Authors: Steven Konkoly
“Blew a nice little crater in the asphalt, but that’s about it. No sign of any vehicle damage. Over.”
“Copy all. Park your car in a discreet location and keep an eye on the approaches. Engage any vehicles entering the parking lot. Out.”
Eli shook his head. “Sounds like the guards hightailed it out of here. Blow the fucking gate,” he said, turning to the man crouched between the cars. “Sorry about Vaughn. Fuckers got a lucky shot off. Dead before he hit the ground.”
“Any guards left inside?” asked the man with a look of pure hatred and murder on his face.
Eli checked his watch. “I guess we’ll find out for sure in about thirteen minutes.”
Chapter 11
EVENT +7 Days
Maine State Correctional Facility
Windham, Maine
Two gray prison buses idled outside of the gate, just beyond the reach of the disorganized gaggle of prisoners Eli had selected for the final test. Surveying the group, he was mostly satisfied with the result of their prison raid. Within fifty-two minutes of arriving at the facility, he stood in front of seventy-three men and eight women with the potential to join his militia. The process had been simple.
Instead of wasting time trying to break into the administrative building, most of the inmates sought the next logical point of egress from the facility. The back gate. The prison’s jogging track and basketball court were situated in the massive open area at the rear of the facility, adjacent to the gate, which meant most prisoners watched trucks going in and out of the gate all day. Eli started honking the SUV’s horn when the first gray uniforms appeared on the utility road deep within the facility. Within moments, the word spread, sending a steady stream of desperate, starving prisoners in their direction.
He’d planned the next stage carefully, having no intention of putting his men in direct contact with several hundred criminals. Using bolt cutters, he created a rectangular opening in the western fence, visible to the prisoners from the gate. As the prisoners approached, Eli addressed them with his megaphone, congratulating them on their liberation and asking them to wait between two of the nearby buildings if they were interested in joining the Maine Liberty Militia. If not, they were directed toward the western fence line and told to immediately vacate the area.
“We provide food, shelter and a chance to bear arms against the tyrannical forces that left you here to die.” This tagline snagged one hundred and seventeen prisoners, including five that were immediately squeezed through the gate to join the Vikings. He had to keep those crazy fuckers happy one way or the other until he was done with them.
Once the prisoner exodus thinned, he lined the candidates up, single file, thirty feet from the gate and called them forward one at a time for a quick visual inspection and interview. He spent no more than ten seconds on each prisoner, quickly determining three things. Did they look physically fit enough for the militia? He couldn’t have any more winded warriors creeping through the forest. What crimes did they commit? He didn’t want any child molesters or skinheads. Did they have any prior firearms or military experience? The less ammo he wasted developing basic marksmanship skills, the better.
If they passed muster, they were sent to the left and told to sit in the shade. The rest were pointed toward the hole in the western fence. Throughout the process, Kevin McCulver stood on the hood of Eli’s SUV, warning them to stay back from the fence until called forward. The presence of two dozen heavily armed men visible through the chain links kept the process orderly.
Eli walked up to the gate with the bullhorn, ready for the final phase of his selection process. He needed to establish an iron grip for their integration to work, but he had to do it right or risk losing the entire group. How do you take eighty-one criminals from different cell blocks and bring them together in a way that doesn’t cause an implosion? He had a theory.
“Candidates. The buses are ready, but we have a problem. I can only take seventy-two of you,” said Eli.
Grumbling picked up in the group, followed quickly by the question he had hoped they would ask.
“How does that work?” said an overly muscular, towering inmate at the front of the group.
“I’ll let all of you figure it out. I only have a few rules. Nobody gets on the bus until you’re down to seventy-two, and nobody leaves without getting on the bus.”
“What the fuck do you mean?” muscle man said, gripping the fence.
“He means you’re not coming along for the ride,” said a female voice behind the man.
Before muscle man could turn around, a woman jumped on his back, straddling him with both legs and locking his chin back with her left forearm. Her right hand rapidly pounded the back of his neck, causing his legs and arms to go slack. She jumped off as he toppled to the ground, landing on her feet. Holding a bloodied, makeshift knife over her head, she yelled at the prisoners, “One down, eight to go. Who’s next?”
Nobody in the front of the group took her up on the offer, but a scuffle broke out toward the rear. Two men and a woman bolted for the western fence line, followed by a few more. Eli raised the bullhorn.
“Rule number three. If anyone escapes, everyone dies,” he said, watching the group spring into action and swarm after the small group trying to get away.
“Liberty One-Five. Block the exit,” he said into his radio.
The SUV on the dirt road next to the opening in the fence pulled forward, blocking their only way out of the facility.
“I don’t think it would have mattered,” said McCulver as the horde enveloped the runners.
“Probably not. Look at that crazy bitch,” said Eli, pointing to the woman that had stabbed muscle man.
She stalked a group of three women that had purposely fallen behind the pack.
“We don’t need any more psychopaths in the group,” whispered McCulver, glancing around furtively.
“We don’t need another
insubordinate
psychopath in the group,” Eli countered. “A highly loyal one might come in handy. Let’s see how this plays out.”
He watched in awe as she tackled the closest woman and jammed the knife into her back using a powerful icepick-style grip. Several strikes later, the woman pinned under her stopped thrashing. The two survivors of the ambush sprinted into the throng of prisoners in a desperate attempt to disappear. Eli flipped the selector switch on his rifle and fired several bullets over the group. The frenzy stopped just as quickly as it started, and the group made room for Eli to see their handiwork. He counted five lifeless bodies on the ground, at their feet. Six including the woman killed on the fringes of the gang. Seven in total.
“I count seven. Close enough for government work. Form up at the gate,” he said over the bullhorn.
They gathered in a more orderly formation this time, attempting to create rows behind the men and women brave enough to stand in front. His little trick worked like a charm. Create a little adversity amongst the recruits. Have them solve a problem together and
abracadabra!
Instant discipline! Just like boot camp—except for the killing each other part. All part of the new world order. Necessary for the greater good, or something like that. He didn’t plan to get too highbrow with his philosophy. As long as they followed orders, he didn’t care what they believed in.
“Welcome to the Maine Liberty Militia. You’re all provisional recruits, still subject to
dismissal
,” he said, raising an eyebrow. “You’re part of my militia, and we have a lot of work to do. I don’t have time to deal with problems. I simply cut them out like cancer or pick them off like a scab. Simple rules. Follow orders and take your training seriously. You do that, and we’ll get along fine. If you try to escape or harm one of my soldiers, you’ll be killed on the spot. No questions. If this group of recruits gets out of hand, meaning I detect an air of insubordination, defiance, noncooperation or disobedience, I’ll be looking for a twenty-percent reduction the next time around. How many is that, Miss Killer?”
“Fourteen.”
“Fourteen,” he said, waiting for the number to sink in. “That won’t be a pretty sight. Does everyone understand the rules?”
The group responded with different levels of enthusiasm and volume.
“As a group, using the words ‘yes, sir,’ does everyone understand my rules?”
A more coherent response filled Eli’s ears. Good enough.
“Load ’em up, Kevin,” he said, pulling the gate open.
Chapter 12
EVENT +8 Days
Limerick, Maine
Kate aligned the rechargeable screwdriver with the barrel hinge and drove the three-inch stainless steel screws flush with the hardware. She repeated the process for the remaining three screws, handing the screwdriver to Alex, who was situated across the plywood on a second ladder. Kate kept the board pushed against the window frame while he adjusted the right hinge, trying to place it level with the other hinge. Over the past two days, the two of them had managed to construct makeshift hurricane shutters for all of the second-story windows, depleting most of the plywood supply.
Alex planned to acquire more materials tomorrow, after resuming his duties at the airport, or wherever Grady’s orders took him. It had been nice having Alex around during the past two days. Despite the fact that they were guarded 24/7 by a squad of Marines, the two days together had returned a comforting sense of normalcy to their lives. She hoped his duties would be manageable on a part-time schedule. The kids needed him here.
She
needed him here.
“Looks good,” said Alex, clipping the screwdriver to his belt with a D-ring.
“Let’s see.”
They grabbed the board near the bottom corners and lifted, swinging the heavy board upward and outward. The hinges didn’t move as they lowered the board back in place. Crude but effective. The board covered the window but was far from airtight, with half-inch to quarter-inch spaces lining the sides. Once the weather turned, they’d have to attach some type of commercial weather stripping—anything to block the cold drafts that would pour through these cracks. For now, they needed the ability to keep the rain from pouring directly into the house. They could refine the process later.
“Not bad at all,” she said, glancing past Alex at a row of open hurricane shutters along the back of the house.
Inside, Alex’s dad would attach a two-foot garden stake to the bottom of the board with a small hinge, providing a way to push open the board and prop it open against the windowsill. The only disadvantage was that the shutter could not be opened far enough to provide fire at distant targets. Even if they used bigger stakes and pushed the shutters open further, a single bullet to the propping mechanism could close the shutter. If they were attacked, Alex said they could rip some of the shutters out of the wood and reinstall them later. It wasn’t an optimal solution, but they had to balance the need for security with the necessity of keeping the rain, wind and snow out of the house.
“We could start a business,” joked Alex, starting down the ladder. “There’s certainly no shortage of work.”
When they reached the bottom, Alex’s dad was waiting with a worried look. Kate saw her husband didn’t seem to notice.
“That’s it. Second floor is finished with two hours to spare. It’s time for an adult beverage,” said Alex, turning his attention from the ladder to his dad. “What’s wrong?”
“Charlie picked up some bad news on the HAM radio. Ed sounds like he’s ready to leave tonight.”
“Shit. They’re in no shape to go anywhere right now. What did they hear?” said Alex.
Kate stepped off the ladder and joined them, hoping they hadn’t wasted two days.
“A northern Maine militia group has started a full-time broadcast, warning Maine citizens that Homeland just dissolved the state government. They claim that the governor had a falling out with the Regional Recovery Zone Authority and—”
“They used those words? Regional Recovery Zone Authority?” said Alex.
“That’s what Charlie said.”
“Why is that a big deal?” asked Kate. Alex used the term regularly.
“Unless we’re missing federal broadcasts over AM or FM radio, the words Regional Recovery Zone shouldn’t be in the average citizen’s vernacular,” said Alex.
“They’ve been scanning those channels too. Nothing so far,” said his dad.
“Then whoever is broadcasting over the HAM radio must have a contact in the governor’s office or one of the reserve military units up north. I heard about the RRZ plan for the first time standing in Colonel Grady’s operations center. This was a closely held secret.”
“Not anymore,” said Kate.
“Especially if what we’re hearing is true,” said Alex. “From what I could tell, the RRZ administration planned to work closely with state and local officials to minimize impact on the designated area. Abolishing local government isn’t one of the steps,” said Alex.
“But the RRZ Authority is ultimately in charge?”
“Technically, yes. Once the Federal Recovery Plan is authorized and activated, RRZ infrastructure supersedes local government.”
“What about in an area like Boston?” asked Tim. “Who’s in charge there?”
“I would assume it’s the same situation. Each RRZ is responsible for recovery projects within a designated geography, with some overlap. We’re in RRZ#1, New England North, responsible for recovery projects in Rhode Island, Connecticut, Massachusetts, Vermont, New Hampshire and Maine. RRZ#2, New England West, is located halfway between Catskill and Poughkeepsie, New York, west of the Hudson. Its primary purpose is to shelter refugees fleeing west out of Connecticut, Rhode Island and Massachusetts. Unfortunately, they’re going to get crushed by runoff. RRZ#3, Tri-State Region, was originally based on Long Island.”
“They got slammed by a tsunami from the south,” said Kate.
“Right. They lost a majority of the gear earmarked for RRZ#3. They’re still trying to determine if Long Island is a viable location for the RRZ, given the physical damage.”