Project Terminus

PROJECT TERMINUS

A Post-Apocalyptic Thriller

by

Nathan Combs

Project Terminus

A Post-Apocalyptic Thriller

By Nathan Combs

Copyright © 2015 by Nathan Combs

For more about this author please visit: nathancombsauthor.com

All characters and events in this eBook, other than those clearly in the public domain, are fictitious and any resemblance to real persons, living or dead, is purely coincidental.

This eBook is licensed for your personal enjoyment only. This eBook may not be re-sold or given away to other people. If you would like to share this book with another person, then please return to amazon.com and purchase an additional copy.

All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, distributed, or transmitted in any form or by any means, including photocopying, recording, or other electronic or mechanical methods, without the prior written permission of the publisher, except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical reviews and certain other noncommercial uses permitted by copyright law. For permission requests, contact the author through his website.

ISBN: 978-0-9967477-1-4

LCCN: 2015914611

Main category—Fiction>Thriller>Apocalyptic

1. Other category—Fiction>Dystopian
   

First Edition

For Bill: Rest in peace old warrior.

Prologue

Chapter 1 – South Florida

Chapter 2 – The Project

Chapter 3 – The End Begins

Chapter 4 – The Northern Groups

Chapter 5 – Incursion

Chapter 6 – Recon

Chapter 7 – The Light

Chapter 8 – Lights Out

Chapter 9 – Pledges

Chapter 10 – ORNL

Chapter 11 – The Merger

Chapter 12 – Alliance

Chapter 13 – All the King’s Men

Chapter 14 – A Flickering Light

Chapter 15 – Hope

Chapter 16 – New Light

Chapter 17 – First Blood

Chapter 18 – Tats

Chapter 19 – End Game

Chapter 20 – The Meeting

Acknowledgments

About the Author

Thick dew coated every bush and leaf, and dripped methodically from the trees. The incessant plop of water droplets striking the ground shredded the early morning stillness. Patchy fog broken by hazy, dappled shafts of sunlight delivered an otherworldly theme. Insects swarmed. Birds chirped. In the distance the faint forlorn howl of a coyote quavered and vanished.

The eight-man patrol skulked up the valley, oblivious that they were about to die. Five hundred feet from their objective, they stopped.

The leader scanned the area ahead of them with night vision goggles.

Nothing moved.

Using hand signals, he motioned his men to fan out in attack position. He raised his arm.

The post-dawn tranquility was shattered by the sounds of large caliber bullets striking the heads of his men, and he dove for cover behind a boulder. Heart thumping hard against his chest, a scene from the movie
Alien
flashed over his mind.

Ahead of him, a ghostly, fog muffled voice told him he was surrounded and to surrender or die.

Something brushed against him. Startled, he turned to see one of his men sprawled, dazed on the ground beside him.

The man whimpered and moaned. “What the hell just happened?”

Most August mornings in South Florida are devoid of a breeze. Flags in the region hang like silent, forgotten rags. The inescapable humidity, which was already brutal at six o’clock in the morning, generated rivers of perspiration that streamed down Wade’s forehead and burned his eyes. Abs screaming in protest, teeth clinched in determination, he strained to complete the last crunch. Objective accomplished, he stood and toweled his face. A sudden, cool breeze announced an incoming squall as it rushed icy over his super-heated skin. Goose bumps popped up and he shivered as the wind became a gust and just as quickly pounded heavy rain through the defenseless lanai screen, ending his morning workout.

Whoa
, he thought as he scurried inside.
Good old South Florida weather.

Like most early morning disturbances that blew over Cape Coral off the Gulf of Mexico, the storm was short in duration and dropped buckets of rain on one side of the street while the sun shone on the other. It disappeared inland almost as quickly as it arrived and left behind a steamy, sauna-like world that was no longer simply oppressive; it was barely tolerable.

After removing his waterlogged sweats, which clung to him with the tenacity of a Pit Bull, he started a pot of coffee and headed for the shower.

Refreshed and dressed, he poured a cup of his favorite coffee, Sumatra, opened his laptop, and checked his e-mail.
Spam isn’t an appropriate word for this garbage.
After mashing the delete button, he clicked on MSN, took the first sip of his morning brew, and checked the latest poll numbers. The Democratic nominee was predicted to defeat the Republican candidate by a large margin. B H Owen was almost certain to become the next president of the United States. Shaking his head, he murmured, “We’re doomed either way.”

Wade Coltrane was fifty-five years old, but looked forty. The ex-Navy SEAL, ex-Deputy Sheriff stood six feet tall with rugged good looks and short brown hair. If anyone took the time to look closer—and many did—he became very attractive. He radiated a quiet confidence. His friendly, laser-like blue eyes induced trust and transmitted integrity.

Wade was old fashioned. His outdated values were quaintly out of place in the digital, paperless world of 21
st
Century America. Honor, integrity, and chivalry were words he could spell. And he knew what they meant. On the downside, he wasn’t good at displaying his emotions, didn’t play well with others, and abhorred stupidity.

Ten years ago, his body contained one political gene that mutated and went AWOL. Today, he didn’t trust anyone associated with politics. However, he knew it was important to keep abreast of what was going on in the political world, so he paid attention. He lived his life by a simple ideology inherited from his grandfather: You get what you earn, no one owes you anything, and always do the right thing. Wade didn’t trust either political party to do the right thing. They were the same entity.

After driving the short distance to Bill Scarlett’s house, he parked and walked past the huge tree pregnant with baby mangos. It was Bill’s prized possession and he called it Margo. Although it was early, he knocked long and hard on the door because he knew Bill hated it, though he would already be awake.

Wade and Bill met in Virginia Beach when they were SEALs and had been friends ever since. Bill was short and stocky, bald as a bowling ball, and a miniature version of the Hulk at 250 pounds. He was also highly intelligent and well-educated, with a degree in business administration. He camouflaged that intellect by using vulgarity like a sword, effectively slicing his impeccable English to dumb-ass redneck. Wade trusted him implicitly.

“Come on in, Boss,” bellowed Bill.

Wade walked into the tastefully decorated Florida room where Bill sat in his wheel chair, affectionately called My Bitch. He was in his skivvies, watching TV. 

Wade asked, “What’s goin’ on, shit-head?”

“If you have to ask, you’re clueless, man.”

Grinning, he said, “Got any coffee that’s drinkable?”

“You know where it’s at. Help yourself. And Linda just bought some gen-u-wine cream for candy asses like you.”

Laughing, Wade headed to the kitchen. He returned a few moments later, steaming cup in hand, and grabbed the wicker chair festooned with a Mickey Mouse whoopee cushion that was reserved specifically for Wade’s visits. He set the chair down next to Bill, plopped down hard, waited for Mickey to whoop, and after Bill’s cheesy smirk, said, “I assume you’re following the latest poll numbers?”

“Yeah,” Bill said. Then, sarcastically, “Depressing, ain’t it?”

Wade nodded and said, “Mildly. It looks like Owen’s going to get elected.”

“Yeah, I hear you, but in truth, neither one’s worth a shit. One’s a left-wing liberal. The other one’s a stealth liberal.”

Wade snickered. “Stealth liberal! I like that.”

“Straight up, Wade, what do you think will happen if this moron becomes president?”

“You mean when, not if.”

“Okay then, what do you think will happen
when
this moron becomes president?”

Bill Scarlett was a retired master chief Navy SEAL. Six months after hanging up his Trident, he became a Boston Police Officer. Wounded by a gang-banger in a liquor store hold-up, the lingering back pain had forced him to take early retirement. Although he was as mobile as ever, he liked to pretend he was helpless, using a cane as a prop when in public and a wheelchair at home. Several years ago, Wade asked him why he insisted on the charade. Bill snickered and said it gave him an advantage over the dipshits of the world, and that My Bitch knew how to cradle his ass.

Scanning the room decorated in what Bill referred to as African Modern, Wade focused on the centerpiece. Two plastic Umbrella Thorn Acacia Trees flanked a hulking teak elephant and two mahogany baboons. With a straight face, Wade nodded toward the baboons and said, “Are those friends, or members of your immediate family?”

Bill shook his head, exhaled loudly, and said, “Jesus, Wade, that’s getting old. You’ve been making that same stupid joke for two years.”

“Well, you never answered the question.”

“Whatever, man. Are you going to answer the question I just asked or not?”

“Sorry,” said Wade, grinning. “What was it again?”

“I asked you what you thought will happen if—
when
Owen’s sworn in.”

Wade knew what the question was, but it was fun to make Bill repeat it. “Ask me again in a year. For now, I’m willing to give him the benefit of the doubt. I hope he does well. Don’t you?”

“Yeah, I guess. I know I should give him the benefit of the doubt, but I can’t. I don’t like his ass. And I don’t trust him either.”

Amusement was clear in Wade’s tone as he said, “You don’t trust anyone, old buddy.”

“That’s true. And I hate everyone too. I’m an equal opportunity hater.”

“You’re full o’ crap. You don’t hate anyone, except maybe the banger who shot you.”

“Bullshit. And for your information, the difference between you and me is: I just talk about hating people. You do hate people.”

Staring off and tapping a finger on his chin in feigned thoughtfulness, Wade said, “That’s only partially true. I like individual humans, I just don’t have faith in mankind.”

“Yeah, well, if you’d stop shopping at Walmart, you might see humanity in a different light.”

“Really, why’s that? You go there twice a day.”

With a dumb grin, Bill said, “Yeah, but there’s a big difference between what I experience when I go there, and what you walk away with.”

“Enlighten me.”

“Okay, from the minute you go in, until your chicken-shit ass slinks back to your truck, all you see are morons and fat-assed losers. You don’t even check out the blue-light specials. You leave thinking we’re fuckin’ doomed. Right?”

“Blue light specials are from K-Mart, dipshit. But the rest of your hypothesis is close enough. I guess.”

“K-Mart, Walmart. What’s the difference? Anyway…see, when I go there, I walk away feeling really good about me. I look at the riffraff and those two-axe-handle wide asses blocking the aisles, and I feel like I’m the smartest, coolest son-of-a-bitch on the planet. And I go there three times a day, not two. It’s a natural high.”

Wade snorted. “I have to go. I have an appointment with Starbucks for some real coffee. Try not to crash My Bitch before Linda gets home. And for the love of God, Bill, please…buy some decent java, will yah?”

“I would, but I can’t spell Sumatra. Besides, there’s not a damn thing wrong with Folgers.”

“Your coffee’s just like you, man. It’s weak. Has no balls.”

******

When the sun rose the morning after the election, it looked like any other sunny day in paradise. But it felt dark and gloomy to Wade. The election results left a nasty taste in his mouth—like he’d chewed on a sock after wearing it for a month straight—that his morning Sumatra did little to alleviate. As predicted, the Democratic candidate, Brian Henry Owen, handily defeated his republican opponent and would become the next president of the United States.

After the requisite morning storm ignited the daily sauna, Wade pulled into Bill’s driveway and went through the ritual of pounding on the door. When Bill yelled to come in, he entered, and found him pacing in front of the TV, muttering obscenities, and punching the air. He looked like a volcano about to erupt.

“Damn, Bill, what’s wrong?”

“What’s wrong?” he asked, incredulous. “What the hell do you think is wrong? That prick’s gonna be the president of the United States and the commander in chief of the Armed Forces. You don’t think that’s a problem? I mean, come on, man, we’re in deep shit here.”

“What does My Bitch think?”

“Come on, Wade, I’m serious.”

“Jesus, Bill, chill-out. He’s gonna be the president and CIC for the next four years whether we like it or not. Let’s give him the benefit of the doubt. There’s not much choice is there? Maybe he’ll surprise us.”

Wade wasn’t kidding, but Bill wasn’t buying it.

“Yeah, and maybe I’ll grow hair. Or maybe you’ll get laid.”

Linda Scarlett had been Bill’s wife for thirteen years. She was smart; she was cute and petite; and she was tolerant of her husband’s temperament. Entering the room with three cups of coffee, she said, “I’m glad you’re here, Wade. Now I don’t have to listen to him rant and rave by myself. Besides, he does so much better when he has an audience, don’t you think?”

Wade laughed.

Linda set the coffee on the table, and turning, smiled sweetly at her irate husband. She was a successful realtor, and other than a daily visit to her office, she worked from home. A quiet woman with no political viewpoint and no dog in the fight, she could not understand why the swearing in of President Elect Owen was such a big deal.

“Honestly, honey,” she purred, “you need to calm down or you’re going to have a coronary. I’m sure it will turn out all right in the end. I mean, how bad can he be?”

Wade and Bill exchanged knowing looks, silently acknowledging that explaining the potential perils to Linda would be a waste of time. But Bill was on a roll and Wade could see what was coming.

“Linda—” began Bill.

Wade simultaneously caught Bill’s eye and subtly shook his head no. “You might be right, Linda,” he said.

After catching the slight headshake, Bill said, “Yeah, maybe you’re right, baby.” He shrugged, then settled into his chair seemingly defeated. “We’ll just wait and see.” Bill Scarlett didn’t respect a lot of people, but he respected Wade.

A half hour later while walking Wade to his truck, Bill inadvertently stepped on an over-ripe mango Margo had deposited on the sidewalk. Muttering obscenities, he started kicking the defenseless mangos littering the walkway. Chunks flew in every direction, lodging in the bushes lining the walk and thwacking hollowly off the walls of his house. With each kick he yelled, “Bastard.” Then, like an invisible switch was thrown, he stopped.

Wade stood grinning in amusement at the show.

Bill grinned back and said, “You know I know that you know that we’re gonna be in deep shit with this guy as POTUS.”

“Can you say that three times real fast?”

“Seriously?”

“Okay, you might be right. But why take it out on the mangos?”

“Funny, Wade. You know I’m right.”

“You probably are. But I’m withholding judgment for now.”

With a grimace, Bill said, “Okay, okay, I know I should give him a chance; I do. But giving him a chance goes against my grain. He’s a stupid piece of shit.” Then he smiled mischievously and said, “But hey, I don’t want you to get your panties in a wad, so I’ll give it a shot.”

Laughing, Wade said, “Your stand-up needs work, man. It sucks. Stick with bitching about the new commander in chief.”

******

Wade sat on the dock that jutted into the saltwater canal behind his home and stared at the algae infested water. Within minutes he was lost in bittersweet memories of his dead wife. One moment Rachel was there, the next she was gone; wrenched violently from his life by a drunken driver on her way home from church. His body sagged and he shook his head, trying to stop the flow of thoughts. He couldn’t. Tears welled.