Push Back: A Post Apocalyptic Thriller (The Disruption Series Book 2) (5 page)

“What the hell they doin’ in the hood?” Banks asked. “They been leavin’ us alone long as we leave them alone.”

“This was right off one of the streets they use to go back and forth to the new camp,” Keyshaun said. “I figure they must have heard the ho screamin’ and come to look.”

Banks shook his head. “This ain’t good. We can’t have our brothers bein’ disrespected. Else we gonna start having all sorts of shit.”

“It … it’s only happened once,” Mosley ventured, “so I don’t think—”

“You ain’t supposed to think. I be doin’ the thinkin’ around here,” Banks said. “But if you wanna think, think about this. First we had this nigga holdin’ out food, and this ain’t the first time. Ever since those soldier boys come out of their little box fort on the river and set up that feedin’ station, we been seein’ more disrespect. This the way it starts. We on top now and control most of the city and we spreadin’ into the farms. I figured long as the soldier boys stayed near the river, that’s cool. But they spreadin’ out too, and that means trouble. First, we lost the crew we sent out with that fool Singletary and the soldiers set up that machine-gun base on the river. Didn’t matter much ’cause we got the rest of the countryside, so we can let ’em have the river for now. But now they got this feedin’ station with a little fort in it. It won’t be long before the little fort is a bigger fort. Then they likely gonna set up ANOTHER feedin’ station that turns into ANOTHER fort that pushes us out of more territory.” Banks shook his head. “This can’t stand. We gotta do something.”

“But, Kwintell,” Keyshaun protested, “they got—”

“SHUT UP, FOOL! I’m tired of all this ‘they got this’ and ‘they got that’ bullshit, you hear! They got OUR TERRITORY is what they got. Now be quiet, all of you. I gotta think about this a minute—”

He was interrupted by a knock on the door, followed by the squeak of neglected hinges as the door opened and one of his soldiers stuck his head in.

“Sorry, Kwintell, but there’s some creepy-ass cracker in the parking lot with a white flag sayin’ he want to talk to you.”

“Tell him to make an appointment,” Banks snarled.

“Ah, Desmond tol’ me to tell you he think you wanna see this guy. He a general or somethin’ like dat.”

***

Banks stood in the doorway of his building and squinted out across the sunbaked parking lot at a sight he could scarcely credit. In the middle of the lot stood an armored Humvee with a white flag flying from a whip radio antenna. A machine gun graced a turret manned by a large man in a black uniform with full body armor. There were five other similarly clad and armored men, one visible through the windshield in the driver’s seat and one standing at each corner of the vehicle, holding M4 assault rifles pointed down but obviously ready to use at a moment’s notice. All six of the armored soldiers were African-American, but despite that, they eyed the mob of armed gangbangers surrounding them warily, obviously ready to engage at a moment’s notice.

But Banks focused on the last man clad in the same black uniform but without a weapon, armor or helmet, leaning back nonchalantly against the front of the vehicle with his arms crossed over his chest and his legs crossed at the ankles. He had thick sandy hair and a matching goatee, the stub of a cigar clamped in his teeth, and an air of unconcern completely at odds with the tense posture of his escort. When he saw Banks, he flicked the cigar stub away and smiled, then uncrossed his ankles and stood, obviously intent on stepping away from the vehicle. Beside him, one of his men voiced a protest, but the leader motioned his underling to silence and strode purposefully toward Banks. He halved the distance between them, then stood still and erect, looking at Banks with an expectant smile.

Despite being on home ground, a chill ran down Bank’s spine.
That cracker look like a pirate
, he thought,
and a mean one at that
. He really, really didn’t want to walk across the parking lot, but knew failing to do so would lead to an irreparable loss of face. If you want to lead the badasses, you gotta be a badass, and a badass don’t back down from no creepy-ass cracker, pirate or not. Banks assumed his most menacing look and swaggered across to meet the pirate, feigning a confidence he in no way felt.

The pirate’s smile widened as Banks approached and stopped three feet away. “Mr. Banks, I presume?” the man asked, in a voice loud enough to be heard by the mob of gangbangers, who were keeping their distance.

“Who wanna know, fool?”

“General Quentin Rorke, FEMA Special Reaction Force, at your service.”

“You one of them fools from the box fort?” Banks demanded loudly, determined not to be cowed before his followers.

The pirate’s smile never wavered, but the look in his eyes made Banks’ blood run cold.

“No, Mr. Banks,” he said, his voice still carrying, “I’m not from Wilmington. However, I did come to discuss the operation there, and I believe we may have a common interest.” He lost his smile and lowered his voice so only Banks could hear. “And now you’ve established your courage for the benefit of your troops, but before you go further than I’m prepared to tolerate, you should understand that there are three snipers with fifty-caliber Barrett sniper rifles aimed at your chest as we speak.”

Banks glanced up at the surrounding buildings, but hid his terror. He lowered his voice to match Rorke’s. “Anybody can say that, fool. You bluffin’.”

“Be so kind as to glance down at your chest, Mr. Banks,” Rorke said before touching his throat to activate a microphone. “Light him up. One second.”

Banks struggled to keep his composure as three red dots flashed briefly on his chest.

“Now, Mr. Banks, we have business to discuss. I came to you in this manner as a show of respect so you didn’t lose the respect of your men. However, I advise you once again not to try my patience. I’m going to summon a chopper and you and I are going for a little ride. You will come voluntarily and tell your followers you’ll return shortly. You will also inform them to take no action against my men in the Humvee as they withdraw. Is that clear?”

“I ain’t comin’ with you, foo … Rorke. What if you just cap my ass?”

“If I wanted to ‘cap your ass,’ as you put it, I could have done so at any time in the past.” Rorke paused for emphasis. “OR the future. As proof, I ask you to consider just how easily I got three trained snipers focused on your chest. I can take you out any time I please, Banks, but I don’t really want to. You see, we can help each other. Now, tell your subordinates a chopper is inbound and you’re coming with me.”

“And if I don’t?”

Rorke shrugged. “Then fifty-caliber rounds will shred you into hamburger, my man on the machine gun will open up on your surprised and disoriented followers while the rest of us get back to the safety of the Humvee, and chopper gunships will be over us in a heartbeat to shred anyone else who even remotely looks like one of your people. You die; we leave. Any more questions?”

Bank’s mouth went dry. He said nothing for a long moment, then nodded, and Rorke touched his throat again to order in the chopper.

“Keyshaun,” Banks yelled over his shoulder, “a chopper comin’ in, and me and the general here gonna take a little ride. You let the rest of these soldier boys here leave when they want. You got dat?”

“But, Kwintell, you need security—”

“DO IT!” Banks yelled, the thump of chopper blades already growing in the distance.

***

Ten minutes later, Banks was aloft, apprehension over his abduction completely overcome by the novelty of his first ever ride in a helicopter. They circled above the Wilmington Container Terminal at a respectful distance, and Banks stared down at a beehive of activity, movement on the ground broken here and there as the tiny ant-like figures stopped to stare and point upward.

“There’s a lot more of them than I thought,” Banks said into his helmet microphone.

“More every day,” came Rorke’s reply in his ear. “Our intel is they’re recruiting people with needed skills out of the refugee population.”

“So why you wanna be helpin’ us?” Banks asked as he looked over at Rorke. “Look like they doin’ the same thing FEMA supposed to be doing, right?”

Rorke smiled. “There’s an old saying, Mr. Banks. The enemy of my enemy is my friend. Or to speak in the vernacular, let’s just say the folks in ‘Fort Box,’ as they call it, are getting a bit too ‘uppity.’”

Banks had no idea what the hell ‘vernacular’ was, but he recognized a gang war when he saw one. “So why you need us?” he asked. “You got machine guns and Humvees. You even got choppers. Why not just cap the mofos yourself?”

“Because I’d prefer not to be seen as the force that wipes them out. They’re in contact with other groups, and if it becomes known FEMA took action against them, it will be more difficult to deal with the others later.”

“So lemme get this straight. You gonna give us Humvees and machine guns and stuff, so long as we finish these soldier boys off?”

Rorke laughed. “Not quite. I’m not fool enough to release control of weapons you might later decide to use against me, nor do I intend to provide vehicles which can be traced back to FEMA. I’m going to LOAN you certain weapons along with advisers to help you plan and execute an attack on Fort Box. We’ll put together ‘technicals,’ mounting the automatic weapons on pickups and other regular vehicles, and my advisers will operate them. No one will know of our involvement.”

“Better just let us have the stuff. These ‘advisers’ ain’t gonna fool nobody. They gonna stick out.”

“My men come in all colors, Mr. Banks. I’m confident we can assemble an adviser corps who will fit in well with your organization. Let’s let me worry about that, shall we?”

Banks reflected a moment. “What about after?”

“After, Mr. Banks?”

“After we cap these mofos for you, what then? I ain’t stupid. We get our asses shot up cappin’ this bunch of soldier boys, then we be weak and you take us out, easy like. That why you want to use us, ’ight?”

Rorke shrugged. “The group in Fort Box has training, crew-served weapons, and undoubtedly, some sort of air defense strategy in place, perhaps with RPGs. They may expect an attack from us, but a sudden and massive assault from your group will be a complete surprise. It’s simple logic. And as far as taking you out, don’t flatter yourself. You’re already weak, and we could take you out in an afternoon with chopper gunships and little risk; unlike Fort Box, you have no defense against an aerial assault.

“So you see, Mr. Banks,” Rorke continued, “in this new world, no one can be neutral. There are only enemies and allies, and as long as you’re a good and helpful ally, I have no reason to take you out. But if you’re not, well, in that case, we’ll crush you like bugs when it suits our purposes. Unlike our friends in Fort Box, you’re not in radio contact with distant allies who might get upset when we take you out, nor are you sitting on nearly as large a stockpile of looted stores I don’t want to see damaged.” Rorke smiled. “So in your case, I have absolutely no problem burning down the house to kill all the rats, and I’m not the least concerned about collateral damage. Your very best option is to join my command as unacknowledged irregular forces, but of course, the choice is yours. However, you must decide now. If you accept, we’ll return to my base and begin planning the op. If you refuse, I’ll just take you back to your headquarters and drop you off.”

Banks glanced around the chopper as his mind raced, parsing the options. No way he was gonna be this cracker’s bitch. There was a pilot and copilot in the front of the chopper, and two more soldiers in the back with him and Rorke. Maybe when they landed, he could order his men to open up on the chopper as soon as he got clear. If they massed firepower, they could bring it down and he could cap this creepy cracker. With the head cut off, the snake would just flop around a while and let him come up with a plan to deal with this unexpected development. He looked at Rorke and nodded.

“Okay, that sound all right. I call the shots, but I gotta go back and consult my council, you know, just to be cool with the brothers. I have you an answer in maybe fifteen minutes after we land.”

Rorke gave him a look of obviously feigned surprise. “Land, Mr. Banks? I just said we’d drop you off, I never said anything about landing.”

Banks said nothing for almost a minute. “So when your people comin’ with the machine guns?” he asked at last.

Chapter Three

Fort Box

Wilmington Container Terminal

Wilmington, North Carolina

Day 26, 3:15 p.m.

Luke Kinsey, formerly first lieutenant, US Army; formerly captain (and currently deserter from), FEMA Special Reaction Force; and most recently major, Wilmington Defense Force, squinted into the bright afternoon sun and shaded his eyes with his hand as he stared up at the chopper circling Fort Box.

“Looks like they takin’ a good long look, LT—I mean Major,” said Joel Washington.

Luke looked at his former sergeant and nodded. “That they are, Lieutenant Washington. Let’s just hope they see enough of our teeth to decide to leave us alone.” He couldn’t suppress a grin at the big man’s obvious discomfort at being addressed by his new title.

“What’s the problem, Washington? Overwhelmed by the awesome responsibilities of your new rank?”

Washington shook his head. “It’s okay for you, L—Major, but I never wanted to be no officer. I’ll do any job needin’ doing, you know that, but sergeant suited me just fine, and I see no reason I had to change.”

“Hunnicutt is right about that. We’re growing fast, and folks with leadership experience are in short supply. We have to have some sort of defined structure and hierarchy, both military and civilian, but we can’t necessarily be guided by the old rules. People get the tasks and responsibilities, and the rank to go with them, they can handle. New folks coming in are going to have a tough enough time adjusting without trying to figure out why a sergeant seems to have more authority than say a junior officer …” Luke trailed off as the look of skepticism on Washington’s face morphed into a poorly concealed smirk.