The Storm: War's End, #1 Read online

  The Storm

  War’s End: Book 1

  Christine D. Shuck

  Copyright © 2010 Christine D. Shuck

  All rights reserved.

  ISBN-13:978-1499170504 (CreateSpace-Assigned)

  ISBN-10: 1499170505

  BISAC:Fiction / Action & Adventure

  Table of Contents

  And So It Ends

  Welcome to Hell

  Time to Go

  The Story of Allen

  Forest Refuge

  Soldier Running

  Shoes Worn Through

  A Flight Interrupted

  The Cabin in the Woods

  Welcome to Tennessee

  Plaids and Paneling

  A Long Walk

  A Good Fit

  Coop’s End

  Rise to Power

  New in Town

  The Hidey-Hole

  Two More Makes Four

  Jacob’s Birth

  After the Storm

  Come With Us

  Leaving Clinton

  The Sacrifice

  A Good Harvest

  The Silence of Screams

  The Peace of Earth

  A Lake Retreat

  Sanctuary

  Memories of Ancestors

  Christmas Presents and Shotguns

  You Reap What You Sow

  A White Wedding

  Home Sweet Cave

  The Death of Falling Water

  The Tennessee Four

  Something’s Wrong

  Stones and Trailblazers

  Raiding Party

  A Tent for the Night

  Hello and Goodbye

  Saving Grace

  Home

  A Café on Main Street

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  And now, on with the story.

  And So It Ends

  “We overstayed our welcome. We bullied, we pushed, we invaded...and when we were done, when the world had felt our presence in every corner of it, felt our hand on their backs, shoving our way into every aspect of their lives, faiths, even their very existence...we were hated. God, were we hated. In retrospect I can feel no real surprise for what happened next. Our time had come. For our hypocrisy, for our crimes, we each paid such a terribly high price. The world we had known, the nation that our parents had been told to be proud of, a place of fast food and ‘freedom fries’, home of the consumer, center of capitalism, world leader, it all ceased to exist. It was a slow, painful end, an extended death rattle, as we slowly tore ourselves apart, and then allowed others to finish off what remained.

  What was left in the wreckage of the world that was? We were. And this is our story, my story, and the story of us all. We have survived. We have found a way to live on...in a world where ghosts haunt us and memories whisper in our ears. Life goes on, one day at a time, and by the skin of our teeth and the force of our will, we will continue. What else can we do?” - Jess’s journal

  On “Black Monday” - the long-faltering United States economy collapsed into complete chaos. In the past few years state after state had found themselves out of money and out of options. The federal government stopped promising bailouts and instead preached “state independence” and “more autonomy.” Road projects and other public works were halted and hundreds of thousands of state and even federal employees were left holding worthless checks their banks no longer honored.

  Abroad, things moved quickly as well. Quietly, without fanfare or publicity, American troops had been withdrawn from the Middle East and Korean conflicts. In some places they left under cover of night, a stark gaping hole left in their absence. Iraq and Afghanistan dissolved into civil war within days of being abandoned, while their neighbors looked on and tried to decide how to fortify their borders and contain the violence while also finding a way to profit from the conflicts.

  Where had it all begun? Some said it had begun with OPEC no longer honoring the decades-long agreement to set prices and sell their oil based on American currency. Others claimed it had ended with China demanding payment in yen, not United States currency on the billions in debt it was owed by the United States. Still others pointed far back to the strategies put into place after World War II that transformed the United States into an economic and political world power and consumer nation.

  However it had begun, it was all now crashing down in ruin. The United States had overextended itself and the future of its citizens, financially, and politically in the hearts and minds of people throughout the world. From the not-so-benign ‘foreign policy’, to the endless wars waged in the Middle East, our country, once hailed as a world leader, had become a mindless bully. We were the tyrant, the monster at the door. Where there had once been handfuls of money to seemingly any country that asked, now there was only debt and abandonment.

  The militias that had gone underground or been forcibly disbanded in the mid 1990’s came back with ferocious fervor. Perhaps they had never really left. But everyone from the Luddites to the Neo-Nazi to small bands of survivalists was forming, each seeking to put their own unique vision of how the world should work into action. And with those thousands of voices clamoring for different methods, different approaches – combined with the financial collapse from within, abandonment by the rest of the world and foreign banks screaming for payment – all of these things brought one of the most powerful nations in the world to its knees. It heaved a great sigh and quickly began to come apart at the seams. The federal system went first, then the states, breaking into chunks of territories, areas full of in-fighting and instability. Among the military factions, abandoned by their government, rose a particularly dangerous and powerful network of soldiers in the West. They called themselves the Western Front.

  Comprised of units from Fort Pendleton and Fort Irwin and picking up odd assortments of the militaristic militias along the way, the Western Front began to tear its way through Nevada and Colorado. Their numbers ebbed and flowed, but as more and more of the basic infrastructure of the country broke down, their power in numbers and weaponry increased. They began to turn their eyes to the east and rumors spread that they would soon be on the move.

  Jess was twelve years old on Black Monday, and Christopher was fifteen. But they both remembered that day, just as their parents before them had remembered the fall of the Twin Towers or the day that President Reagan was shot. Mom had lost her job two months before after the latest layoffs, and Dad headed home after sitting around for half the day. No business, no customers, no one out on the streets. As if a death knell had been sounded, those who were still employed, those who still had jobs and places to go to suddenly found themselves at home, wondering what would happen next. That evening they watched the television in dull shock as the President held a press conference to announce that all debts, foreign and private, were to be held null and void. The British, who were heavily invested in American banks, were already threatening embargoes. The Chinese had been rioting for weeks over the trade/import issues, and their government was making threats that continued to grow in clarity and intensity.

  The world seemed to be falling apart. Jess’s parents said little, and in the months and years that followed, they simply tightened their belts, planted gardens, began raising chickens for eggs and meat, and found ways to get by on less. As the infrastruc
ture continued to collapse, utilities and out of area supplies faltered. First there were the brownouts, just a lull in the electrical flow that rarely even caused the computers to reboot. Later there were blackouts, first for a few minutes and finally hours and even days at a time. The price of natural gas spiked so high that Jess’s father Michael, installed a wood-burning stove in the living room against the west wall. It was a prized antique, but it was also an honest-to-goodness working stove and Jess’s mother Tess experimented with it regularly, churning out loaves of bread that slowly transformed from inedible black carbon, to uneven half black half browned to beautiful, perfect loaves over a course of a few months. “The pioneers did it,” she said proudly, “and I can too!”

  But the real Black Monday, the one that came on November 4th, was the one that tore apart Jess’ world. And when it was over, when the Western Front troops tore through the small town of Belton, with barely a hiccup of resistance from its terrified residents, destroying any who even dared fight back, Jess learned what real loss felt like.

  In the camps, miles to the South, weeks of marching later, and hours of standing in line at gunpoint, she found herself thrust into a tent. There was a long folding table, three men seated behind it, with several checklists on the battered folding table in front of them.

  “Name?” The first man asked, barely looking up.

  “Jessica Aaronson.” She replied. The second man ran his finger down the lists, “Age?” he asked, bored.

  “15.”

  “Parents?” he asked.

  “Daniel and Tess Aaronson.” He scanned further, finding nothing. “Any other relatives?”

  “My brother, Christopher Aaronson.” She tried to stay calm. There were so many people here, so many places they might be. She had been just a few miles away at the store buying flour and haggling with the store owner, Michael Banks, over the price of apples when the troops came barreling in. Hearing the shots and the tank he had pulled a weapon from a hidden place behind the counter. They had shot him on sight when they saw the rifle in his hands. His blood still stained her shirt. For three days she had tried desperately to search for her family as armed men kept the bedraggled, exhausted groups of prisoners under close watch.

  The second man found nothing in his lists. He shook his head at the third, who had been eyeing Jess in a way that made her skin crawl.

  She shivered, it had rained earlier while she stood in line, and she was wet and cold, filthy, and too terrified to even care that she had eaten little more than a handful of food in the past few days. Where were Mom and Dad? And Chris? Where the hell was everyone? Belton was not a big town, but it wasn’t that small either. She had only seen one neighbor she recognized, Mrs. Dillon from down the street.

  The third man smiled wide at her discomfort. It was an evil smile, full of malice and Jess shivered again in her damp shirt, “Well, she’s available for assignment then.” He wrote her name down on his list, and checked the ‘Troop Entertainment’ box and turned to one of the guards, “Take her to Tent Five.” As the trooper took her by the arm and led her away, she could hear him call to her, “I’ll be by later to see how you’ve settled in.” He laughed then, and it wasn’t a pleasant sound, then barked at the man next in line to step forward.

  Her feet slipped in the mud and the trooper kept a firm grip on her arm, practically dragging her along. Mrs. Dillon was there in the line outside, “Did you find your parents, dear?”

  Jess was in near tears, “No, Mrs. Dillon. They’re taking me to Tent 5; please see if you can find Chris or my Mom or Dad, please!” She broke into tears then, partially from the painful grip the soldier had on her arm, partly from absolute terror, what the hell was Tent 5?

  Behind her, Mrs. Dillon stood stock still, her usually impeccably groomed gray hair in disarray. Strands of gray stuck out from her bun wildly waving in the late fall wind. A young boy, clad in an oversized, stained blue and red Western Front uniform stood nearby, smirking as he watched the girl being dragged away. The old woman turned to him, and took a hold of his sleeve; he was barely fifteen if even that, she shook him slightly and demanded “Where are they taking her?”

  “Lemme go, lady!” he wiggled, and one of the guards stationed nearby leveled his rifle and yelled at her to get back in line.

  “Where are they taking her?” she persisted, “What’s Tent 5?”

  “That’s the whores’ tent, lady. She’s gonna be ‘tainment for the men.”

  Her grip loosened and her eyes widened in horror. He grinned at her maliciously, showing a mouth full of tobacco-stained and twisted teeth.

  His tongue darted out to lick his chapped lips, “She gonna ‘git it good too.” He pulled free of her hand and took the opportunity to give the shocked old woman a hard shove, “Now ‘git back in line.”

  Then the boy spit a long brown stain in the dirt, marking the old woman’s shoe with tobacco juice as he walked away. She just stood there, trembling, tears of pity trickling down her lined face. A small, thin, ugly girl behind her in line leaned close and whispered,

  “Welcome to hell.”

  Mrs. Dillon didn’t have long to wait. A mere ten minutes later and it was her turn before the three seated men.

  “Name?”

  “Esther Dillon.”

  “Age?”

  Her lip quivered, “I’m sixty-eight years old.”

  “Family?”

  “Only my husband, Murray, and he died last year.”

  The second man didn’t even bother to look up, but the third man did. And with a cold smile he simply scribbled her name, checked the ‘Range Disposal’ box and nodded to the guard. “Take her to the range.”

  The old woman went quietly, most of them did, and if anyone had been paying attention, which they weren’t, they would have heard the single shot ring out a few minutes later. She was the tenth one that morning.

  Welcome to Hell

  “There are those who prey on fear. It isn’t war that makes them evil; they were already brutal and sadistic by nature. War simply gives them some level of freedom to do as they will, to act on their deepest, darkest desires.” – Jess’s journal

  Tent Five was large—larger than any of the other tents in this muddy hell. It sat apart from the others and the only way in or out was ringed with wire. The main entrance flap was pulled aside, it was dark inside, and men were entering and leaving. A handful turned to assess the new piece of ass being hauled in.

  Jess had tripped twice, slipping in the mud and it caked the front of her jeans, her free arm, and part of her shirt since the soldier had not even paused, just dragged her along until she managed to regain her footing and trot unevenly next to him. Her arm felt like it was on fire and she knew there would be bruises from his relentless iron grip.

  Abruptly, just inside the tent flap they came to a halt. The tent was a rabbit warren of halls and partitioned rooms. Jess could hear a woman screaming, no, at least two, and the unmistakable sounds of sex. Oh God. Oh God, oh God, oh God. Her heart began to pound faster, she stood stock still, listening to the sounds and realizing...knowing what kind of a place Tent 5 was.

  The soldier holding her arm felt her stiffen beside him, looked over at her and saw the spark of fear, then understanding in her eyes. She hadn’t known before, but she knew now, oh yes, she knew now. He waited a moment, even loosened his grip slightly...this was the fun part.

  Seconds ticked by, three, four, and on the fifth second she pulled hard and jabbed left with her elbow, backpedaling to make a run for it. Her elbow jab missed, he was prepared for it, as he kicked her legs out from under her with one ruthlessly efficient maneuver. He sneered down at her; the girl was stupid; she took him for a recruit, which was her first mistake. Her second had been trying to hit him and that earned her a strong punch which he delivered to her nose before her body had even hit the ground. Her head thudded on the ground and she went limp. It was disappointing to see her lose consciousness so quickly, he preferred his victims to be a little
more sporting. How easily she was subdued.

  What he was not prepared for was the knife that had mysteriously appeared in her hand. His knife! Her eyes snapped open and she slashed the back of his right knee, cutting deep as he fell to the ground. Bitch! She turned onto her belly, scrambling from him, stumbling to her feet, blood streaming from her nose from his punch, and ran...straight into the arms of two soldiers heading into the tent.

  This time, when they knocked her to the ground she stayed there, until the wounded soldier could lever himself close enough to attempt to choke her with his hands.

  The other men laughed as they pulled him off of her, “You’ll get your chance to get her back, Robbie you dumb bastard, just as soon as you get patched up!”

  And with that, the medics arrived and helped him limp away, and Jess lay on the ground, afraid to get up, bleeding from her nose and mouth now, and listening to his furious howls as they headed for the hospital tent. One of the soldiers kicked her in the ribs, fast, hard, and she gasped in pain.

  “That’s for Robbie. Now you stay there until we say you can move, bitch.” She could only see his boots, but Jess could swear she heard him grinning.

  A third set of feet approached from deep inside the tent. “Who do we have here, Cooper dear?” the voice was neither male nor female, it defied placement and made Jess want to look up and see, she hurt too much, though, and was afraid the bastard standing over her would give her another kick.

  Cooper was tall with jet black hair and pale blue eyes, “A new whore for you Carmen,” he replied, “And she’s a feisty one.” He reached down and hauled her to her feet effortlessly. Her head pounded in pain as Jess looked up to see that Carmen still defied description, man, woman—the creature was sexless. And from the expression on ‘her’ face, utterly heartless as well.

  “Hmmm...rather dirty, aren’t you? Didn’t your mummy and daddy teach you not to roll around in the mud?” Carmen looked down his/her nose, vaguely amused. “Strip her clothes off, Cooper.”

  The soldier holding her grinned, and pulled her closer against him, taking the opportunity to grope her breast, squeezing it painfully. The second man unsheathed a long hunting knife. Jess knew it was hopeless to fight, if she struggled, she doubted they would stop from cutting her with the vicious thing. They made short work of it; Lieutenant Cooper looked disappointed at her lack of struggle. They took it all off, and she knew they had won the first round. Without clothes she couldn’t leave the tent. If she provoked them, they would rape her right here, maybe even beat her some more, maybe even kill her.