The Battle: Alone: Book 4 (5 page)

     If they were alive, and there was a tunnel, wouldn’t they have used it to escape? Since they didn’t, did that mean no tunnel existed?

     Or did it mean something else? Did it mean that Karen and Tommy got away, but the escape of the others was foiled? And if that was the case, why weren’t Karen and Tommy standing by Dave’s side, joining his team and helping to formulate a rescue plan?

     Perhaps they were killed while trying to escape. And the bad guys discovered the tunnel and sealed it.

     Or maybe Dave was putting way too much thought into this, and there never was a tunnel to begin with.

     He was burning daylight. He needed to get moving. He’d hike back to the farm, using the woods as cover, and would look for the tunnel’s exit in the woods near the farm.

     After dark, he’d hike back to the Explorer, and drive it closer to Dugan using the darkness to cover his progress.

     And tomorrow he’d visit Dugan, to see whether there was help available.

     To see if there were reinforcements.

     Or to see if he was, once again, alone.

Chapter 8

     John Swain missed his days in the Army. In his mind, he was a good officer and a good soldier. Had he not lost his temper and killed two people, he’d have still been on active duty. Still wielding power to coerce others to do his bidding.

     Still using the Uniform Code of Military Justice to enforce discipline. To make others respect him. Or at least to pretend to, whether they liked him or not.

     He’d always loved that aspect of military life. Even someone who despised him personally had to call him sir. Had to salute him when he walked past. Had to kiss his ass.

     He’d written up his subordinates several times for insubordination or disrespect.

     A couple of his lieutenants took to calling him “Captain LOR,” the military acronym for “Letter of Reprimand,” due to his frequent use of the pen to solve disciplinary problems.

     They called him that behind his back, of course. But word got around and Swain filed charges against them. “Conduct Unbecoming an Officer,” he’d claimed.

     The Judge Advocate General would have none of it.

     “You don’t need to be ruining these men’s careers because you’ve been given a nickname you don’t like. I can assure you, Captain Swain, that you’ve been called names far worse. As have I. And I’m sure you’ve used some not-so-flattering terms to refer to your own superiors a time or two.”

     “But they can’t get away with this. They have to be punished.”

     In the end, the JAG gave both lieutenants a slap on the wrist of sorts, verbal admonishments. Nothing written to tarnish their records, nothing that would harm their careers or chances for further promotions.

     For lack of a better terms, they both got their asses chewed.

     And Captain Swain stewed.

     For that wasn’t good enough.

     Captain Swain carried grudges far longer than most men, and he swore to himself he’d get even.

     Six months later, Military Police received an anonymous tip and searched the car of Lieutenant Michael Holliday. They found four grams of crack cocaine stashed beneath the driver’s seat. In half gram baggies, ready for distribution.

   Swain had taken a big risk, carrying the drugs under the car mat in his own car for several days, until Lieutenant Holliday was finally careless enough to leave his vehicle unlocked while swilling beers at the Officer’s Club one night.

     Possession of crack cocaine in any amount on a federal military installation is a Class A felony. Quantities over one gram, or crack that is split up into weighed portions, constitutes intent to distribute charges. Recommended punishments according to the Manual for Courts Martial ranged from ten years to life.

     Lt. Holliday was lucky. He only received forty years.

     The other lieutenant, Marty Garcia, got off even easier. Swain simply started rumors around the O’Club that Garcia was sleeping with another officer’s wife.

     The other officer had a reputation for being terribly jealous.

     And he just happened to run the assignments section.

     Garcia was shipped off to a dead-end assignment in Fort Bliss, Texas several weeks later. There was nothing wrong with Fort Bliss, if you didn’t mind hot summers, bitter winters, and absolutely no chance for advancement.

     Garcia minded all those things, and took it personally. He grew into a malcontent and received three DUI convictions within fifteen months.

     The third one came after Garcia ran a stop sign and left a six year old boy paralyzed for the rest of his life.

     The irony of the whole situation was that Garcia and Holliday were both sent to Ft. Leavenworth, it being the only stateside military prison for felons.

     And not long after, convicted double murderer John Swain joined them.

     Swain greeted them both as old friends. There was absolutely no reason either of them had to know that Swain had set them up.

     Stripped of their military ranks, they were of equal stature in Leavenworth, and eventually became friends.

     Sort of.

     John Swain wasn’t one to kiss anybody’s ass. In his mind he was still superior to both of the men, despite the fact that the bars were now missing from his shirt collars.

     Garcia and Holliday didn’t care. They had nothing to prove. If it would keep the peace in prison, they’d let Swain be the boss.

     After the prison break, the three stuck together and stumbled across a farmhouse a few miles away from a little Podunk town called Dugan.

     They were followed by four grunts. Former enlisted men, then convicts, then escaped convicts, they latched on to the three former officers because they thought they would lead them to freedom.

     And in a way they did. With Swain in charge, the group assaulted Karen and Tommy Spencer’s farm and claimed it as their own. Tommy was killed, as well as the couple’s daughter. Karen and her boys were taken hostage, as well as a couple of neighbors, and her sister and two daughters who’d joined her the day of the blackout.

     Now, life at the farm had settled into a peaceful routine of sorts. Swain still ran the joint like a five-star general. Garcia and Holliday were still his underlings. The number of former enlisted men grew to eight as other escapees stumbled upon the farm and were absorbed into the group. They were joined by six other marauders who’d come to rob the place after the lights went out and wound up staying instead.

     Karen was severely wounded in the firefight which claimed the life of her husband and daughter. She somehow managed to survive, thanks in large part to the efforts of her sister Sarah, who nursed her back to health over several months.

     But one knee was totally shot, and she needed crutches to get around.

     Sarah and the girls could have escaped several times. And they’d have taken Karen’s sons with them.

     Except they couldn’t leave Karen behind. Sarah knew that Swain would be so furious he’d likely punish Karen for their escape with a bullet to her head.

     So instead, Sarah did the prudent thing. She’d told her daughters, “We’ll wait it out. We’ll do whatever we have to do to survive. And one day, we’ll be called upon to help your father kill every last one of these bastards.”

Chapter 9

      Dave started his trek back to the farmhouse going the hard way… through the dense woods. The going was slow.

     Then it dawned on him there was no reason to make things so difficult on himself. There were nomads wandering all over this part of the country. Many were living off the land and hunting or fishing for their supper each night. Many survived from visiting abandoned farms and ranches or other places where they knew there to be food.

     And others just happened to be passing through from one place to another. Perhaps, like Dave himself, headed somewhere to reconnect with lost loved ones.

      “This is stupid,” Dave muttered to himself under his breath. “No one here knows me, except for my family and in-laws. And they aren’t in a position to see me hiking along the roadways.”

     Talking to himself was a habit he’d developed during the previous year, when he’d lived alone, fighting for his survival in San Antonio in the newly harsh world. He hadn’t even realized he was doing it for a long time. Then he wondered why he’d developed the peculiar habit and whether or not it meant he was going mad.

     He finally decided it was borne from boredom and the desire to hear another human voice… any voice. Even his own, if that was the only one available.

     Now, adopting a frozen corpse named Mikey and talking to it all day, then considering it his best friend. Or naming two fuzzy little rabbits and carrying on long one-sided conversations about the meaning of life.
Those
, he had to admit, were a little weird and might be early indications of an onset of insanity. But talking to himself, that was minor in the grand scheme of things.

     And perhaps perfectly normal for a very social guy suddenly thrown into a world where there was no one else to socialize with.

     Once he’d decided he could walk the country roads in the area without fear of being recognized and blend in with the other nomads, it made things much easier on him.

     And it would save a lot of time.

     Half an hour later his new plan would be put to the test.

     Headed north on a narrow road, Dave crested a hill to see two men a hundred yards ahead of him and headed his way.

     Like Dave, they carried backpacks and rifles.

     Unlike Dave, they also carried fishing poles.

     Dave remembered studying the Rand McNally maps, trying to match up an aerial view of the farm Sarah had printed from Google Earth with the terrain, so he could determine the exact location of the farm.

     One of the things that helped him find the farm’s exact location on the map were the many blue lines, meandering in all directions. Each one indicated a creek or a stream, most leading to ponds or lakes. This part of the country was covered with them.

     And in this new world, where many of the survivors fished, hunted or trapped to get by, it just made sense for such men to be carrying around their gear as they went about their daily travels.

     It just so happened that Dave had fishing and trapping gear, packed into the back of the Explorer. So far he’d only had to use it a couple of times, since he’d been living on packed provisions since he left San Antonio a couple of weeks earlier.

     He’d brought it along, though, as part of his contingency plan.

     If his vehicle had broken down on his way to Kansas City, he’d have had to press on by foot, and he wouldn’t have been able to carry enough food and water to sustain him for long. If that were to happen, he’d have had to live off the land. And the trapping and fishing gear would have been essential for his continued survival.

     Now it would serve another purpose.

     From now on, he decided, he’d carry it with him as he traveled through this area.

     It would make it easier to blend in, and to explain what he was doing here if challenged.

     The approaching men grew closer, and Dave grew just a bit more apprehensive.

     It would be the first time he’d speak to absolute strangers in many months.

     He wondered whether they’d be hostile, or friendly.

     He wished he’d reached down to his holster and unstrapped it, then taken it off safe, when he first saw them on the horizon. Now it was too late, for if he reached down and touched his sidearm now it might be considered an act of aggression.

     In his mind he was kicking himself. He hadn’t practiced a quick draw, although he should have during those long months locked up in his house with not much to do.

     If he had to draw his weapon to defend himself against these men he’d be at a serious disadvantage. Yes, it would only take a couple of seconds to unsnap his holster strap, then enable his gun to fire.

     But he’d been a Marine. He knew only too well that even a couple of precious seconds can mean the difference between life and death when the shooting starts.