and holographic red dot sight, hurried up to him.

“We’re almost ready,” he said. “Five minutes, tops.”

Nakai nodded. “Put two vehicles to the front and two to the rear, with a fifty at each position.”

“Roger that,” the big man said, his eyes narrowing slightly as he scanned their surroundings.

The buildings in the Federal Law Enforcement Training Center were quiet except for the rumble of the trucks’ giant diesel engines. The bodies of three US Marshals lay on the blacktop only a few steps away. A small pool of dried vomit lay beside the closest man’s mouth.

“What is it, Jeb?” Nakai asked, following his lieutenant’s eyes. “What do you see?”

Jeb shook his head. “Nothing. I just don’t like this, that’s all.”

“We’ve killed men before.”

“Not like this, we haven’t.”

“Killing is killing.”

Jeb rubbed his hand across his chest.

“I can feel the gas crawling on my skin like a bucket of spiders.”

Nakai patted the man’s thick shoulder.

“It’s in your head. The sarin dissipated within an hour or two. You know that.”

Jeb nodded, but the scowl never left his face.

“How many rifles did we get?” Nakai asked, hoping to get Jeb’s mind off the gas.

“Two thousand, maybe. All M16s. They look like old infantry training rifles. Serviceable, but they wouldn’t be my first pick.”

“Only two thousand?”

Jeb shrugged. “It’s what we found. I didn’t figure you wanted us hanging around looking for more. Not after what we did here.”

“No,” he said, shaking his head. “If they haven’t already noticed that the post’s gone quiet, they will soon. We need to be gone before they come looking for answers. As for them,” Nakai motioned toward the dead marshals, “we did what we were hired to do. Our customer wanted to make a statement.”

“I get that. But why?”

“You know I don’t ask that kind of question,” growled Nakai. “All I care is that we’re paid for what we do.”

“That’s all good,” Jeb said, motioning to a nearby soldier to hurry it up. “But in case you haven’t noticed, the world’s gone to shit. What are we going to do with more money?”

“Who said anything about money?”

Jeb stared at him. “What then?”

“We’re getting the only thing that really matters anymore.”

“And what’s that?”

Nakai pressed his lips together in a tight smile.

“A place at the table.”

Deputy Marshal Mason Raines would have traded anything in his truck for a good pair of binoculars. He stood in the back of his black Ford F150, leaning over the top of the cab, straining to see the convoy of tractor-trailers and HMMWVs as they spilled out of the Federal Law Enforcement Training Center in Glynco, Georgia. His giant Irish wolfhound, Bowie, pressed up against him, looking back and forth between Mason and the trucks down on the highway.

It had been less than twelve hours since Mason had raced out of the center, terrified by the thought of being poisoned by whatever gas had been used to kill his fellow marshals. Night had come and gone, as had his panic. When he returned to survey the scene early the next morning, he discovered that the center had found new occupants.

For the past hour, he had watched as a sizable group of soldiers loaded scores, perhaps hundreds, of crates into tractor-trailers. Even at a distance, he could see that the men wore matching black fatigues—not official military garb, but uniforms nonetheless. At first he had thought that these men were some kind of makeshift force, like York’s Free Militia, which had been formed in response to the nation’s lawlessness. After watching them for a while, though, he changed his mind. Unlike Alexus’s ragtag army, the men loading the trucks were efficient and coordinated in their movements. There were also sentries set up all around their operation. It seemed much more likely that they were a professional paramilitary organization.

The most pressing question was whether they were responsible for the death of the marshals. Given their timely arrival and obvious intent to pilfer something from the center, it seemed likely. That brought him to his second question. What exactly were they taking? Mason couldn’t imagine anything stored there being important enough to stage a chemical attack, killing hundreds of lawmen in the process. As far as he knew, FLETC didn’t house anything other than basic law enforcement training equipment. But these men had indeed found something, and whatever it was, it required numerous tractor-trailers to haul it out.

As the trucks began to file out Gate 2, Mason dropped to the ground and climbed back into his pickup. He was about two hundred yards away and parked in the yard of an abandoned house that offered a clear line of sight. The tractor-trailers all had different markings, suggesting that they had been picked up en route to the operation. Finding an armada of serviceable trucks would have been easy enough. The Superpox-99 virus had left more than five million such vehicles littering the roadways, some abandoned by their drivers, others acting as their final resting places.

Two armored military HMMWVs, painted in simple desert tan, led the convoy. Two others protected the rear. Men stood ready behind Browning M2HB .50 caliber machine guns perched atop two of the four vehicles. Mason took a quick tally of the number of men. Two sat in each tractor-trailer, and four were in each HMMWV, for a total of twenty-six well-armed soldiers. Unlike the militia Mason had fought in York, or even the convicts in Boone, he suspected that these men would not be easily overcome. If he were to have any chance of fighting the small army before him, it would require expert tactics and more than a little luck.

Before any such confrontation, however, he needed to get some answers. Were they to blame for the horrific murders? If so, why had they done it? How he was going to get those answers was unclear at the moment. The one thing he did know was that he couldn’t afford to squander the good fortune he’d had in catching them red-handed.

As he watched the convoy turn west toward the Golden Isles Parkway, Mason started his truck and eased out into the road behind them. Bowie moved around in the bed of the truck before finally sticking his large head through the sliding rear window and whining loudly.

“Don’t worry,” Mason said, reaching back with one hand to rub Bowie’s head. “We’re not going to let them get away. But we’ll need to be careful. These men are more dangerous than any we’ve fought so far.”

CHAPTER

2

Standing on the front porch of his cabin in the Blue Ridge Mountains, Tanner stretched both arms over his head like a grizzly bear reaching for a beehive. He yawned and exhaled with a loud
yee-aww-uhh
. Squirrels darted up nearby trees, and insects quieted for a moment as life all around him tried to make sense of the terrifying sound.

Samantha stepped from the cabin with a red plaid blanket wrapped around her shoulders, and lowered herself into one of the worn rocking chairs.

“Morning,” she said, pulling her legs up into the seat.

He nodded to her.

“Best morning I can remember.”

“Because you’re home?”

“Because I’m free.” He smiled and looked around. “And yes, because I’m home. I didn’t know if I’d ever see this old place again. Did I tell you I built it with my own two hands?”

“Four times, now.”

His face took on a faraway look as he ran his fingers over a large wooden totem that stood beside the porch.

“Mind if I ask you something?” she said.

“Probably not.”

“What did you go to jail for? Killing someone?”

“Two someones actually.” His smile faded, and he looked off toward the sun that was beginning to peek over the trees.

“What did they do?”

He took a deep breath and let it out slowly.