Point of Crisis (The Perseid Collapse Post Apocalyptic Series) Read online

“He’s not in Parsonsfield,” Alex said. “The trailer and barn burned to the ground yesterday. Probably right after the attack on my house. He’s not at his house in Waterboro either. We checked.”

  “I doubt he’ll show up for any more town hall meetings either. I’ll put the word out to my network, in case he slips up and makes a public appearance,” Campbell promised. “My guess is he’ll lay low for a while. If we’re lucky, he’ll try to kill you again.”

  “What does unlucky look like?”

  “He starts blowing shit up. Fomenting an insurgency—”

  “And still tries to kill you,” added Cuskelly.

  “Option number one sounds marginally better,” said Alex.

  “Either way,” Campbell said, “he won’t stop until you’re dead.”

  “Then we’ll have to work together to make sure that doesn’t happen. The assassination of a key provisional Recovery Zone security officer won’t sit well with Lieutenant Colonel Grady.”

  “I assume you’ll need more than a border checkpoint and some scattered intelligence on Eli Russell?”

  “A few more things,” answered Alex, taking a long sip of coffee.

  Chapter 3

  EVENT +5 Days

  Bridgton, Maine

  Welcome to Bridgton, The Maine Place for All Seasons. Incorporated 1794.

  Eli Russell twisted his body in the front passenger seat and eased the .45 Colt Commander out of his hip holster.

  Welcome indeed.

  “Gentlemen, let’s pass all of the rifles back, keeping them low. Safeties engaged. Magazines removed. We want the rifles in plain sight within the rear storage compartment. Gotta be a checkpoint up here somewhere.”

  “You want us to clear the rifles?”

  “Negative. Keep the first rounds chambered, in case we need to put them into action pronto-like.”

  “What about the pistols?” asked one of the men in the back seat.

  “Keep them in their holsters. They won’t fuck with us for carrying pistols.”

  “It’s illegal to transport a loaded firearm without a concealed carry permit,” said the man.

  “Thanks for the gun law update, mister helper. You want to shut up and let me run the show?”

  “Yes, sir.”

  “Good. If you haven’t noticed, there’s a bit of a different situation going on nowadays, something to do with a fucking EMP attack! Keep your hands where they can see them, and don’t say a word unless asked a question. They’ll be glad to see responsible folks like us helping out,” said Eli, passing his rifle between the seats.

  The turn straightened onto a long stretch of tree-flanked road, revealing the roadblock. A few hundred feet ahead, an oversized pickup truck and a white police car blocked both lanes of Route 93, squeezed between two guardrails. The cruiser’s blue strobe lights started flashing.

  “Slow us down a little more,” Eli said, tracking their approach to the roadblock.

  “I don’t know about this,” said his driver nervously.

  “We’ll be fine, Griz. I may ask you to vouch for me.”

  “I can do that.”

  John Barry, aka “Grizzly,” had eagerly joined his organization after the town hall meeting in Limerick. He’d led Eli to Ken Haskell, who’d been more than happy to play a role in keeping Limerick safe from government assassination teams. Haskell had identified one of the young women riding in Nathan Russell’s silver BMW SUV. “One of the Fletcher kids or something like that. They live out on Gelder Pond.” Less than an hour later, “Deputy” Eli Russell and Jeffrey Brown had paid the Fletchers a little visit, scoping out their compound.

  Grizzly followed the police officer’s hand signals, easing the car to a stop about twenty feet in front of the blockade. Two men dressed in civilian clothes and tactical gear shuffled between the vehicles, approaching Eli’s SUV with rifles aimed into the cabin. The police officer trailed them by several feet, keeping his pistol pointed at Eli through the windshield. A fourth shooter stood behind the pickup truck’s hood, aiming a bipod-supported, optics-equipped assault rifle at them. Eli hated feeling this helpless, but it was the only way to gain enough trust to talk his way into town. The riflemen split up, drawing even with the front doors and covering the men in the SUV.

  “No sudden movements,” whispered Eli.

  The police officer approached Eli from an oblique angle, partially obscured from his sight by the doorframe.

  “Shut the car down! Hands out of the vehicle!”

  “Boys. Hands out the windows. Slowly,” said Eli.

  He nodded at Grizzly before turning his body far enough to rest his hands, palms up, on the top of the doorframe.

  “This is a no-fucking-around situation, gentlemen. If you move your hands, you’re dead. Understand?”

  “Yes, sir,” said Eli.

  Once the men in the SUV settled, the riflemen closed the distance, peering deeper into the vehicle.

  “I have four military-style rifles in the cargo compartment. I see at least one shoulder holster!” yelled the rifleman on the driver’s side of the vehicle.

  “You have about five seconds to explain why you were driving into town with this shit,” said the police officer.

  “My name is Eli Russell, and I’m the founder of the Maine Liberty Militia.”

  “Never heard of it,” replied the officer.

  “We’re based out of York County.”

  “You’re coming from the wrong direction.”

  “We were just up in Lovell, warning them about the government takeover down south.”

  “Why do you need military-style hardware to spread the word?” asked the rifleman, waving his AR at the back of the SUV.

  “In case we’re attacked. The government has been killing local law enforcement and militia members down south, softening the area for whatever they have planned. We’ve lost over forty men since the supposed EMP. I put the rifles in back because I didn’t want to alarm you.”

  “We haven’t heard about any attacks down south,” said the officer.

  “It doesn’t surprise me. York County sheriff’s deputies started to disappear right after the EMP. Mostly the ones under contract with the small townships. The state police and regular departments seem fine, but something fishy is definitely happening in the rural areas. Checkpoints like this along the border have been wiped out. I was personally asked by the state police to send my people to one of the more obscure border crossings. None of them returned.”

  “What happened?” asked the rifleman.

  “They were killed in Milton Mills, right on the New Hampshire border. I lost twelve men, including my brother. I recognized the tactics from my time as a military advisor in Central America in the ’80s. We tracked down the government black ops team to a small lakeside property in Limerick. I lost twenty-nine men trying to take that house. They had it fortified with light machine guns and sandbag bunkers inside.”

  “If I raise the York County Sheriff’s Department on the radio, can they verify any of this?”

  “I would hope so. Just be careful about identifying yourself. You never know who’s listening, Officer…Hoyt,” Eli said, reading the policeman’s name badge.

  “I want all of you out of the car while I make the call. Leave your pistols on your seats,” he said, turning to the rifleman next to him. “Verify they’re unarmed and sit them in front of the SUV. Hands on their heads.”

  Fifty minutes later, Eli’s arms shook with fatigue as he held on to the last vestige of a forced neutral expression. He’d imagined killing both of them so many times over the past hour that he’d exhausted his mental inventory of gruesomely painful deaths. Not an easy feat given the vast amount of time he dedicated to visualizing novel ways to torture and kill people. It had become sort of a game for him. He’d see a woman buying cigarettes at the gas station and picture burning her to a crisp with a can of hairspray and a lighter. Teenager gives him a dirty look at the Foodmart and winds up a discarded pile of body parts on the ce
llar floor next to Eli’s table saw. It was harmless entertainment. For now.

  Officer Hoyt stepped out of his cruiser and walked up to Eli. “You can lower your hands. The guys up in Lovell said you made a good impression, and I ran your scenario through the Cumberland County Sheriff’s Department. A state police bulletin was passed two days ago warning departments about targeted violence against rural deputies. Source of that information was the York County Sheriff’s Department. This is the kind of information we need at the local level,” grumbled the officer.

  “That’s why I’m making the rounds. Nobody has heard about this, and it’s only a matter of time before the violence spreads north,” said Eli, noticing a slight relaxation in the guards’ postures.

  “State police were a little tight-lipped about your border massacre claim, but county dispatch picked up a request for a mobile crime scene unit. Destination, Milton Mills. Sorry about your brother,” he said.

  The guard slung his rifle and stepped forward, extending a hand.

  “Ron Bevins. Chief selectman for the Town of Bridgton. Sorry about the crappy treatment, but we’ve had some problems with people travelling through town.”

  Eli took his hand and used it to rise up on his unsteady legs. “I understand. Trust but verify. Didn’t Reagan say that?”

  “He did,” said Bevins, helping the rest of Eli’s crew to their feet. “So, what can we do for you? I’m afraid the town is a little overwhelmed right now. We’re about triple our normal population due to the summer crowd.”

  “I might be able to help you with that. I assume most of those folks have no way to get home?”

  “The ones with working vehicles took off right after it happened. Some hiked it out. The grocery stores and restaurants have been picked clean. We’re on borrowed time before things start breaking down.”

  “It’s already starting,” said Officer Hoyt. “We won’t have patrol officers at these roadblocks next week.”

  Eli fought to suppress the grin pulling at his facial muscles. He was looking at a textbook coup d’état opportunity. An entire town under his control if he played it right.

  “Here’s what I’m thinking. I can give you some well-trained, trustworthy men to help man the roadblocks. Free up a few of your police officers. We’d keep my people on the periphery of town so they don’t spook anyone. Militia is still kind of a dirty word for a lot of folks.”

  “It would be a big help,” said Officer Hoyt, looking at Bevins.

  “I can see something like this passing muster with the rest of the selectmen, as long as your men stay out of town. You’re right about people being a little worried about militia.”

  “Lots of folks still see us as mutant biker zombies. Mad Max types. We’ll work under the direct supervision of your roadblock crews, staying on the outskirts of town. If you need us to do more, we can talk about that later. There’s only one favor I would ask of you.”

  “Sure,” said Bevins.

  “Would you be willing to schedule one town hall meeting for me to address the people? I’m not going to bullshit you. I’m looking for recruits. It’s a good gig for anyone with previous law enforcement or military experience. All I need is fifteen minutes to address whoever shows up. I’ll come unarmed, dressed however you’d like.”

  “I don’t want you panicking the town,” said Bevins.

  “I’ll keep the York County stories to myself. Scaring people into joining the militia isn’t the best way to go about business. I’ll tell them what we do, leaving out the part about staffing the checkpoints.”

  “It’s probably not a bad idea to have some trained folks at the checkpoints, especially if the patrol officers are needed elsewhere. How long can your people stay?”

  “As long as they’re needed. If I get enough volunteers from town, I can run a two-week training course and give some of them back. Might give you the boost you need to cover any inbound routes you’re missing.”

  “We have a few smaller roads on the other side of Highland Lake that don’t get much traffic,” said Bevins.

  “I’d like to put someone on Sam Ingalls Road, west of here. People crossing the border from New Hampshire are bound to find that road eventually. Same with King Hills down south. We have seven checkpoints, all staffed twenty-four hours a day by at least one member of the department. This would be a big help, Ron,” said Officer Hoyt. “If Mr. Russell can get his people here later today or tomorrow, they could work with our officers at each checkpoint for a few days. Sort of a trial period.”

  “You give me the thumbs-up, and I’ll have ten men here in a few hours.”

  “We’ll have to run it by the chief. He’ll have some reservations.”

  “I understand his position. Tell him my men can start out unarmed until he’s comfortable with them. Let’s say three men. If it works out, we can expand the program. Baby steps, gentlemen. I get it.”

  “I’ll take this back to the chief and the rest of the selectmen,” said Bevins. “Do you want to come back around five? Give us some time to work this out?”

  “If you don’t mind, we’ll wait. That way, if your chief has any questions, we’re not far away. We’d planned to be out all day. Got some MREs and plenty of water.”

  “Sounds good,” said Bevins. “I’ll be back.”

  “No hurry,” said Eli, turning to Officer Hoyt. “I’ll pull the car back to the town line so we don’t interfere with your duties. If you need us, just flash the high beams.”

  “Will do,” said Hoyt, turning to walk to his patrol car.

  The man with the bipod-equipped rifle lifted the weapon off the pickup truck’s hood and made room for Ron Bevins and Officer Hoyt. He kept the sight fixed on Eli as the pickup truck’s engine roared.

  Trust but verify.

  Chapter 4

  EVENT +5 Days

  Sanford, Maine

  Alex searched the trees on the left side of the deserted two-lane road for signs of the airport’s boundary fence. He used to drive into Sanford using this route when he worked in pharmaceutical sales, and remembered that the tree line opened to a massive, flat expanse of land containing Sanford Seacoast Regional Airport. The airport had never impressed him, just another stop for Cessna-type aircraft or maybe something a little bigger. He’d been surprised to learn that the airport had a reinforced 6,300-foot runway, suitable for use by a United States Air Force C-17B (Globemaster III) military transport aircraft. The runway had been hardened in 2016, using federal grants.

  Uncle Sam has been busy since the Jakarta Pandemic.

  The forest thinned, yielding a vast, sun-browned field of low-cut scrub grasses separated from the road by a barb-wire-topped, chain-link fence. Not much standing between the public and the airfield. Alex imagined that Maine’s 133rd Engineering Battalion had a few upgrades planned for the perimeter—especially given Regional Recovery Zone security protocols. He had spent most of the night on the battalion’s SIPRNet (Secret Internet Protocol Routing Network) connection, digging through the hundreds of classified documents in an attempt to understand the scope and impact of the RRZ’s deployment to southern Maine.

  The picture was complicated, but one thing became crystal clear. Once the president of the United States activated the National Recovery Plan, you wanted to be inside one of the RRZ security zones—for reasons he tried to impress on Harrison Campbell. You especially didn’t want to end up in one of the FEMA camps outside the RRZ. The documents painted a rosy picture of the United States’ “upgraded” capacity to implement and administer a sprawling system of refugee camps, but time and time again, history proved otherwise. Alex intended to do everything in his power to keep his family and friends inside the security zone.

  They drove past an enormous vacant parking lot connecting a Super Walmart with a Home Depot. He planned to visit The Home Depot on the way back, to secure some plywood for their windows and two toilets. They had stacked enough boards in the barn to barricade the first-floor windows against intruders, but the
Maine Liberty Militia’s sustained fusillade had shattered close to every window in the house. Since the event blast wave had been negligible in Sanford, he didn’t feel bad commandeering the wood, along with a few other repair supplies needed to patch up the holes.

  Three olive-drab flatbed trucks converged on Route 109 from a road beyond the parking lot. Without stopping, the loaded vehicles turned right and accelerated, pouring black exhaust above the convoy. From a distance, the trucks resembled the Mk23 MTVRs (Medium Tactical Vehicle Replacement) used by Grady’s battalion.

  Where the hell did they come from?

  His tactical overview of organic RRZ units indicated that the 1136th Transportation Company based out of Sanford had M1078 MTVs—but their headquarters was four miles west of here. As Alex’s vehicle passed the fire station, he matched the street sign to the vehicle’s tactical display. The digital map confirmed that Eagle Road was a dead end.

  Interesting.

  “Looks like they know where they’re going,” said Alex.

  “Let’s hope, sir,” said Lianez. “I’ll tuck in right behind them.”

  “Make sure to stop at the gate so we can figure out where we need to go. I’m not exactly sure where we’re supposed to check in, but I assume there’s a base commander or something like that,” said Alex, fumbling with the door. “How do you open the windows?”

  “You don’t, sir. This is an integrated projectile and blast resistant design.”

  “Really? How the hell did I miss that?”

  “Most officers don’t figure it out until they want to shoot something from that seat. I had one platoon commander who insisted we were messing with him. Every time he got in the damn vehicle, he fucked around with that door.”

  “It was kind of silly-like,” said Jackson over the PRC-153 Intra-Squad Radio (ISR).

  “I’m sure he had every reason to trust the two of you to steer him in the right direction,” said Alex, smirking. “So, how the hell does the crew defend the vehicle?”