TRIAL: A Post Apocalyptic/Dystopian Thriller Page 6

  “Well, Harry, it looks like you’ll be eating with us for the next few days,” she said, piling another mound of chops onto the growing pile.

  “You know, we should get the food into the basement. Keep it as cool as we can, and keep it good as long as we can,” said Harry quietly. He knew it was a touchy subject.

  The basement had been Tim’s area, his man zone and somewhere, Kate had been unable to visit since receiving the notification of his death. His call-up had been so unexpected that he’d had no time to prepare. ‘His man cave,’ he’d said ‘was a pit. Sorry, babe, I’ll tidy it when I get back’. She couldn’t bring herself to go down there. Tidying just felt so final, an admission to herself that her Tim was not coming back. He’d said he’d tidy it.

  “I’ll take it down,” offered Harry.

  “Don’t be ridiculous, Harry. You’re not fit to be carrying all this up and down stairs. I’ll just have to man up and go down there. Tim’s gone, I just have to accept that,” she said with a finality that she had struggled to accept before. The sight of a lifeless Boise below and the situation that faced them was such that she had to let go. For the good of her kids and herself, she had to move on.

  “But first, we eat!” she announced as another crack of gunfire filled the air.

  “Perhaps indoors?” she suggested as another two cracks were issued in response. Nobody argued. Apart from the cool breeze eliminating the heat of the sun’s rays, the sound of gunfire, a sound not normally so common, was unsettling.

  To describe the feast as substantial would have been unjust. The Romans would have had a hard time beating the amount of food they consumed.

  “We need a vomitorium!” said Ava, holding her stomach as she stuffed down another mouthful of ice cream. Kate had foolishly mentioned that it may be some time before they had the chance to have ice cream again. With that sort of threat, not one drop of three tubs from the freezer was going to be wasted.

  “What’s that?” asked Danny.

  “It’s nothing, honey, just a word your sister made up because she feels sick,” said Kate, making it clear that no one was to tell Danny what it really meant.

  “Do you think school will be back tomorrow?” asked Danny, thankfully moving on.

  “I was going to go down after lunch,” said Zach. “We’ve got a big game next week and I wanted to check what the plans were if the power’s not on.”

  “I’ll go with you. We can ride down together,” said Sophie.

  As the sound of gunfire once again echoed across the city below, Kate intervened. “Let’s check tomorrow morning. Things are getting a bit crazy out there today.”

  “We’ll be fine,” argued Sophie, glaring at her mother. The idea of riding down and being seen with Zach at school was not something to be missed.

  “I think your mom’s right. Best to stay home today. With no power or water, there’s no way school will be open,” said Harry. His words held more sway than Kate’s, if only for his advanced years, and Kate and Tim’s instilling in their children a respect for their elders.

  “Best we stay here,” said Zach, winning a smile from Kate, although that dropped quickly as another burst of gunfire cut through their conversation.

  “That sounded very close,” panicked Sophie.

  Chapter 13

  “We need to pack what we can carry, and leave!” pleaded Roger.

  Barbara had jumped to the wrong conclusion on seeing him at Kate’s door. After an hour of shouting and arguing, she had finally let him into the house. Explaining that they had to leave their home as a matter of urgency hadn’t made his welcome any warmer. Barbara loved her house more than life itself. She’d put up with Roger’s flirting and philandering knowing that apart, they couldn’t hope to keep it. She had put her life and soul into making it the home she had always wanted, a perfect example of the American home. Even Martha Stewart would have struggled to do better.

  “I don’t believe you. This is all rubbish.”

  “These men are killers!”

  “And they’re going to kill you, why?”

  “They’ll kill us both!”

  “Don’t be ridiculous, Roger. If you need to leave, go. To be honest, I’m not sure I can take the humiliation anymore anyway.”

  “I can’t leave you here alone. When they come for me, they’ll kill you.”

  Barbara stormed out of the room. She was convinced that Roger had just screwed the wrong wife and an irate husband was on the warpath. She wouldn’t listen to his warnings about Bob and his militia. Roger checked his watch. It had been three hours since he had snuck away from the militia, and ninety minutes since the gunfire he was sure came from Bob’s new estate. He couldn’t bear to think of what had been done to the homeowners. Their only crime was owning the homes that Bob had targeted.

  Leaving the militia was not an option. That had always been made clear. Very clear. Roger was party to information that Bob would not want anyone else to know, making it even more important that Roger shouldn’t leave. As soon as Bob noticed he was missing, he’d be hunted down.

  “Barbara, please, we need to leave!” he knocked gently on the bedroom door that she had locked.

  “Piss off, Roger!” she screamed.

  He recoiled. In all their years together, she had never once sworn at him. There had been many heated arguments, but Barbara had never sworn.

  “I can’t leave you here alone,” he pleaded.

  “That’s your decision, but I’m not leaving my house.”

  “I won’t leave you alone. They’ll think you know where I am.”

  Despite the affairs and the wandering eye, she was his soul-mate, the only woman he ever wanted to spend time with outside of the bedroom. As much as he hated what the militia had done that morning, a life with the militia meant life without Barbara, something he just wasn’t willing to do.

  He collected his hunting rifle and made his way outside. He wasn’t going to go down without a fight.

  ***

  “Where’s Roger?” asked Bob.

  With the bodies of the homeowners dumped and the estate secured, he had called his militia to order. In all, fifty-seven of his sixty-two men had reported for duty that day. Two had been lost during the battle with police and another three slightly wounded. A cost he was happy to bear. Losing only two men, in exchange for control over South Boise was far better than he could have ever hoped. He had no fear the police would be back. Without vehicles or communications, they were lost, a spent force. Within a few days, they’d realize things weren’t getting fixed and their focus would swing towards their own families and their own survival. Of the missing five, he didn’t worry that they had deserted him and the militia. He imagined they were either caught out of state or still making their way to him, or even more likely, sitting in jail. What he did worry about was some losing their stomachs for what was needed when they realized Bob was for real. He practiced what he preached.

  Only thirty of his men stood in front of him. The loss of all vehicles was not something they had anticipated. Bob had illegally sourced a few old diesel trucks, storing them for just such an event. Spending hours each week, sourcing the constituents and preparing biodiesel fuel in small batches, he’d created a stockpile of the fuel, as diesel was no longer commercially available. However, despite their best efforts somehow, what had happened had managed to disable their supposedly indestructible diesel engines. An alternative was needed and Bob wanted to be ahead of the game. After securing their food source, housing and transport were his next highest priorities. Whilst he secured the food, he had sent another twelve men to secure transport. Bob had specifically chosen the men for each detail and Roger was supposed to stay with him at all times. Roger wasn’t supposed to be out of Bob’s control at any time. He was the quartermaster. He knew where every item they had stockpiled over the last few years was stored. Whether it be medical supplies, ammunition or gold, he knew where some of their most treasured resources were hidden.

 
Shrugs from the group were not an acceptable answer. “I said, where’s Roger?!” he shouted angrily.

  “Not seen him since Albertson’s,” said a number of the members.

  Bob turned to Trey. “You saw him?”

  “Yes, but not since he was helping that woman at the store,” he said, smiling at the thought of Kate.

  “Do I need to remind you how important he is?” whispered Bob angrily to his cousin.

  After a few more mumbling answers, it was clear that Roger had not been seen for some time.

  “He didn’t look comfortable after we shot the police sergeant,” offered Trey quietly.

  “Nor with you ogling his neighbor!” spat Bob angrily, needing someone to blame for his lack of focus. He should have spotted Roger’s disappearance much sooner. He had gotten caught up with himself. Roger was one of the softer members of the militia, a CPA with no convictions. Bob doubted the man had been in a fight in his whole life. The militia for him was a fantasy, a place where he could pretend to be something he wasn’t. He hadn’t met the criteria that Bob had insisted upon, but his skills were needed by the group. He was their token suit man and he had done exactly what Bob had feared he would do, run at the first sight of violence. He could kick himself. Another mistake.

  The sound of his transport arriving improved his downwardly spiraling mood slightly. At least now they could start transporting proper quantities of supplies across from the supermarket, a short distance away. Ideally, they’d have located nearer the supermarket, but as their very existence dictated they were all located amongst large urban conurbations, that would have lacked the security their more secluded spot ensured.

  The clip of the horses’ hooves on the tarmac grew as the first group of men arrived back with ten horses and a horse-drawn carriage, an excellent replacement for their truck. The carriage was more than capable of holding a significant haul of supplies.

  “There are another fifteen behind us and two carts,” called Neil, with a smile. “I’ve no idea what the third group have.” This meant the militia had at least twenty five horses and the only transport anyone would have for the foreseeable future beyond pedal power.

  “Much trouble?” shouted Bob over the sound of the hooves.

  “Nothing we couldn’t handle with these babies!” Neil held aloft his AR-15 proudly.

  “Any comeback?”

  “Nobody left to comeback,” said Neil, jumping down next to Bob and receiving a pat on the back.

  Neil had been a stable hand at a ranch for most of his life. Trailer trash to most, he had led a Jerry-Springer-guest’s life. He’d been raised by a single mother who’d had more boyfriends than he could remember, a number of whom had used both of them as punch bags or worse. A disastrous education resulted in him dropping out before graduating, ensuring his life was destined to remain tough, finding whatever job he could without a formal education. Booze, drugs, and the occasional woman were his only escapes until, after a weekend in the cells, he had found his calling. He had joined the militia after a chance meeting with two other members who had been arrested in a drunken brawl.

  Neil had quickly proven himself and had not only helped add numbers to the group, but had become one of Bob’s right-hand men. Neil had found the home and family that his life had lacked. His story was not dissimilar from the vast majority of the militia who treated Bob as a father figure and a leader they could believe in and respect.

  Bob Jackson, Assistant Principal and Little League coach, should have had little or nothing in common with the group of men facing him - manual laborers or tradesmen with countless convictions for everything from DUIs to attempted murder and rape. Few had not had at least one violent conviction or charge to their name. The Bobs of the world didn’t mix with these guys, they mixed with the Rogers of the world, with their perfectly manicured wives and homes. But then Bob Jackson was a fraud. Bob Johnson was his real name, a convicted felon who had spent twenty-five years of his life behind bars in neighboring Nevada for attempted murder, amongst other convictions. During this time, he had been introduced to the survivalist beliefs of an end-of-the-world scenario. Where others viewed it as preparing for the worst, Bob, in his twisted mind, saw it as a once in a lifetime opportunity not to be missed. For men of his resolve, it would be a time to grab power and control that would otherwise never be theirs.

  Neil had three horses strung out behind him, all saddled and ready for action. Bob pointed to two men he knew could ride. “You two, with me and Neil.”

  “Trey, you’re in charge,” he said loudly, jumping on a horse and heading out of the estate with his rifle over his shoulder and pistol in its holster. As they moved onto the open road, he picked up the pace with the other riders keeping up behind. He needed to get to Roger before he did anything stupid. He knew exactly where he lived, having been invited over for dinner a few times. Roger’s wife, Barbara, had even tried to set him up with her sister. As much as he had wanted to seduce the uptight bitch, his body was covered in prison tattoos, not the ornate and delicate ones that had become all the rage. His were harsh, rough, and bold statements that many found offensive. Fortunately, he had favored his back and chest. He’d always kept his arms, neck, and face clean for no other reason than to keep his options open in the future. Bob had always been a forward thinker; a planner. Getting to know the sister too well would’ve threatened to expose himself to the type of people who would ask too many questions.

  After his release from prison, he had skipped parole. With two strikes under his belt in Nevada, his first thought upon release had been getting out of the state, and avoiding the third strike scenario, of which he had little doubt he would fall foul. From there, his transition from Bob Johnson to Bob Jackson had taken shape with nothing more than sheer luck, and an extremely lax referencing procedure in the Boise Education Department.

  With fingerprints that would consign him to prison for the least inconsequential interaction with the police, Bob Jackson had become a model citizen and pillar of the community. The setting up of his militia gave him an outlet for his wilder side as he waited for what he believed would come, and he trained his men to believe the same – the inevitable: TEOTWAWKI - The End Of The World As We Know It scenario. That would be his moment to shine.

  When the conflict in Iran had escalated, with Russia siding with the Ayatollah, he had upped the readiness of his men. Russia, under Putin, had throughout the twenty-twenties increased defense spending, far in excess of its wealth. There’d been little doubt in many people’s minds that Putin had expansionist plans, but with China and the USA forming an alliance to deter him, it seemed unlikely he would risk the wrath of both. Bob saw in Putin some of himself. He knew better. Putin wasn’t the type of guy to back down. If he wanted something, he’d take it, and be damned with the consequences, just like he had done in The Crimea, followed by Ukraine a few years later.

  Bob directed his men towards Roger’s street. Their appearance on the horses caused quite a bit of interest as they galloped past bystanders, the interest waning quickly as the rifles and holstered pistols were spotted on the heavily-armed riders. The streets emptied quickly. Whatever the men wanted, nobody thought it’d be good. The look of determination on the riders’ faces just added to the panic that had begun to race through the area.

  Bob held his hand high. The four horses came to a stop. He thought back to the old western movies, the hero riding into town to save the day. He laughed to himself, he wasn’t the hero, he’d have been the guy in the black hat, riding in to take care of business while the townsfolk cowered, peeking out of their windows to try and see what was happening. But that was then, and this was now. The world wasn’t the same place. He could change the narrative and he could be the white-hat-wearing hero. He could be the John Wayne character. He could be the ‘Duke’, the ‘Duke of Boise’, he thought. He liked it! Duke… he’d work it into this plan. ‘Bob’ seemed a little too familiar. He needed a title, something for the men to call him, to show their
respect. He’d speak to Trey when he got back.

  “It’s the next street over. We’ll leave the horses here,” he called out.

  “What if someone takes them?”

  Bob eyed the man with derision. “Really? The same people who watched us and ran like cowards would dare to steal our horses?” Bob thought back to the westerns, where they’d tie their horses to a railing without fear of their horses being taken, mainly since the punishment for that was hanging. So he shouted out that fact. The fact that he himself had stolen the same horses didn’t even enter his mind. He couldn’t steal what he deemed was his for the taking.

  “Hanging? They don’t hang people anymore!” argued the man.

  “Jerry, these are new times,” rushed Neil, seeing the look on Bob’s face. “Bob, Jerry didn’t mean no disrespect. He’s just not quite understanding the scale of what’s happened yet. He’s not the brightest.”

  Bob watched as Jerry reacted to the fear in Neil’s eyes. He was one of Neil’s recent additions. An excellent rider and stable hand, he was going to be valuable moving forward, given their new mode of transport. However, Bob had to exert his authority and his men had to respond to his orders unquestioningly.

  “Yup, what he said,” said Jerry quickly. The deference in his voice and his inability to return Bob’s imposing stare were rewarded with a temporary reprieve. He’d deal with Jerry after they had dealt with Roger.

  “Well, let’s go get our deserter!”

  “What’s the punishment for that?” asked Jerry eagerly.

  Bob smiled and leaned over, patting Jerry on the back. He had just won a permanent reprieve.