Descent: A Post Apocalyptic Thriller (The SpaceMan Chronicles Book 2) Read online

  Someone’s coming.

  Pop imagined himself on patrol in the jungle, hidden amongst the thick, damp foliage and rotting vegetation, the buzz and droning chirp of insects mind-numbingly loud. He could feel the M14 in his hands, the chin strap rubbing his jawline raw, the sting of sweat dripping from his mopped brow into his eyes as he kept watch. His sergeant was at his nine, armed and advancing, unwilling to lay back and wait for the enemy. He was lost in the thought.

  Creak.

  He snapped back to the present. His pulse was thick and fast. Nancy’s trembling leg was pressed next to his. Pop braced himself and pulled the shotgun tight to his shoulder. He kept his trigger finger pointed straight ahead. His left hand was wrapped around the forestock. He drew his cheek to the stock. comb of the buttstock. In the dark, he couldn’t employ the iron sights. They were useless. Pop knew the buckshot spray would do enough damage as long as he aimed the muzzle anywhere close to the target. Nancy was gulping breaths and then holding them.

  From the bedroom, there was a loud bang and a crash preceding heavy footsteps and what sounded like the opening and closing of drawers. Glass shattered and Nancy blurted a chirping whimper. Pop nudged her with his shoulder and whispered, “It’s okay. We’re okay.”

  The footsteps stomped heavily across the room and back again. Then it was quiet.

  “Are they gone?” Nancy asked, gulping another mouthful of air.

  A distant voice called from downstairs.

  “Justin!” the voice yelled. “You up there?”

  The response came from inside their room. “Shut up. Don’t use my name. The woman is here somewhere. I’m looking for her.”

  Pop felt Nancy’s body shudder. She let go of her breath in favor of quick, stuttering gasps.

  The voice from downstairs called again. “Dude, we’ve got enough. Lots of food, water, supplies. The garage was packed. We should go.”

  Pop awaited the angry response from inside his room. There was none. Instead there was a fourth and telling creak.

  The man was right outside the closet door.

  Pop tightened his grip on the shotgun. He eased his finger onto the trigger.

  “Never put your finger on the trigger unless you’re ready to pull it,” his sergeant had frequently reminded him in-country all those years ago.

  Whoever it was outside the closet, standing on the weak spot in their subfloor, wasn’t a friendly. He was a predator hunting for Pop’s wife. He and his band of terrorists were pillaging their home, stealing from them the belongings they’d worked hard to provide for themselves.

  A potent mixture of anger and adrenaline replaced the fear coursing through Pop’s body, but instead of anxiety or jitters, an unfamiliar calm overtook him. The world slowed, and in the dark, from behind the curtain of clothing, he focused on the door. His finger applied the slightest pressure on the trigger and was ready for a smooth, solid pull at his command the instant the doorknob clicked.

  “Seriously,” called the voice from downstairs. “Enough. We got what we need for now.”

  The floor creaked, and again a moment later.

  “All right,” whined the angry voice. “I’m coming.”

  He’s leaving.

  The intruder pounded from the room, his heavy feet eliciting the groan of the hallway flooring before they bounded down the stairs. Pop eased his finger from the trigger and lowered the weapon. He exhaled, the tension leaving the sore muscles in his neck and shoulders.

  Nancy let out her breath and sobbed as quietly as she could. Her raspy cries were dripping with the saliva of a woman on the verge of hyperventilating. Pop flipped the safety on the shotgun and set it aside. He took the revolver from his wife’s hands, laid it next to the shotgun, and wrapped his arms around her. He pulled her tear-drenched face to his and kissed her cheeks.

  “It’s okay,” he whispered. “They’re gone. We’re okay.”

  “We—can’t—stay—here,” she said between gasps of air. “We—can’t—stay—in—this—house. They’ll—be—back.”

  “Calm down,” Pop said gently. “We’ll be okay here. We just—”

  “No!” Nancy said, spittle spraying from her mouth. “They know we’re vulnerable. They’ll come back for whatever they didn’t get already. You heard that man. He wanted to find me.”

  She was probably right. They were a soft target now. He knew that, even if he didn’t want to admit it.

  “Okay. We’ll pack some clothes, whatever food they didn’t take, and we’ll go to Jackie Shepard’s. She’ll help us.”

  Nancy flung herself more deeply into her husband’s arms. Pop stroked the back of her head, running his fingers through her hair.

  ***

  Justin pushed his way into the backyard, grumbling about having left without finding the old woman inside. He couldn’t let it go.

  “I had her,” he said to Palero as both of them slugged bags of food over their shoulders and headed toward the gate. “She was either in the bathroom or the closet. One or the other.”

  “Yeah,” said Palero. “I hear you, J. But we got so much stuff, we didn’t need to take any chances. It was better to leave, right?”

  Justin flung open the wrought-iron gate and it clanked against the fence. “Whatever. It would have been as easy to off her and not be rushed. I’m sure we left behind things we can use.”

  “Then we can go back,” said Palero. “That’s a great idea, J. We can go back.”

  Justin was only half listening as the gang moved to the front yard. He looked over his shoulder at the house, the dark windows revealing nothing about what they’d done or what they’d failed to do. Twenty-four hours ago, he’d never killed another human. Now he was lamenting his failure to kill another.

  He led the pack to the street and started back toward the path they’d taken into the neighborhood. He stopped at the edge of a cul-de-sac to his left and held up a fist for his companions to stop too. At the end of the street he saw twin beams of yellowish light. They looked like headlights.

  “Hang on,” he told the group. “I wanna check something. You go ahead and I’ll catch up.”

  Justin handed his bag to Palero and started jogging toward the cul-de-sac. When he reached the street, he edged onto the grass, picking his way amongst the manicured suburban landscaping that decorated every yard. He approached the end of the street and a smoky, sour scent filled his nostrils. In the faint moonlight and the added illumination of what he now knew were headlights, he could see the jagged outlines of charred homes. He counted three or four of them. Justin shrank behind a ligustrum hedge, tried to sip tiny, odor-avoiding breaths, and directed his attention toward the bright lights across the street.

  It was hard to see faces, but he made out the figures of a half dozen people. They were loading up a Jeep or SUV of some kind. Justin could hear the low, steady rumble of the engine idling. He craned his neck to get a better look at the travelers prepping for their trip.

  He eased from behind the ligustrum and found a spot next to a thick wax myrtle that hadn’t grown beyond much more than a shrub. He looked away from the lights and scanned the house behind it. It was a large home and sat back from the street on a pie-shaped lot. There was candlelight flickering on the ground floor. The second story was dark.

  One by one, people climbed into the vehicle. As best as Justin could tell, there were three men, three women, and a kid, a boy who, from his size, didn’t look much smaller than a couple of those in his gang. Justin scanned the property again and nodded. He raised himself to a crouch and ran back toward the intersection of the cul-de-sac and the main neighborhood loop.

  He rounded the corner and picked up speed. He was near the end of the loop when he caught the others’ shadows cast on the dark pavement and was breathless when he reached them.

  “I’ve got our next target,” he said, his chest heaving. “The house at the end of the cul-de-sac. Everyone’s leaving.”

  “How do you know?” Palero asked, walking alongside
his winded dictator.

  “They’ve got a truck that’s working,” Justin said, slinging the bag from one shoulder to the other. “They’re loading up into it and taking off. We hit it tomorrow right after the sun goes down.”

  Palero angled closer to Justin and lowered his voice. “We need to do that?” he asked. “The guys are all spooked. Plus we got plenty tonight. Enough to get us by for a while.”

  Justin shook his head. “You don’t get it,” he said. “A while ain’t gonna cut it. This is the new world. We either take it by the throat, get what we can while we can, or we die like dogs. You wanna die like a dog?”

  Palero tugged on a belt loop and hitched his pants up over his hips. He looked ahead at the younger members of the gang, all of whom were hauling as much as they could carry.

  “Well, do you?” Justin pressed.

  “No,” said Palero.

  “No what?”

  “I don’t wanna die like a dog.”

  “Then you gotta do what I say,” said Justin. “Stop doubting me. Do what I say and I’ll make sure you get what’s coming.”

  CHAPTER 20

  SUNDAY, JANUARY 26, 2020, 9:18 PM CST

  CLEAR LAKE, TEXAS

  The seven people leaving Jackie Shepard’s home were filtering in and out, getting into and out of Rick’s truck.

  She and her children, Marie and Chris, along with the remaining guests—Betty Brown; her son, Brian; and Rick’s woman-du-jour Nikki—were huddled around the island, talking strategy. Nikki suggested someone always keep watch over the property. The rest could sleep in shifts.

  Jackie thought it overkill, but didn’t want to argue. If Nikki wanted to pull the first all-nighter, more power to her.

  Jackie stood as an observer, preferring to watch Nikki and Betty Brown discuss the particulars of home defense and rationing rather than participate in a useless discussion. Her concern was the well-being of her two children and, more importantly, her husband’s return. With Chris home from his camping trip and the overflow crowd about to leave, Jackie didn’t much care about anything else other than her nuclear family. Her attention had drifted from the comings and goings of those leaving and the heated discussion at her kitchen island when voices became too loud to ignore.

  “I think we should have the weapons ready,” Nikki said. “The longer this goes, the worse it gets. We’ve already determined that.”

  Betty Brown slapped her palm onto the granite island. Her face was red, her features drawn tight. “I don’t want weapons around my son,” she argued. “I’ve made that clear. I’ve already told Jackie my thoughts on this and—”

  “Hold up, Betty,” said Jackie. “There’s no need to get excited. I know you don’t like guns, but as I told you already, and as Nikki is telling you now, we need them.”

  Betty pursed her lips. Her hands curled into fists pressed against the island. “And I told you,” she said, her sarcasm spewing, “it’s dangerous and unnecessary.”

  A smile leaking patience stretched flatly across Jackie’s face. “Betty,” she said, maintaining the smile, “this is my home. I’d love for you to stay, but if you have a problem with what we’re doing here in my home, you can leave. It’s that simple.”

  Betty huffed, “Well, I—”

  “Well you what?” asked Rick. He’d returned with Kenny at his side.

  Betty stood from her spot at the island and pouted her way across the family room and up the stairs. She stood at the top of the steps and called down to her son. “Brian?”

  Brian lowered his head and mumbled. He flapped his hands at his sides and scurried up the stairs to join his mother.

  Rick shrugged. “Something I said?”

  Nikki sighed. “She doesn’t like the idea of guns. I told her we should be as prepared as we can be.”

  “I told her she could leave if she didn’t like it,” added Jackie. “It’s the second time I’ve told her that.”

  Rick chuckled. “We’re loaded to the gills,” he said. “Couldn’t take her if I wanted to. But I don’t.”

  “Should you be saying that in front of Kenny?” asked Jackie.

  “I’ve heard worse,” Kenny said.

  “I can imagine,” Jackie said and shifted her attention back to Rick. “You ready to roll?”

  “We are. You’re joining us once Clayton gets home, right?”

  Jackie folded her arms across her chest. She suddenly felt chilled. “That’s the plan. It depends on NASA too.”

  Rick glanced at Nikki. “And you?”

  “I’ll find you,” she said. “One way or another.”

  Rick nodded and backed up a couple of steps. Jackie followed him but stopped at the front door.

  “Rick,” she said as he stepped from the porch, “thanks again for bringing Chris home.”

  Rick smiled an acknowledgment, walked to his 1978 Jeep Cherokee Chief, and slid into the driver’s seat. He pulled the door shut, the interior dome light shut off, and he shifted into gear, pulling out of the driveway and onto the street. Within a few seconds, the Jeep disappeared down the street and onto the main loop.

  Jackie didn’t want to admit it to herself, but she’d have rather he stayed. Rick, for as much of a womanizing juvenile as he could be, was a good guy. He’d have helped her. Plus, having Kenny in the house to occupy Chris and keep his mind off Clayton would have been good too. Now she was in a house with two kids, three women, and a young man on the autistic spectrum.

  “It is what it is,” she said and closed the front door.

  ***

  Rick spun the wheel and accelerated onto the neighborhood’s main loop. He checked his mirrors out of habit and nudged the man sitting in the front passenger’s seat.

  “You good, Mumphrey?”

  Mumphrey rubbed his jaw and smacked his lips. “I’m as good as good can be. Like I said, this ain’t gonna be easy. But I’ll be happy when we get there.”

  “Me too, Dad,” chimed Kenny. He was squeezed between his father and Mumphrey in what wasn’t really a seat. The wide armrest was folded up and served as a seat back.

  Rick put his hand on Kenny’s knee and squeezed. “I’m with both of you,” he said. “The sooner we find this place, the better.”

  “How long will it be?” Kenny asked.

  Candace was sitting behind Rick and answered. She pulled herself forward using Rick’s headrest and poked her head to the front. “Coupland is normally about three hours,” she said. “It’s right off Highway 71.”

  “It’ll take longer than three hours,” said Rick. “I’m not driving the speed limit. And we don’t know what kind of obstacles we’ll find along the way. But it’s somewhere between eight and ten o’clock. I figure we’ll be there before the sun comes up.”

  “You think it’ll be that long?” asked Karen. She was between Candace and Lana Buck in the middle seat. Reggie was huddled in the flatbed by himself amongst the supplies.

  “I’m guessing,” said Rick, looking at his ex-wife in the rearview mirror. “I don’t really know.”

  Rick reached the end of the loop where it met with a four-lane road. He turned right and accelerated again, picking up speed. He flicked on the high beams as he came upon a group of teenagers walking along the side of the road. They were heading in the same direction, away from the neighborhood, their arms were full of boxes and bags. One of them carried a full sack that resembled a pillowcase.

  “They look shady,” said Mumphrey, craning his neck as they passed the group.

  Rick followed them in the mirrors as long as he could. One of them was pointing at his Jeep, jabbing his finger in the air repeatedly. Something in his gut agreed with Mumphrey and told him the gang of kids was bad news, that he should turn around and head back to Jackie’s. But as he had so often in his life, he ignored his gut. He didn’t listen to the voice in his head reminding him of right and wrong, good and bad. Rick pressed the gas and stayed the course toward the promise of a prepper’s paradise.

  CHAPTER 21
/>   SUNDAY, JANUARY 26, 2020, 9:06 PM MST

  DENVER, COLORADO

  Until now, Vihaan Chandra had never noticed the words on the gray granite dedication stone inside Denver International Airport’s Jeppesen terminal. As he and the growing gathering of others awaited permission to descend another level and board the airport’s terminal train, he’d studied the precise language. It gave him chills.

  The capstone was dedicated on March 19, 1994, nearly twenty-six years earlier. Chandra was a teenager at the time and didn’t live in Colorado, so he wouldn’t have remembered the ceremony. He envisioned what it was like, with countless dignitaries and members of the design team all congratulating themselves on the wonderfully overpriced transportation hub. The mayor of Denver, Wellington Webb, Governor Roy Romer, and the Secretary of Transportation Federico Peña all had their names inscribed in the stone. Chandra crouched down and ran his fingers across the etched lettering and the promise of a time capsule buried underneath.

  THE TIME CAPSULE BENEATH THIS STONE CONTAINS MESSAGES AND MEMORABILIA TO THE PEOPLE OF COLORADO IN 2094.

  There was nothing odd about a time capsule, and nothing strange about a plan to unearth it a century later. What was odd, however, was the symbol at the center of the stone, beneath the time capsule paragraph. It was a large G set between a compass and a ruler. It was the symbol of the Freemasons, a secret organization that, on the surface, was an order of men established to help society, but was also long believed to have its shadowy reach extend deep into the halls of power from the earliest days of American government. Their influence was legendary. More bothersome, however, was the recognition of the contributions of another group: the New World Airport Commission.

  “New World?” Chandra whispered to himself as he ran his fingers across the letters. “As in New World Order?”

  He thought about what Treadgold had mentioned hours earlier, that the Descent Protocol was an excuse and not a reason.