Cascadia Fallen: The Complete Trilogy, page 48
Reckoning Day…Is that what this is?
16
Rude Awakenings.
Tahoma’s Hammer Plus 11 Days.
“Remember—go west, first. We’ll try north on another day,” Sticky instructed the rag-tag crew of pirates. Piracy…that really is what this is, ain’t it? Another idea was being born. Forget the sex crimes—people’ll start moving goods by water and there’ll be no cops to stop the piracy. Others are gonna do it. May need to establish dominancy in that quickly…
“We got it, Sticky,” said the man, somewhat annoyed by the micro-managing. “We brought the boat back, didn’t we? If you don’t trust us, get your own butt on the boat!”
Sticky knew that like himself, these men were real killers, not just rapists. He decided to tread carefully. “Not distrust, Chris. Just making sure you all don’t waste your time in Tacoma again. Lessons learned and all that.”
“Don’t worry. Just leave this to us. You figure out how to get that MC of yours involved, or we may need to rethink this deal.”
Oh, no, you didn’t. Without so much as a word, Sticky raised the captured AR-15 up to his eye—Ka-Krow! The man standing on the stern of the cabin cruiser suddenly felt his jaw and throat explode. It caught everyone else off guard. He screamed in pure agony as blood began to shoot out of the hole in his neck. Sticky was close—he’d been aiming at the spot between the man’s eyes but shot low.
The screams were intermixed with gurgling and choking as blood started to take the path of least resistance down the man’s throat and windpipe. He dropped to his knees, clutching his throat with terror in his eyes. Sticky had aimed at the next man over, just in case he had any bright ideas.
“Holy hell, Sticky!” Gary White screamed. He pulled the gagging and struggling man over to the cruiser’s wall and hoisted his torso onto it. The bloody deck of the boat was getting downright slippery. Gary pulled a pistol out of his waistband, chambered a round, and shot Chris Watson right through the temple. The body fell back onto the deck. Gary looked up and immediately raised his hands when he saw the rifle aimed at him. “Whaddya doin’, man?!”
“You two dip-wads got any ideas about changin’ plans, too?” Sticky asked him and Anthony Brady. “I thought not,” when he saw two heads clearly shaking no. “Now, go get a little of everything on the shoppin’ list—women, girls, boys—and bring ‘em back. We need to keep the creatures on this island fed, right?” He looked over at Georgie. Do we have to do everything ourselves? his look silently asked.
“What about him? You guys need to come get ‘im and bury ‘im,” Anthony suggested.
Sticky looked at the meat pile. “Give him to the crabs.”
“Dad?” Natalie said loudly as she opened the front door to his small house. Don’t want to get shot. “Dad?” she repeated.
“Natalie?” she heard the old man’s voice call out. “Is that you?”
“Yes!” She could hear some rustling back in the bathroom. What is that stench? Oh, no! She knew immediately what the accumulation of human waste smells like. Her father suffered from congestive heart failure, high blood pressure, and emphysema, all courtesy of smoking his entire life. He was only sixty-four, but she knew he was having a hard time getting around as if his body thought it was fifteen years older.
She bumped into him as he closed the bathroom door in the tiny hallway, heading out to see her. “Hi, Grandpa!” they both heard as the kids were making their way into house.
“Ewwwwwww!” said the always honest Wesley, still not making eye contact, but definitely calling out Grandpa for the weird odor.
Katherine followed her oldest brother’s example. “What stinks?” the four-year-old yelled.
“Roy?” Natalie said, giving him the look to get the kids under control.
As soon as he stepped in and smelled it, he knew there was no way they would be staying in there for the night. “C’mon kids. Let’s move the stuff into the garage.” After all the kids hugged and greeted Grandpa, they complied.
Once they had the room to themselves, Natalie asked him point blank, “Dad, have you been using your toilet?” She was starting to worry about him.
He looked at her eyes for a moment and then looked down at the ground. He hobbled past her and went to the old, worn-out recliner that had his butt shaped into the flat cushion. “I don’t wanna talk about it.”
“Dadddd…” she started.
“It’s none of your business, Natalie Rose!” he insisted.
She started to tear up, not for being yelled at, but out of sympathy. He used my middle name! “Dad, I’m just worried about you. Have you been getting enough water? Do you have your meds?” She looked around for pill bottles as tears started to flow. The old man started to cry, too.
“You shouldn’t have come,” he said through small gasps. “I never wanted your kids to see me this way!”
She knelt on the floor by his feet and grabbed his hands. “We had to, Dad,” she said. “We’re going to Bubby’s. You need to go with us.”
“No! No, not that,” he objected.
“You two need to bury the hatchet and start talking again,” she demanded.
He looked at his kneeling daughter’s eyes. “It’s not that, Sweetie.” He paused.
“Well then, what?” She was confused. “Why not? You can ride in the Cub! I’ll walk—”
“Listen! Just give me a second here,” he said to shut her down while he chose his words. “This is my home. This is where I’ve made my life since your mother and I got divorced.” He looked out the front window. “I wouldn’t even leave if I could, and I can’t.” He finished by looking down at his severely swollen ankles.
Her eyes followed his. “The edema…Dad, I can get you some meds. You just need—”
“No. No. Natalie?” He paused until she grew quiet. “Just…no. I’m glad I got to see your kids, again. But you all can’t stay here and see me end like this!” He started crying again, sticking his wrinkled hand over to the empty tissue box and finding nothing.
I still have to tell him about Mom! Natalie’s heart was breaking for her father. She started to bawl, too. “I have to tell you something about Mom.”
The entourage of trucks and SUVs being led by one bright yellow civilian Hummer H2 rolled north and west towards Seattle, taking the same zigzag detours that any police or National Guard rigs would. In every populated area, there had subconsciously sprung up a certain few paths that had no civilian-run tolls or checkpoints. Those that profited from them didn’t set them up on main thoroughfares, mainly as a way of not having law enforcers stopping and asking questions. Legion and several of his extended club members were on the way to another meet near Seattle. The roads had been cleared of the largest obstructions—trees, billboards, flipped over vehicles. Any stranded cargo trailers had been long ago stripped of goods, leaving behind empty shipping containers.
“Stop here,” Legion commanded his prospect driver from the lead vehicle. The whole convoy stopped behind him. “What’s up?” he heard Weasel say over the radio from the next rig back.
“Just running a little litmus test,” Legion replied in the radio. To his driver he said, “See that?” He was pointing towards the front end of a dirty police cruiser, parked in a Jack-In-The-Box parking lot. “Whaddya wanna bet he takes off in the next minute?”
“Nothin’,” the prospect wisely said. As if on cue, the squad car drove off and turned at the next intersection.
“Told ya,” Legion boasted, not particularly impressed with himself. “It ain’t exactly rocket science. The rule of the wolf pack is returning.” Before his prospect could crack a joke, he looked at him and said, “You make one joke about that stupid movie, and I’ll beat you senseless. Got it?”
“Crystal clear, boss,” said the wise nobody.
“Keep going,” Legion ordered. As the procession started back up, he scanned the road the cop turned down. Nowhere in sight. Cowards. Won’t be long before they don’t even leave their compound anymore. Not when the wolves are roaming.
The roost was perched on the military crest of the small hill east-southeast of the main compound. It wasn’t much of a hill—maybe thirty feet higher than the compound itself. From there, he would have 500 to 600-meter shots over a field and between buildings. Nick had used 3D imagery on various apps to study this island for years. He knew where every structure, intersection, and field was. He would’ve preferred the view into the courtyard between the buildings offered by the north profile, but he wanted to be able to move south in a hurry—just in case they make a break for their boat. He’d parked his own boat in a small cove on the north shore and covered it with branches. It took quite a while to skirt the island and find his favored position, but he wanted the boat on the opposite side of the island’s pier.
Nick had been on the island for over thirty hours at this point. The day before, he had set up two backup sniping positions—one near the primary one and one overlooking the pier—just in case I need to chase them down. I’m here for you, Nick told Sticky Wood subconsciously. But I’ll kill every last one of you pieces of dung if I get the chance. Earlier, just as he had found a decent spot for his roost near the head of the pier, he caught sight of a van travelling north and a thirty-something-foot cabin cruiser departing the island. He used his spotting scope for the wider field of view to glass down and see two men dump a third man’s body into the water. Not my concern, he told himself.
Currently he was in his primary position, looking into the courtyard, observing. He decided that if he positively identified Sticky, he would take him out immediately. After that, it was game on. He didn’t want to die, but he figured there was no purer reason to die in battle in the entirety of human existence, than to eradicate sexual predators. He could occasionally see men milling about. He wasn’t about to open fire on just anybody. C’mon, you son of a whore. Where are you?
17
“A fondness for power is implanted, in most men, and it is natural to abuse it, when acquired.”
—Thomas Jefferson
Tahoma’s Hammer Plus 22 Days.
This is surreal, Charlie thought. I feel like I’m in a bad movie. He and seven deputies were stuffed into the back of an armored MRAP, rolling up the Canal Vista Highway as part of a convoy. They were backed by two squads of National Guard and were on the way to the West Sound Sportsman’s Club to “serve warrants.” Warrants…I can’t believe that’s what they’re calling them. The big Native American was starting to wonder how bad things were out at one of the coastal reservations.
Their vehicle came up to the front gate area of the club’s property and ground through the gravel to a halt as the deputy driving hit the brakes. It had been a bumpy ride, with major cracks in the road to avoid, coupled with the horrible suspension in the giant IED-resistant-rig. Charlie and Zeus opened the back doors and climbed out, leading the deputies on a fast walk.
“Get me Phil,” he coldly barked at the man and woman on watch at the front gate. The southwest corner fighting position had been so mesmerized by the site of the rigs that they had failed to call it in. The front gate only had the sound of big tires rolling up the broken asphalt as a thirty-second warning.
“Josh to the front gate immediately!” Donna Gladstone yelled into the radio, scared.
Charlie could look onto the parking area and a little bit through the woods at the rifle line and see people scrambling. “I said Phil!” he barked. “And open this gate!” None of the sheriff’s or soldiers had their slung rifles up in any kind of shooting position, but every one of them had one or both hands on their firearm, ready to use them if need be. They were all fully-kitted, as if they were about to raid a drug-house.
Josh was running across the parking lot at a full sprint, hands on his rifle to keep it from bouncing. “What the hell is this?” he demanded. The site of his sprint caused a couple of Guardsmen to begin covering him with their own rifles. He maintained his cool and didn’t return the action as he slowed to a stop at the metal gate.
“Get Phil up here, Josh,” Charlie demanded. “And get this gate swung up or that big old truck is going to roll right through it and over those sandbags.” He wasn’t playing.
Josh nodded at Vic and Donna to comply with the demand. This wasn’t the moment to play Butch and Sundance—they’d be slaughtered. After they raised it, the deputies and soldiers began to trickle onto the property. “Phil’s not here,” Josh said coldly, giving Charlie a pissed off look.
“That’s a load of bull if I ever heard one.”
“Personal matter. Wouldn’t say where he’s going,” Josh lied. “What is this, Charlie? You guys here to arrest someone?”
Charlie sized the former 11-Bravo combat vet up with a stare and then reached into the map pocket on the front of his plate carrier. “Here,” he stated as he slammed a stack of papers into Josh’s chest and passed him. “We’re under orders,” he began yelling out to the crowd of residents who were gathering in the parking lot, “to serve warrants of intent and confiscate firearms that are out in the open!”
Josh flew back around to Charlie’s front. “What do you mean by ‘warrant of intent’?!” he screamed, crushing the papers in his hand before he threw them at Charlie.
Charlie let the stack bounce off him and hit the mud. “It means that evidence exists that multiple residents of this property attacked and murdered residents of another property—” Charlie was interrupted by the rapidly-growing protests and vocal displeasures. This made him start to raise his voice over the crowd as he continued. “—based on physical evidence found at the scene! You are to surrender your arms! Nobody is to leave the county without checking out of the DEM’s Command Post in Bartlett first!”
“This is tyranny!” erupted from the crowd, in several formats and colorful metaphors.
“What evidence?” Josh demanded
“It’s all in the warrant,” Charlie replied. He yelled out to the crowd once more. “You all should consider yourselves very lucky that we’re not chipping you per the new protocol. We’re only taking firearms that are openly carried,” Charlie told the crowd as he stared directly at Josh. And not searching your trailers and conex boxes.
Josh didn’t break his stare with Charlie’s eyes as a junior soldier began to remove the slung rifle from Josh’s front. His nostrils flared and his face was beet red with rage. “This is illegal!” he announced, trying and failing to regain his composure. “You’re triggering things that can’t be undone!” he said through clenched teeth. There was no mistaking his look—he wanted to throw a hard punch right into Charlie’s Kool-Aid-hole.
That’s what I’m afraid of, Charlie thought. “You would be smart to let this go.”
“You tell your sheriff to bring his own butt out here and do it himself next time!” Josh dared.
Next time will be a bad day for all, Charlie thought.
“Deeper into the hill,” Josh demanded the man digging with the tractor. We’ll be ready next time. He was directing cache construction in several spots around the property. “This is one of the ones that will only have dirt covering it, so it needs to be deep into the berm.”
Burying caches was something he’d been thinking about anyway, but the confiscation they’d just been through drove home a need to prioritize it. He wasn’t just burying firearms and ammo—he was safeguarding some of anything that had value: food, medicine, batteries, radios, much of the new fireworks haul—lots of things. All caches were meant to be hard to find, but some had to be quick to access. This meant a combination of techniques.
In the kitchen and office, drywall was being removed and repaired so that items could be stuffed into the insulating space. In the rifle line berm, holes were being dug with the Kubota. They used hot water tanks they’d scavenged from nearby abandoned houses. They used a small grinder to cut an opening into the end that would be nearest the opening of the long, slender, horizontal hole it was stuffed into. In the woods in various spots, darkly painted PVC of varying diameters was being lightly hidden in the brush and given paracord handles to grab onto and yank it back out in a pinch.
One of the key details was to ensure that the caches would offer decent weather protection, but the items inside would still need to be weather-tight independently. This meant a lot of cans, jugs, plastic bags, and tape. For firearms, they were coating them heavily in axle grease and then wrapping them in plastic sheeting. The water tanks and old, holey barrels that served as shooting barricades for competitions were given false wood floors to keep the items out of any puddles that formed.
Josh was still irate at the loss of a decent number of good firearms—they’d lost over half of their night scope enabled rifles—but they weren’t screwed by any means. Most of the range’s residents still had several in their trailers and tents. Part of me wants to believe Charlie swayed the light search in our favor on purpose, Josh thought. They also had the firearms they had collected from recovering Hope Braswell’s body, as well as those they had confiscated after the two battles. To the victor goes the spoils, Josh thought glumly. Only, there is no victory in all of this. Just lesser degrees of losing.
Tahoma’s Hammer Plus 23 Days.
Phil had a hard time sleeping. How can they be snoring? he wondered. The church pews were packed—even the floors had a lot of people sleeping on makeshift pads. He had his gear and had been tempted to set up a hammock but decided against it. He didn’t want to seem rude to the people who were probably living here for the unforeseeable future. He was trying to use his gear as a pillow while on the floor.
The evening before had evolved into a two-hour storytelling of sorts, as Phil asked people about what had happened to the Reverend. None of them knew for sure. The rumor on the street was that the National Guard had killed him, not the gangs.
