Storm Tide Rising: Blackout Volume 2 Read online

  "I'm not crying over you, you jerk!" Alyssa growled, jumping to her feet. "My husband was having an affair, okay? Are you happy now? He was sleeping with some woman from his office, and I found out about it three weeks ago. I didn't know how to tell him I knew, so I didn't. And then this happened, and he left. He left me, do you understand? He said he was going for water, but what if he was going to her?"

  Alyssa trailed off in sobs again. Mike wasn't sure if he should go to her or walk away and give her some privacy. He ran a hand through his hair again and kicked at the concrete foundation of the line tower. Finally, Alyssa seemed to regain control of herself as she dried her eyes with the backs of her hands.

  "Do you know what the worst part of it is?" she asked with a wry chuckle. "I actually miss the bastard, and I really wish he was here. How dumb does that make me?"

  "Not dumb," Mike said with a sigh, "just human. Look, screw your dirt-bag husband. If he was sleeping around, he deserves whatever he gets."

  Alyssa smiled wanly and wiped the last of her stray tears. "That's easy for you to say," she replied. "It didn't happen to you."

  Mike coughed and hitched his shoulders uncomfortably, "Right," he growled, "it didn't happen to me, and it didn’t happen to your sister. It happened to you and I’m sorry for that, but we need to get moving. We've got a long way to go, and we're losing daylight."

  Alyssa started to say something, but Mike turned away and started walking again. When Alyssa finally caught up with him, she was quiet for a change. Mike was just as glad for the break and decided to walk ahead. This woman was nothing like her younger sister. Maria had been sweet and kind to him even before Mike told her about his connection to her mother. Alyssa was obstinate and hostile and seemed like she could argue with the wind. And where Alyssa, nearly as tall as Mike, had strong shoulders, an athletic frame, and auburn hair, her sister was short, slight of frame, and had golden blonde hair. It was odd that Alyssa would look so much like a younger version of her mother, but have none of her spirit; whereas, Maria looked nothing like Claire, but was like her in every other way.

  Mike mumbled under his breath, and Alyssa stopped dead in her tracks, fixing him with a rock hard stare. “What did you say?” she asked, her voice a sharp, thin whisper.

  Mike felt queasy in the pit of his stomach and bit back a curse for letting his mind wander. “I just said that for sisters, you two are about as different as people can be.”

  Alyssa snorted hard and rolled her eyes. “You must be an only child,” she said and walked away down the power line path, leaving Mike to catch up to her.

  “Just because we don’t talk the same,” Alyssa said after a moment, “or look the same, or have the same personality, that doesn’t mean we aren’t sisters. We are sisters, got it?”

  Mike spread his hands defensively. “I was just making a statement,” he replied. “I didn’t mean anything by it.”

  Alyssa opened her mouth to reply, but Mike grabbed her arm with a firm grip and shook his head, pointing to the verge of thick underbrush that hugged the thin woods the power line cut through. As they dove under the honeysuckles and briars Mike pointed to his ears and then pointed down the broad path they’d been following. He wasn’t sure, but he thought he’d caught a hint of voices and laughter on the breeze so he held a single finger up to his lips, and they waited.

  After a few seconds, he heard the sound again and was sure this time that it was loud, raucous laughter. Alyssa's eyes went wide as she heard it too, and she crouched lower to the ground next to Mike. Mike eased the safety on his M-4 to the fire position and tried to control his breathing. He could barely hear past the pounding pulse in his ears, and his mouth was so dry that his tongue felt like sandpaper. About fifty yards in front of them a group of seven young men in their late teens and early twenties broke through the underbrush bordering the left side of the cut through. They laughed and shoved each other playfully, though one carried a wooden bat that had red spattered across his white tank top.

  One of the young men tried to pass the bottle to another who refused to take it. Suddenly, the leader with the baseball bat stopped and turned toward him. "Something you got to say, punk?"

  The one who didn't take the drink dropped his eyes but didn't respond. The leader stepped forward and poked him in the bare shoulder with the end of the bat. "Hey, punk," the bat-wielder yelled, "I'm talkin' to you. There somethin' you got to say?"

  The young man still didn't say anything, and after a brief moment, the leader gave a shove with the bat and nearly knocked him over. He snatched the bottle, turned it up for three long gulps, then handed it back to the group. He turned and walked away without looking back, knowing the others would have no choice but to follow. One by one, they fell in line and walked across the cut through and into the woods on the other side. Mike caught Alyssa's eyes and held his finger over his closed mouth again.

  Mike waited long after he heard the last hint of laughter and yelling before he ventured a glance from beneath their cover of brambles. The power line cut through was clear ahead and behind them. Mike nodded to Alyssa and helped her to her feet. She started to speak, but he shook his head slowly and leaned close to whisper in her ear, "They could still hear us. We've got to stay quiet and move fast for a little bit. Stay close behind me, and if I say down, you get down."

  Alyssa nodded and Mike moved away from the brush and across to the left side of the cut through. He wanted to put as much distance as he could between them and the pack of young men. The shadows growing longer meant it would be dark soon, so Mike set a hard pace. After twenty minutes he paused to catch his breath, and Alyssa fell to one knee beside him.

  "Who were those...men?" Alyssa asked between gulps of air.

  "No idea," Mike answered, "But they're not the ones we need to worry about."

  "What do you mean?" Alyssa asked, frightened and a little confused.

  "I came across three bodies last night," Mike answered in a hoarse whisper. "They had zip-ties on their wrists and ankles and each one was shot twice behind the left ear. It was a cold, calculated execution. Do you really think those jackals could pull off something like that? I've seen thugs like that before. Hell, I grew up with the same type of guys. They're opportunistic and brutal, and when you get down to the meat of them, they're cowards to the bone. They wouldn't have the stomach to do what I saw."

  "Great," Alyssa spat sarcastically, "so there's someone bigger and tougher than those monsters out here?"

  Mike grunted and pulled Alyssa to her feet. "Yeah, and whoever it is, they used zip-ties just like the ones that Agent Parker had tied in a neat little bundle to his belt loop back in your neighborhood."

  Ch. 7

  Rear Guard

  Eric was watching the path back to the creek when he saw his father stand and wave twice. He reached down, tapped Chris' left boot, and reported, "Dad's back at the creek."

  Chris nodded. "You go back," he whispered. "Tell your dad I'm going to keep an eye on this crowd and make sure our back trail is clear. I'll catch up to you guys down the road."

  Eric hesitated a moment, but Chris had already bent back to the scope on his M4. Eric ran in a low hunch back to the bank of the creek and dropped down into the gulley. "Chris is staying to watch our back trail," he answered to his father's questioning frown. "He said he wants to keep an eye on the crowd for a little bit too, and he'll catch up in a little bit."

  Joe's frown didn't lessen, but he gave a small shrug. "I guess having a pair of eyes behind us ain't a bad idea. Eric, you take the point since you know the creeks around this part of the county better than anyone but the fish. Henderson, you follow close on his heels in case you hit trouble. I'll be in the back, but in ear shot. Keep it quiet, and keep moving." Joe looked up and saw that the sun was just starting to touch the horizon low in the west. "I'd like to make it back home before midnight, if possible."

  Eric took his rifle and crossed the creek. He followed the waterway to the northeast, away from town. To beg
in with, he hugged the edge of the water and used the natural rise of the banks to shield him from any eyes looking back toward the creek. After a few hundred yards, the banks became steeper, so there was less room at the water's edge to move. Eric climbed back out of the gulley and pushed his way through the thick underbrush along the edge of the small river.

  A quarter of a mile from town, Eric finally found a broad game path worn down by deer and whatever else walked by the river for a while. The thorny briars and dense river cane were cut through like a tunnel, and it made moving quieter and faster than trying to break a new trail. The sun was almost gone now, but the air was still thick with stifling heat and humidity, and the constant cloud of insects buzzing around his head and whining in his ears made it difficult to breathe without swallowing a gnat or something worse.

  Eventually, the deer path turned off to the right and up a hill, leaving Eric to once again push his way through the dense undergrowth as best he could. Not for the first time, he wished he'd brought a machete or a brush hook to help clear the path. A little more than two miles from town, he came to the barbed wire fence that marked the edge of the Thompson's pastures. The broad expanse of grassy meadow beyond stretched down to the banks of the river on the left, and up the long slow hill to a distant line of trees to the right. There was another pasture twice as big on the opposite side of the line of hardwoods and pines in the distance, and then, finally, one of the few paved roads in the area.

  Eric started to climb over the barbed wire fence but froze as he stared up the hill to the far right corner of the huge pasture. Beyond the trees, a thick column of dark smoke climbed high into the air. Given where the smoke was rising, there was only one possible source, and it sent chills through Eric to even think about it. Henderson quickly caught up to Eric and almost ran into his back. Eric stood as still as a statue in front of the barbed wire fence, one foot on the lower stretch of wire and a hand on the faded wooden fence post to his right.

  "Eric?" Henderson asked, and Eric jumped. "Are you okay?"

  Eric turned to him, his eyes wide. "I think that's my friend's house burning," he said pointing to the rising cloud of smoke. "It's the only thing around here that could cause that much smoke."

  As Joe caught up to the two, he said, "I told you to keep moving, Eric. What's the hold up?"

  Eric pointed to the far corner of the pasture. "Dad, I think that's Brant Thompson's house that's burning. We've got to go see if we can help."

  Joe was already shaking his head before Eric finished speaking. "We can't, son," he said softly. "Look, whatever's going on there is already done, and there's not going to be anything we can do to stop it. We're carrying medicine right now that could save peoples' lives. It's why we went into town, and we've got to get it back to the farm."

  "But Dad, it's Brant," Eric said, looking back toward the cloud of smoke. "I grew up with him. What if they need help?"

  Joe shook his head again and opened his mouth to say something, but Henderson beat him to it. "Excuse me, Captain," the young Marine said, "I could take Eric up to the tree line and we could at least check and see what the situation is. Whatever happened to start the fire, it might be better to know than not to."

  Joe took a deep, slow breath and frowned. After a momentary hesitation, he nodded and fixed the two of them with a hard glare. "Okay fine, but you're only going to look. And Eric, you stay right on Henderson's tail. He knows what he's doing, so follow his lead. I'll cross the pasture and meet you on the far side. Am I clear, you two?" Both young men quickly nodded, but Joe grabbed Eric's shoulder as he turned to climb over the fence. "I mean it, son," Joe said seriously. "Look only. And Henderson, if you get my boy hurt, I'll skin you from the inside out."

  "Yes sir, Captain Tillman," Henderson said with a nod, and his right hand twitched as if to salute. "I'll keep an eye on him."

  Joe snorted heavily through his nose. "I told you already, Henderson, I'm not a Captain...not anymore."

  Henderson just smiled. He followed Eric over the fence, and the two of them started for the upper corner of the pasture. A few of the cows paused their grazing long enough to watch the men pass, but none made any move toward them. All of the ones that had been alive when Eric was younger and used to terrorize the herd on Brant's ATV were gone, and, at the moment, Eric was thankful for that. The current herd seemed to have no grudges to pick with him, so they let the two pass through the pasture unmolested.

  As they got closer to the tree line Eric began to smell the strong, acrid stench of burning plastic mingled with the thick, sweet smell of wood smoke. A road was cut through the twenty yards of trees that separated the Thompson's upper and lower pastures, but Henderson didn't go to the gate. Instead, he and Eric crossed the fence a good thirty yards down from it and made their way through the woods and the underbrush. Near the border of the upper pasture, Eric caught his first sight of towering flames and the dense smoke rising from them, and he had the urge to run ahead. Henderson reached out and grabbed his arm before he could take the first step, though, and when Eric looked back, the Marine shook his head and held one finger to his lips. He slipped in front of Eric and moved slowly forward in a crouched position.

  Henderson stopped just short of the edge of the woods and took a position next to the root ball of an old oak tree that had toppled in a storm years before. He pulled a small pair of binoculars from one of his vest pockets and began scanning the area. A hundred and fifty yards from the tree line stood the Thompson’s tall, white farmhouse with three tool sheds around it. Flames were eating through the back half of the roof and spilling out of the windows on the second floor. The heat was so intense that the vinyl siding on the nearest shed had melted into a bubbling puddle, and the wood framing had begun to smoke. A tall pine tree on the other side of the house was barely visible through the flames and smoke rising from a gaping hole in the roof. As Eric and Henderson watched, another section of shingled roof fell in and launched a fresh burst of flames and sparks high into the air.

  Henderson handed Eric the field glasses and pointed to the flat expanse of yard to the right of the blazing farmhouse. He held up four fingers and motioned for Eric to take a look. When Eric put the binoculars to his eyes, the scene leapt to him with surprising detail and clarity. Four shirtless figures sat on the lawn and watched the flames as they slowly consumed the house. Eric's pulse suddenly pounded in his ears, and for a brief moment he tasted bile in the back of his throat. He handed the binoculars back to Henderson and started to rise, but Henderson shook his head. He pointed again, and Eric saw two tents set up in the edge of the pasture. For a moment he was confused and didn't get what Henderson was trying to tell him. After a moment's thought, though, he understood that if they had taken the trouble of setting up tents, then whoever the spectators were, they weren't planning on going anywhere any time soon.

  Eric nodded when Henderson motioned back the way they'd come, and the two headed back through the trees in silence. Eric clenched his jaw and ground his teeth so hard that the noise was all he could hear as he stalked back through the trees and over the fence into the lower pasture. He led Henderson along the inner edge of the pasture and then down the fence line to the river where his father was waiting. Eric gave a quick, terse report of what they'd seen and by the end, his breath was coming in ragged, angry gasps.

  "Dad, we've got to do something," Eric grated. "They burned the Thompson's house down and they're camping in the yard. These people have got to be dangerous."

  Joe took a deep breath, his forehead creased at what he'd heard. He gazed above the tree tops at the rising smoke and, finally, after a long silence, shook his head slightly. "I'm sorry, son, but we can't do anything about it right now. I give you my word that I'll take care of it, but our first priority has to be getting these supplies back to the farm. Chris still has to meet up with us on the trail back and we don't know if he's going to have people on his tail or not. We'll look into it, and we'll take care of it....just not right now."
r />   Eric opened his mouth again, but Joe held up his hand, and his voice was stern when he spoke. "Listen, son, we ain't got the time to sit here and argue about it. I told you it'll get taken care of. Do you really want to push it?"

  Eric clenched his jaw again, but shook his head and answered, "No, sir."

  "Good." Joe said, "Now, let's get moving. We're about to lose the daylight, and we've got a good mile and a half or more before we get to the house."

  Eric turned and crossed over the fence without another word and headed into the dense underbrush along the river bank. "Look out for snakes," he called over his shoulder to Joe and Henderson. "The rattlers will usually let you know they're there, but the cottonmouths are real quiet."

  Henderson froze halfway over the barbed wire fence, his eyes as wide as saucers as he turned a pale face toward Joe and asked, "Rattlers? What's he mean rattlers?"

  Ch.8

  Unasked For Answers

  Terry sat at his desk staring at the blank paper in front of him for a long time, pen in hand, but with no words to write. For decades he had known this moment was somewhere in his future, and now that it was here, he didn't know what to say. Part of the problem was he'd always expected to be there, to speak the words in the moment. Now that he tried to think about how to say what he was feeling, what he'd been feeling for so long it had become a part of who he was, he found that nothing sounded proper or sufficient.

  Finally, he picked up his pen and began to write:

  I wish things had been different. Understand, I don't mean to say I regret how I handled the situation I was presented with. I did the best that I could, and I would do so again. I do, however, wish with everything in me that things had been different. I have missed you.

  Suddenly, Terry's monitor switched on and displayed a live feed message that the search and allocation program he'd set eighteen hours earlier had finally completed. The results were being compiled. He gratefully set his pen aside and turned his full attention to the screen. The status bar showing the compilation filled out with blinding speed. Now that the enormous signal processors the super computer had been designed around were sitting idle, their incredible weight could be put behind any task that an administrator with proper access wished.