Push Back: A Post Apocalyptic Thriller (The Disruption Series Book 2) (28 page)

“Ashes to ashes, shit to shit. May you all burn in Hell,” Luke said.

“Hallelujah, amen,” one of his men added, with a derisive snort.

“You reckon they might pollute the pond?” another asked, to general laughter.

“Let’s saddle up and get out of here,” Luke said, and they all moved back to their vehicles.

Over Fort Box

Wilmington Container Terminal

Wilmington, North Carolina

Day 32, 7:10 a.m.

Rorke heard the muted thump of the chopper blades muffled through his headphones as they circled high above the fort. Far below, heavy equipment was moving new containers in to replace those damaged during the attack.

“They’re rebounding pretty fast,” Rorke said into his mic. “And it looks like they have a lot more people on the wall, and some of them aren’t in uniform.”

Beside him, Reaper shrugged. “I don’t think it makes much difference, General. Bodies alone won’t make much difference, and they have to be low on ammo now. A Guard unit in peacetime wouldn’t have had a very big ammo load out to start with, and they can’t have much left. We ain’t gonna sword fight them; another attack like the last one and they’re finished.”

“You got anybody left to attack them WITH, especially after what happened?”

Reaper laughed. “Funny how it happens, isn’t it? The bangers are mostly shot to hell and useless. We might get a little more mileage out of them somewhere, but I seriously doubt we’ll get them to throw themselves at that wall again. They’re dumb, but they’re not completely stupid. But the refugees, that’s a different story. Most of them are cowed, right enough, but some are white-hot mad at the fort for killing their friends and relatives. They’re so pissed they don’t seem to connect with the fact it was us that threw them under the bus, and those that have a clue blame the bangers, not us. We play our cards right and spread some of those MREs around, I think I can recruit us ‘Indigenous Force Act Two.’ It will just take a little patience, that’s all.”

“How much patience?” Rorke asked.

Reaper shrugged again. “Two, three weeks tops.”

“You have two, and another fifty advisers. But at two weeks and one day, I want possession of that fort and all of their supplies. Is that clear?”

“Crystal, General,” Reaper replied.

Rorke nodded and looked down at the fort. “Well, it wasn’t the success I’d hoped for, but we’ve hurt them badly at little cost. As you say, they must be low on ammunition and are undoubtedly demoralized at having slaughtered the very people they were trying to save.” He smiled. “They may even disintegrate on their own. Anyway, they’re much less of a threat than they were two days ago, and they’re no longer squandering my supplies on the refugee rabble. We’ll just let them sit there until we’re ready to take them out for good.”

Fort Box

Wilmington Container Terminal

Wilmington, North Carolina

Day 32, 8:15 a.m.

“You’re sure?” Hunnicutt asked, looking around the table at what he’d come to think of as his war council. Luke Kinsey and Joel Washington were there, as was Josh Wright and Mike Butler. As a courtesy, Levi Jenkins and the Gibson brothers were now sitting in, representing the river volunteers.

Washington nodded. “Absolutely, sir. They’re SRF, and the mercenary scum, not the recruits from regular forces like us.” He looked toward Luke for support.

“Washington’s right, sir,” Luke said. “I recognize them too. Two of them were in Jacksonville when we were.”

Hunnicutt grunted. “Well, too bad none of the wounded ones made it. I’d have loved to get some intel out of those bastards.”

Across the table, Mike Butler shrugged. “Well, a half dozen of the bangers did survive, and they seem pretty pissed at their ‘advisers.’ Every one of them identifies these SRF thugs as being from ‘the pirate in the chopper.’ I think that’s pretty definitive.”

“It’s Rorke, all right,” Luke said. “They all describe him to a T.”

“Pretty smart, actually,” Wright said. “I mean, they risk a few of their own guys and throw the bangers out as cannon fodder. It’s quite a force multiplier. If they win, they bought a cheap victory, and if they lose, they haven’t lost much.”

Hunnicutt sighed. “And when we won, we didn’t really win anything, except staying alive to fight another day. How do we stand?”

Butler glanced at his legal pad. “We picked up almost two hundred M4s from the fallen bangers and scavenged six M240s from the disabled technicals, along with some ammo for each. But that’s our Achilles’ heel. We burned through ammo like a house afire.” He shook his head. “No way we could survive another attack like that, even if the mob is carrying clubs.”

Hunnicutt nodded. “You think your friend Sergeant Hill would guide a little trip to the Military Ocean Terminal?”

“Absolutely, sir,” Butler said. “But I’m pretty sure SRF will have more forces guarding the place now, especially after our previous trip. It will be tough to sneak in and out with enough ammo for our entire force.”

Hunnicutt shook his head. “That’s not exactly what I had in mind.” He turned to Luke Kinsey. “How’s Dempsey doing?”

Luke shook his head. “I almost wish I hadn’t told him. When he finally accepted we’d snatched him and his family was still back behind the wire, he’s been going crazy.”

“Understandable, but we need to get him calmed down, because I think we’re going to need him,” Hunnicutt said.

“I’m a bit confused, sir,” Butler said. “What’s the Duke Power guy got to do with any of this, and if we’re not going to slip in and steal ammo, what’s the plan?”

Hunnicutt smiled enigmatically. “Gentlemen, in another life, I was a history teacher, and despite my love of my home state, I’ve always harbored a deep and abiding admiration for Joshua Lawrence Chamberlain and the Twentieth Maine. Are you all familiar with Colonel Chamberlain’s defense of Little Round Top during the Battle of Gettysburg?”

A few heads nodded, some more confidently than others.

“Chamberlain was in a somewhat similar situation,” Hunnicutt said. “Out of ammunition and besieged by a larger, seemingly more capable force, it appeared his only option was surrender. But he—”

“Ordered his men to fix bayonets and charged, breaking the back of the attack and saving the day for the Union,” Josh Wright finished.

“Exactly, Lieutenant Wright. Exactly.” Hunnicutt’s face hardened. “I’ll be damned if I’ll sit here waiting for this man Rorke to crush us like a bug. He’s about to find out some bugs have a deadly sting.”

Chapter Fifteen

Somewhere in the Atchafalaya River Basin

North of Morgan City, Louisiana

Six Days Earlier

Day 26, 7:20 p.m.

Matt Kinsey shifted uncomfortably against the hard bottom of the boat and leaned forward to relieve the pressure on his aching arms. His hands were behind him, bound at the wrists with duct tape, and the edge of the seat he’d been forced to lean against for the past two hours had restricted circulation. He was losing feeling in his fingers.

The Cajuns had separated them, placing Bollinger in the Coast Guard boat with the two underlings while Kinsey rode in the Cajuns’ boat with the older man who’d done all of the talking. They backtracked up the channel north to Calumet and from there into the Atchafalaya River, only to leave the main channel of the river an hour later to wind their way through a maze of twisting, narrow bayous beneath towering cypress trees. Kinsey was facing backwards, and he watched the Cajun at the outboard deftly maneuver the boat through the narrow channel, the electric trolling motor up and out of use at his side.

“I can’t feel my hands,” Kinsey said. “You think you could adjust these bindings?”

The Cajun glared at him and spat over the side.

Kinsey tried a different approach. “What’s with the trolling motor?”

“You writing a book,
couyon
.”

Kinsey shrugged. “Just curious.”

The Cajun said nothing for a long moment then shrugged himself. “When we leave the bayou, we like to be quiet.”

“How’d you find us?” Kinsey asked. “I know you couldn’t see us.”

The Cajun smiled. “Just lucky,
couyon
. We drain diesel from the barges. All those tank barges have pump engines, and the engines have fuel tanks,
non
? Even if the barge is empty, there’s fifty or sixty gallons of fuel there, and the tanks are nice and high—easy to drain into the cans in our boat.”

Kinsey tried to keep the conversation going. “You know we had nothing to do with what happened to your family. We’re not even here on an official mission. I’m just trying to find my family in Baton Rouge.”

The Cajun’s face hardened. “So when you try to scare me, you’re Coast Guard, but when you’re caught and tied up, you’re just a simple man trying to find his family. Very convenient,
couyon
. But a fancy boat, M4 rifles, and night-vision equipment, they tell a different story, eh? Besides, you ain’t from Baton Rouge or anywhere around here. You’re a Yankee, for sure. There’s no family in Baton Rouge.”

“I’m from Wisconsin originally,” Kinsey said, “but my wife’s maiden name was Melancon, and my daughter goes to LSU. She’s on the soccer team.”

“And your wife, she is in Baton Rouge?”

Kinsey shook his head. “She passed some years back, and I haven’t heard from my daughter since this all started. I hope she’s with my sister-in-law’s family in Baton Rouge.”

The Cajun said nothing, suddenly intent on something ahead. Kinsey twisted at the waist, straining to see. In his peripheral vision, he could just make out the stern of the Coast Guard boat rounding a huge cypress tree, the trailer close behind, into an even narrower channel. The Cajun reduced speed, and seconds later followed the Coast Guard boat into the smaller bayou.

“Where are we going?” Kinsey asked.

The man ignored him, and fifteen minutes later the boat bumped against a low wooden dock where several men waited. There was a hurried exchange in a combination of French and heavily accented English, and Kinsey and Bollinger were dragged from the boats and hustled down a path through the cypress swamp to a clearing with a dozen houses on an island of high ground in the wetland, the term ‘high’ being relative. All the houses were constructed of rough-cut cypress planks, gray with age, but there the similarity ended. Some were small, little more than sheds, but others were large and sprawling and looked as if they’d been added on to willy-nilly. They’d all been there awhile, that was obvious.

Kinsey’s appraisal was cut short as he and Bollinger were marched up the rickety wooden stairs of one of the smaller buildings and forced to the floor. Their captors bound their ankles together with duct tape and left without saying a word, closing the door behind them. A padlock rattled in a hasp and then silence.

“What are we gonna do now, boss?” Bollinger asked.

Kinsey shook his head. “Damned if I know. Looks like the only way in and out of this place is by boat. Do you think you can find your way out if we stole one?”

Bollinger looked skeptical. “Lots of twists and turns, and all this swamp looks alike. We must have passed a couple of dozen little interconnecting channels. Even if we can steal a boat, I doubt anyone could get in and out of here without knowing the landmarks. I’m thinking that’s why they didn’t bother to blindfold us.”

“Either that, or they don’t figure on leaving us alive long enough to try to escape,” Kinsey said.

***

Andrew Cormier peeked into the darkened room. His daughter-in-law sat at the bedside in a straight-backed chair, silently reading a Bible in the light of a kerosene lamp. A floorboard creaked as he shifted his weight, and Lisa looked up and put a finger to her lips. She rose quietly to join him, softly closing the bedroom door behind her.

“How is he?” Cormier asked.

“He’s been in and out of consciousness since we got the bullet out. But he’s in a lot of pain, so I think it’s better when he’s unconscious. He has a fever, so I’m afraid the wound is infected. I only wish we had a real doctor and antibiotics and better pain medication and …” The woman shook her head, unable to continue.

Cormier nodded sadly then shrugged. “We have what we have,
cher
. And my son is a strong man.” He pulled the woman into his embrace and whispered in her ear, “And besides, it takes more than one bullet to kill a Cormier,
eh
.”

She nodded and her body moved in what could have been a laugh or sob or both, and he put his hands on her shoulders and held her at arm’s length. She looked gaunt and hollow eyed, with the pain of a lifetime written prematurely across her young face.

“But,
cher
? Maybe you should be resting—”

The woman shook her head and gave him a wan smile before gently disengaging his hands. “I’m a Cormier now too, Pop.” Her face hardened. “And I won’t shrink into a shell because of … because of what they did to me.”

Cormier could only nod, not trusting himself to speak. After a long moment, he found his voice.

“We caught two of the bastards this afternoon.”

She stared at him, blood in her eye. “FEMA?”

He shrugged. “They dressed like Coast Guard and claim they’re looking for family, but who knows? And even if they are, it doesn’t mean they’re any better than the FEMA bastards. The world has gone crazy,
cher
, and we’re safer here with the old ways. We trust no one who isn’t from the bayou. We’ll survive here like our ancestors did, and any
fils putain
stupid enough to come in after us will be gator food.”

Andrew Cormier had been a gentle man, a good father and husband, quick with a joke and equally quick to laugh at one. All that changed two horrible weeks ago in a once well-kept suburb of Lafayette. He’d been away from the house at the time, out with his neighbors on bicycles, scavenging for food. He’d returned to find his home ransacked, his wife murdered and his son near death, and his daughter-in-law naked and tied spread-eagled to a bed in the back of the house. He’d cared for his son and daughter-in-law as well as he could, buried his wife in the backyard, and then loaded his family in his truck and, bass boat trailing behind, used their small hidden store of gasoline to get to the only refuge he could think of, the bayou. He was tortured daily by thoughts he should have made the move the day the lights went out.