John O'Brien - Reckoning

There are so many people to thank for these books that it’s difficult to mention them all. I know you may be tired of hearing it, but my mother spends countless hours trying to make sense of the hieroglyphs that I slam down randomly on the paper. She manages to turn my gibberish into something readable and I’m thankful for her. She has a highly enjoyable series out, The Blue Child Series, and encourage you to read the two books already published: On the Mountain and The North Road .

Once again, I owe my thanks to the beta readers. Thank you for catching my many mistakes and your input is so appreciated.

And to you, the readers, thank you so much! I continue to be humbled by your support and kind messages. I truly feel that we are just one extended family. Through the years it has taken for this story to be told to this point, you have taken the journey with me. You have brought the characters alive. Again, thank you so very much for your support!

If you do happen to enjoy the story, feel free to leave a review. Reviews are important for two reasons. One is that’s how the books get up in the listing which of course means more sales. But more importantly, it lets me get a look at everyone’s perception. Looking though the online reviews, I feel that I become a better writer.

What started off as a simple off as a simple story of survival in a post-apocalyptic world has grown, and has far exceeded any expectations I had. Not that I had any to be honest, so I guess exceeding that wasn’t all that difficult, but it’s more than I could ever have imagined. I enjoy telling the tale and having the characters talk to me, telling me their tale. They have become an intimate part of me. I feel their anxieties, their joys, their sorrows. I hear their shouts, their thoughts, live the events with them. They give me hints about what is about to happen but I’m never sure until I sit down and start typing.

I won’t give any spoilers away but I took a little literary license in some parts. I had to simplify some parts to keep the story flowing without dragging it down with details. Perhaps I’ll explain where I did that with the next book. Okay, there’s a spoiler.

Also, there is some scenes that are written about from different perspectives. While it may not have advanced the story much or told for character development, it just felt right to tell it from different angles. I like going into this mode at times as it shows parts that aren’t observed from the other participants and, to me, I feel that it gives a deeper feel for the scene. So, I will offer my apologies for that in advance.

The part of the tale in this book ran away from me. There was to be more in the story line but the characters tell the tale how they want it told. I have little to say in what gets put down. I try to slow it down at times, or speed it up, but it’s to no avail. It comes out how it does. So, the parts that were initially in mind when I started out on this ninth book will have to be told in the next one. With that said, what do you say we get on with the story? If you happen to enjoy the book, if you would head back afterward and leave a review, I would be eternally grateful.

The equipment bag slams into the rear of the Humvee, filling the last available free space. In a jumble, crammed into the rest of the cargo area, a physical sign of the rush to load the gear, lay crates of ammo, several cardboard boxes of canned food, water bottles, and other sundries that were quickly gathered. With the sound of far off machinery drifting through the afternoon air, Drescoll slams the rear door down and looks around.

Several small groups of people are transiting the parking lot on their way to fulfill their tasks. Soft murmurs of conversation filter across the lot, interrupted only by a short burst of laughter from one group. Bringing the chill of fall with it, a breeze carries clouds across the early afternoon sky. Drescoll eyes the crowds to see if the noise of the rear door shutting has brought any attention to himself. The others continue on their way as if he didn’t exist.

With his hands resting on the closed door, the chill of the metal penetrating his gloves, he looks over to Cabela’s, which has been his home for the past few months. The building represents both joys and hardships. To Drescoll’s mind, it seems to project those remembrances outward. It holds the memories of his friends and his team. A flash of images sequence through his mind: rushing to the tactical operations center when this all began, finding Lynn alive, her opening the door with night runners hard on his heels. The memories continue with the deaths and close calls, the constant fear.

Staring at the compound, he realizes that what he did was a mistake, but it’s too late. There’s no going back now, and he can’t undo the actions he took…and continues to take. He thought he would feel better, but killing the shooter has only left him feeling empty. The grief and anger still reside within, but the emptiness stems from knowing he has to leave his friends, and knowing that he has disappointed them… disappointed himself.

The pressure, the built-up anxiety, the sheer weight of grief made it too much. He had to do something before he exploded. He watched, almost as a spectator outside of himself, as he made his way down the escalator and into the warehouse where the prisoner was held. The guards admitted him without question. Opening the steel door, its metal hinges screeching throughout the interior, Drescoll stared inside.

Large floodlights lit up the storage container, their stark white lights illuminating the shooter. He had been hanging from the chains overhead, his head sagging down with his chin almost to his chest. Drescoll remembers the man lifting his eyes to look at him, the sickly grin that crossed his face. Without a word or expression, Drescoll closed the door and crossed the distance between them.

Squatting in front of the prisoner, with emotions of anger and grief coursing through him, Drescoll stared into the man’s eyes. Attached was the fear of what he was about to do, but that was overridden by the other feelings.

The shooter stared back expressionless, but the light in his eyes changed and became a look of questioning. Then Drescoll saw fear enter, and the shooter’s sick smile vanished. With the prisoner looking on, Drescoll stood and withdrew his Beretta, screwing on the suppressor. Stepping behind the man, he placed the barrel close to the back of the man’s head. Knowing what was about to happen, the shooter hung his head.

“Do it,” Drescoll heard the man whisper.

“See you in hell,” Drescoll replied… and pulled the trigger.

The front of the man’s head exploded as the round punched through his skull. Blood and gore sprayed outward into the bright light. The bullet hit the floor of the steel container with a heavy sound. There was no ricochet as the round had already expended most of its energy. Blood, mixed with chunks of brain and flecks of bone, fell in streams from the ruined face of the shooter and pooled on the cold metal under him.

Drescoll, without feeling any remorse, unscrewed the suppressor with the same emotion as if he was peeling an apple, and holstered his handgun. Exiting the container, careful not to allow the guards to view the inside, he closed the door. He remembers telling the guards that Jack had ordered the prisoner not to be disturbed in any way, not even to keep him awake by tossing buckets of water. They weren’t to open the door until Jack said otherwise. The guards had agreed readily as they had no reason for distrust. Finding his team, he told them that he was stepping out for a while and began quickly gathering supplies.