Уильям Дитц - Into the Guns

The statement caught Victoria by surprise. A new president! Someone to replace Wainwright… That was an important piece of information. “Do you know his name?” she inquired.

“Yes, I do,” the administrator responded. “Samuel T. Sloan. He was the Secretary of Energy before the meteorites struck.”

Victoria was surprised to say the least. According to what she’d heard, Sloan had thrown himself out of a helicopter and died in a swamp. “There are lots of rumors floating around,” she said. “Are you sure?”

The man fumbled with a zipper, withdrew a piece of carefully folded paper from an inside pocket, and passed it over. “Here, look at this. Just before the cholera struck, a man in a Revolutionary War costume passed through town. He had thousands of these things in the back of his pickup. I kept mine as a memento.”

When Victoria opened the piece of paper, she saw a skillfully drawn likeness of Uncle Sam pointing a finger at her. “President Samuel T. Sloan needs you!” the cartoon figure proclaimed. “Conserve energy, store food, and help your neighbors. America is rising!”

It was an innocuous message in many ways—but Victoria could see past that to a larger plan. The purpose of the message was to reassure the populace, take the first step toward the restoration of civil law, and pave the way to what ? A government in the North? Or an attempt to reunify a broken nation? There was no way to know—but it was valuable information nevertheless. “Can I keep this?” Victoria inquired.

The man hesitated, shrugged, and waved it off. “Sure… I’ll find another one.” Victoria thanked him and returned to the motorcycle. It started with a roar and carried her away from the campus. Feral dogs had been at work, so there weren’t any bodies to be seen. Just widely scattered bones and the occasional empty-eyed skull.

Victoria was no stranger to death, but she had no desire to linger as she went looking for a place to make the necessary call. And when a wide-open soccer field appeared, she rode out to the center of it. A spot well away from tall structures and trees—and one that would give her an 80 percent view of the sky. After parking the bike, she got off and removed the phone from her pack.

The call was encrypted and went through without difficulty. That was a matter of luck in large part but not entirely. The New Order had taken control of all but a few of the country’s satellites a month earlier—and was doing everything in its power to disrupt communications up north. That was difficult to do with any precision, but progress was being made. So telephone, TV, and Internet service were extremely spotty outside of the Confederacy.

Mrs. Walters indicated that Victoria’s father wasn’t available. All Victoria could do was to leave the set on and wait for him to call back. There was food in her knapsack, and Vic took advantage of the opportunity to eat. She was halfway through an apple when the phone rang. “This is Alpha-Four-Niner-Seven.”

“And this is Six,” her father replied. “How’s the boondoggle going? Are you ready to come back yet?”

An image of the funeral pyre blipped through Victoria’s mind, but she made no mention of it. “Nope, I’m still having fun. And I have news for you.”

Bo Macintyre listened in silence as Victoria told him what she’d learned. Then he spoke. “Sloan’s supposed to be dead. So if he’s alive, some very influential people are going to fill their pants. Of course, there is the possibility that the real Sloan is dead, and some bozo took his place. Time will tell. Can you send me a copy of the flyer?”

Victoria scanned the piece of paper with a hand wand and sent it off. “Got it,” Bo said. “Good work. Next, I want you to head over to Indianapolis, where, according to other intelligence assets, the so-called patriots are going to convene a Third Continental Congress in two days’ time. That will provide you with the perfect opportunity to confirm the news regarding Sloan. Plus you’ll be able to determine if the gathering is for real and look for potential assets. All sorts of people will show up for the gathering—and some might prove useful in the future. Don’t hesitate to buy some loyalty if you need to.”

The call ended shortly thereafter. There weren’t any expressions of affection by either party. That was understood, and something neither one of them needed to verbalize. Victoria finished the apple, tossed the core away, and put the phone back in the pack.

Then it was time to consult a much-folded road map prior to throwing a leg over the bike and taking off. Indianapolis was about 250 miles away—but her immediate objective was to find gas. Had the citizens of Athens left any behind? Probably, but it would take forever to find it. So the most efficient thing to do was to steal what she needed.

Victoria had already done so on two occasions and had a system. The first step was to leave the city via one of the secondary roads that led north. Then, once clear of Athens, Victoria would find a spot where she could hide.

It took half an hour to find the right spot, park, and shut the engine off. That meant it would take a little longer to get going. But the other choice was to let the motor idle and suck gas. So Victoria sat behind a thicket of young hazelnut trees with her eyes on the road.

There was traffic but not much. And when vehicles did pass by, they were generally pickup trucks loaded with people who were armed. They might be farmworkers or paying passengers. It didn’t matter. Attacking such a vehicle would be suicidal.

A full hour and a half passed before a likely-looking car appeared. It was an old VW Bug—and coming her way at a relatively low rate of speed. How many people could be in it? Four at the most. But Victoria was hoping for less.

She waited for the car to pass her position before starting the engine. Then she gave chase. Victoria had to keep her right hand on the throttle, so she chose to approach the passenger side of the Bug and fire left-handed. Unfortunately, that would give the driver an opportunity to sideswipe the BMW and send it flying into the ditch.

As Victoria pulled alongside the car, she saw that an elderly woman was behind the wheel—while a man who might have been her husband sat in the passenger seat. Vic pointed the Glock at him, waggled the barrel, and waited for the VW to slow. It didn’t.

The woman with wispy gray hair put her foot down, and the man brought a sawed-off shotgun up off his lap. He was swinging the weapon around when Vic shot him in the head.

As the man slumped forward, the woman threw the wheel over in a desperate attempt to sideswipe the big motorbike. Victoria braked, the V-dub missed, and ran off into the ditch. The car was slumped to the right, which made it hard for the old lady to push the driver’s side door up and open. Did she have the shotgun? Would she use it? Maybe, and maybe not. But why take the chance? Victoria stepped up to the door and fired three shots at it. All efforts to escape the Bug stopped. A peek through the window confirmed what Victoria expected. The woman was dead.

Victoria knew she was supposed to feel something, but she didn’t. Collateral damage was an inevitable side effect of war. And war was a natural part of being human. Bo Macintyre had taught her that, and he was correct. She forced herself to focus. How long before some locals arrived on the scene? Five minutes? Ten? There was no way to tell.

Victoria returned to the bike and rode it forward. She stopped next to the Beetle and got off. The fuel-transfer kit was stored in the BMW’s right-hand pannier. She ran the hose from the motorcycle’s tank to the car’s tank and began to pump. The gas gurgled as it began to flow. The process seemed to take forever—but all Victoria could do was stand there and wait.