McGovern had a crowbar in hand.
They stood there, both of them quivering.
Art had never been in a fight in his life. He couldn’t even look McGovern in the eye.
“What the hell are you waiting for?” The armed man had screamed in his ear.
“Do you want to die? ‘Cause both of you are about to if you don’t get to it!”
Art had simply not known what to do. His body felt as if it was frozen.
Then it happened. The pair of neighbors next to them weren’t fighting either. Each of them was armed with a baseball bat. The guy who’d been screaming in Art’s ear had simply walked up to them, raised his gun, and calmly shot both of them in the head.
That was what had spurred them on.
Instinct kicked in.
McGovern made the first move. He’d come at Art hard, swinging the crowbar high.
But he was too old. He might have been big, with a well-developed upper body, but he’d let it go slightly to seed over the years.
Art was young, and in good shape. Maybe he wasn’t big, but he was fast. On his commutes to work, he’d always included sprints, allowing those fast-twitch muscle fibers to develop.
It all happened so fast that it became a complete blur. Or maybe he’d blacked out in some sense, just from the sheer intensity of the situation.
The next thing he remembered, Art was standing over McGovern. The hammer in Art’s hand was bloody. McGovern’s skull was smashed in.
That was the moment his life had changed. A far bigger change than the EMP himself. For him, at least.
What he’d discovered was that he’d always had this part of him, this intense violence, but he’d never been aware of it before.
“Nice one,” the man with the gun had said, and pulled him away from the rest of them.
That was how Art had become one of them. No one knew exactly who they were, even the members. They were just a group. Some called them the militia. Some called them the devils. Some cursed at them, but most knew better than to do that.
Someone was shaking Art, pulling him out of the torments of his memory.
“Art, buddy, wake up.”
“I’m already awake, asshole.”
It was Joe, Art’s buddy in the militia. You couldn’t really call him a friend. But they looked out for each other. If they hadn’t, they’d probably both be dead by now.
“Sarge is about to get here. You better get your ass out of bed.”
Art opened his eyes finally, and as a reward got to see Joe’s face staring down at him. He was unshaven, a scraggly beard taking over his face. There were cuts along his cheek, mixed with mud that Joe hadn’t even bothered to wash off.
The room was awash with activity. Everyone was scrambling to get their act together before the sergeant showed up.
He wasn’t, of course, an actual sergeant. Not that it mattered now. There didn’t seem to be any army.
And for all anyone knew, maybe the sergeant had been in the military. He sure acted like it sometimes, like a boot camp instructor. Word was he reported directly to the militia’s leader, Kor, but who knew. After all, rumors always ran rampant, and more often than not they turned out to be nothing more than fabrications.
“Art! Get up, man. You don’t have much time.”
Art slowly rose to his feet. His body ached. They were fairly well fed. Especially compared to those who weren’t in the militia. Those that the militia terrorized, stole from, and murdered.
His body ached from the fights. Fistfights broke out often among the men. Sometimes gunfights too. What could you expect? Many of the men had come directly from the prisons, where the conditions were harsh and gang life was the norm.
Only a sliver of sun came in through the window, from underneath the trash bags and cardboard that served to keep the light out.
It was a nice house. One of those suburban houses that Art had hoped he could eventually afford once he got out of school and got a steady salary.
Now it was nothing like it had been before. The walls were stained with blood and mud. The doors had been torn off. There were holes in the drywall, where men and fists had crashed through during fights.
The front door slammed closed.
Heavy boots on the floor.
It was Sarge.
He stood there in the doorway. A scowl on his face. Hands on his hips. His right hand was close to his Colt .45. If you looked closely enough, you could see his fingers twitching, as if he was just itching for an excuse to use the gun.
His gaze fixed immediately on Art, who still hadn’t gotten off the floor.
“Art!” he barked.
Art knew it was already too late. But he might as well make it as good as he could. He shot up from the floor, standing at attention.
The other men, Joe included, backed away from Art. They acted as if Art had the plague, getting as far away from him as they possibly could.
Sarge walked slowly, with heavy steps, over to Art.
Art didn’t dare break from his salute. His back was straight. His elbow was cocked just right.
Sarge got within an inch of Arc’s face. Their noses were almost touching.
Sarge’s face was always a sight to behold. It was heavily scarred. His nose was a bulbous mess. The circle under his eyes seemed to be growing darker by the day.
Art was expecting the punch. But it didn’t help.
Sarge was strong. His punch caught Art in the stomach.
Art went down. He lay on the stained carpeting, clutching his stomach.
Sarge kicked. His steel-toed boot made a sickening sound against Art’s skull. But it wasn’t that hard of a kick. If it had been, that might have been the end of Art. Who knew. Who knew how much a man could take.
Art was still useful to Sarge. He was among one of the few men who had a good head on his shoulders. If he hadn’t been useful, he’d be dead.
Art’s vision was blurred. His guts hurt. His head was nothing but searing pain.
“Get him, Sarge!” shouted one of the men. They weren’t exactly loyal to one another.
“Shut the hell up, or you’re next,” shouted Sarge.
Sarge leaned down and got right in Art’s face again.
“I’ve got a special assignment for you,” said Sarge. “But you’re going to have to get up off the floor to do it.”
Special assignments weren’t usually good news. Sometimes they had their advantages. Special privileges, better food. Things like that.
But usually they were suicide missions.
5
It had been a long, tiring day. Georgia had taken it upon herself to get the camp not only cleaned up and organized, but also get some long term projects underway. It made sense. They didn’t know when this break of relatively mild weather might end.
Max’s muscles ached from digging. He’d been digging animal traps for the better part of the afternoon. And that was after hauling firewood before that.
He’d been committed to doing his part at the camp, even though he was leaving that night. That was just the way he was.
The sun had set and the campfire was roaring. Sadie and James were in charge of cooking tonight. Which meant more venison, as always. The smells were wafting over.
Max was double-checking his pack, making sure he had everything.
His Glock never left his side, so that was a given. He was taking two rifles. And plenty of ammo.
He’d bring his Spyderco. It never left his pocket. But he was upgrading a little, with a fancy carbon steel survival knife in a sheath on his belt. He’d taken it from the deranged man who’d had his brother and Cynthia tied up. He didn’t recognize the brand, but he could tell it was a good knife.