Godspeed, Carry My Bullet: The Split, #1

1

August 20th, 2013

Cleveland, Ohio

Listening to the yelps of rioters echo off of battered storefronts, Bobby Clyne stood motionless in the dank summer heat. His stale, one-room apartment overlooked the melee below, and he peered through the yellowed window sheers with an acrid taste in his mouth.

Bottles and other debris flew as instigators grabbed whatever makeshift weapons they could find in the gutters and garbage cans. Grimy, sweat-soaked skin met in rushed collisions as men elbowed past one another. There was no regard for decency or dignity as limbs flailed in greedy anticipation of what they might find.

The temptation was due to a stalled government supply truck that carried non-perishable food items. With a wheezing stutter from the motor, the rig had coasted to a stop, vulnerable in the left lane of Euclid Ave.

Traffic wasn’t the problem so much as the hungry riffraff trolling the streets in the mid-afternoon stink. When it was clear the boxy, tired truck wasn’t going anywhere, they made good on their desire to fill their stomachs and show their contempt for state discipline.

With his eyes narrowed on the street below, Bobby sat down on a metal folding chair next to the window. He wiped wet palms on his gray cargo pants. An olive-drab t-shirt clung to his back, and his brow shined slick with sweat beneath a tuft of chestnut hair. His face was unremarkable save for a pronounced lower lip.

Bobby hated the Directorate—the government of the East—but didn’t see fit to take part in such a public and stupid display of disrespect. Despite his deep-seated animosity, the sting of old wounds reminded him that he was helpless to do anything about his circumstance. He’d already watched his father try and fail.

Still, he fantasized about rising up against the Military Police. Their constant presence soured him. With round-the-clock patrols and a general disrespect for civilians, they were a gratuitous display of the Directorate’s power, and Bobby swore he’d never enlist with them even though he was a decent shot with a rifle.

Bobby nudged the firearm at his feet that leaned against the water-stained wall. It was a Dragunov, an old Russian sniper rifle that his father had given him before he died.

He leaned over and ran his fingers across the wooden thumbhole stock. He preferred it to the black synthetic furniture used on the newer models. Engraved into the stock was the PSO-1 telescoping sight’s serial number, which meant the 4x24 was factory-matched to the rifle itself.

The ten-round, double-stacked magazine protruded from the bottom of the receiver, waiting to feed it with steel-jacketed rounds that could punch holes in cinderblock walls. In deft hands, a shot fired might reach distances nearing a mile.

The rifle was all Bobby had left of his father; it was really the only sentimental thing in the entire apartment. Should the riot escalate to his building, he wasn’t going to leave the rifle behind or the match-grade ammo stashed behind the closet wall.

Bobby turned back to the window. He watched as the first round of looters ran away with armloads of food. The concentrated intensity of the riot waned, and the more timid looters crept in to fill the void.

Stupid, he thought. The cities were painted as safe havens when unrest initially took hold four years before. Financial collapse and rolling power outages caused many to flock to the promise of government sustenance and protection.

Strength in numbers. Stand firm with your community. Rally your neighbors and seek harbor near your local government centers. He remembered the slogans championed by the infant Directorate, still nursing on the political mistrust and general confusion after the death of the President and much of his cabinet.

The anarchy in the street below hammered home the reality that the cities were not as golden as the Directorate would suggest. Bobby was just as desperate as the looters. The difference was he kept his head down. Drifting from one dead-end job to another, he sunk in with the rest of the low, common folk and didn't make a peep.

The menacing hammer of a diesel motor bellowed from further up the street. Bobby peered past the edge of the window, straining to see what he knew emitted that familiar rumble. In three seconds his attention was satisfied as a Meatplow came into view.

The armored, flat black MRAP Cougar, a former U.S. Army infantry vehicle, earned its nickname from the angled plow bolted to the front of it—and for the callous manner in which it would drive at speed into an unruly crowd. Bobby had seen it before.

Some of the rioters near the fringe took heed and scattered. Others continued to rummage through boxes and crates, attempting to hoard more than they could ever carry.

Bobby stood up, wide-eyed. He called out from the open window, his voice lost among the din. Hey! Hey! Get out of there!

The looters nearest the truck were so absorbed that they heard nothing until the Meatplow tore into edge of the mob, crushing, tearing, smacking, and thumping bodies—but by then it was too late.

2

Doolittle Mills, Indiana

The blotched Midwest fell within the bounds of a DMZ that harbored both the peace-loving and the violent. There was no federal law there, only loose state or local governing authorities at best. Despite the risk of bandits, mercenaries, and other wayward guns, the man known as the Raider forged his own path. He was a survivor.

Unshaven, and with a burning cigarette dangling from his lips, the Raider kept his eyes focused on the road ahead. His ruddy complexion and creased face suggested that he’d seen the world and had weathered much.

He ignored the drone of the seventeen-inch Super Swamper tires mounted to his black Jeep Wrangler Sahara. The hum mixed with the whir of the 3.8 liter V6 modified with an aftermarket intake.

A beefy four-speed transfer case, custom drivelines, and a Magnaflow exhaust snaked back from the motor and transmission. A tubular exo-cage wrapped every corner of the Jeep’s body with reinforced tubes on the rockers. Sturdy bumpers protruded with a winch bolted to the front.

Rolling across the countryside with the persistence of a hungry wolf, it was a raw, coarse vehicle that didn’t look like anything else on the road. The Raider exploited this intimidation factor where he could, but kept a sawed-off Remington 1187 behind the passenger seat for vehicle-to-vehicle combat just in case.

Also behind the passenger seat was a sturdy, silver briefcase destined for Lincoln, Nebraska. An influential man in the East was paying the Raider to deliver it. After carrying out similar jobs in the DMZ, he had earned a reputation for reliability, and was regularly sought out to perform such work.

Santo, his Lab-Shepherd mix, sat in the passenger seat gazing with intent eyes on the skimming landscape. He had the color and markings of a Shepherd, but the wide head of an English-style Lab. Santo was the Raider’s only real friend and the only living thing he trusted. A large breed made for a reliable companion and secondary defense.

The back of the Jeep brimmed with fresh supplies loaded from one of the Raider’s various caches. He started small with one or two when the recession hit hard in 2008, then progressed to larger and more numerous stashes of non-perishable food and other gear as the federal government began to unravel.

He dug holes, built hidden mini-bunkers, and hollowed out stumps across various indistinguishable terrains. These he geocached with a handheld Garmin GPS device, ensuring the locations were only known to him. They sustained him while traveling back and forth between the East and the West, but it was an applied discipline.

He credited a 1997 visit to the Arctic as the source for his interest in survival tactics. He put into practice everything he learned from the wilderness instructors there and memorized passages from the SAS Survival Handbook like some do the Bible.

He spent much time between 1998 and 2001 practicing modern wilderness survival, bushcraft, and primitive survival techniques. He gained expertise in firecraft, shelter building, hunting, and fishing using simple tools. He was already adept at tracking and foraging by the time the government split.

The unrest that followed came in waves, which allowed him to get a head start on those who would try to leave the suburbs and head west. He committed himself to a nomadic lifestyle; to stay in the cities was to bend to the will of either the Directorate in the East or the United States Valiant in the West. To hole up somewhere in the Midwest was to invite potential conflict with the killers and thugs who sought out communities banded together for safety.

The only way he saw to survive was to stockpile, conserve, and diversify. And the only way to maximize freedom was to embrace the open road. He sought both and in that order, but such a lifestyle required funding. His caches didn’t remain cornucopias of sustenance on their own.

A chance encounter in 2006 proved fortuitous. He had signed up for a fourteen day field course in southern Utah. There in the Boulder Mountain canyon country, hard core survivalists, adventurous college students, and ignorant yahoos gathered to test their limits.

On that particular expedition was a thrill-seeking, glory-hound of a man named William Reamer. At the time, Reamer owned Sage Industries, which specialized in private correctional institutions.

Reamer announced several times during orientation that he had camped in the Ozarks, and that it had been a damn fine thrill to live off the land. He said he relished the idea of a gritty, bare-bones plunge into the bush.

The field course was minimalist, designed to force its students into relying on a few tools and their own wits and will. Each student departed from the trailhead for the solo portion of the trek after nine days’ instruction.

The Raider had tracked his way along a shallow valley dotted with sparse scrub growth and clay-red dirt. When a storm loomed in the west, the darkened sky and blisters of lightning sent him toward the sheer, craggy rock face to his south.

Moving up a dry wash leading to a slot canyon rim, he hoped to avoid any flash-flooding that might occur at a lower level. Once atop, he skimmed the lip in search of a good spot to make a temporary camp. After two minutes he heard the scraping echoes of a struggle between man and rock.

Reamer was stuck a hundred feet below in the narrow crevice of the canyon. Left leg twisted opposite his torso, he couldn’t free himself without help from someone else.

The Raider looked back at the thick, black clouds converging across the desert floor. He knew Reamer would have no chance should a torrent wash through his position, and so he backtracked and descended down to the bottom.

The first drops of rain pelted the Raider’s sandy hair as he skirted the base of the cliff face; they unleashed their attack as he made his first moves into the narrow gauntlet that was three feet across at the widest.

It took him twenty minutes to maneuver his way to Reamer and another fifteen to pry him free. By then they were up to their ankles in runoff. The water rose to their thighs by the time the Raider led Reamer, nursing a twisted, swollen ankle out from the canyon mouth.

They spent a soaked night in a makeshift shelter the Raider constructed with a space blanket and dead wood. Impressed with the Raider’s efforts and skill, Reamer offered him a job in the private sector. I’ll make it worth your while, he said, his sharp, narrow nose prodding the intangible as he made promises.

The Raider refused him at the time, but kept the offer in his back pocket until 2011. By then he needed funds and more importantly supplies.

The job offers had remained steady since then, and his current delivery would pay well just like the others. It helped that William Reamer had become the Supreme Commander of the Directorate.

3

Plano, Texas

Bon Horton held his breath for the second time that day. Curled up against the cubicle wall, cradling a Remington 870 shotgun, he anticipated the sound of hurried footsteps in the hall.

Printer paper, overturned chairs, and dust-covered knick-knacks from someone’s once cluttered desk lay scattered on the speckled commercial grade carpeting. The Texas sun shone through the grime-caked windows across from his position.

He alternated the wiping of his hands on his filthy jeans, one after the other. The bloody gash on his forehead told him enough; he had been too careless with a pack of looters, and now he might pay for it.

His blue Chevy pickup was coughing on fumes when he had ditched it a block away. Hiding behind a burned-out minivan that hogged the west-bound lanes of Plano Parkway, he listened for the squealing tires of his pursuers. When they didn’t come, he sprinted toward a once-professional, glass-wrapped office building. The looters came into view and were less than a quarter mile up the road when he leapt through its gaping front door.

Bon imagined that once inside, they would ransack cubicles and offices looking for him. They would strip him of his gun, his Glock field knife, the week-old jerky in his back pocket, and probably his clothes.

Naked, he would accept their taunts and jeers at the In Christ tattoo scrolled across his pale shoulder blades. He would take every kick to his rail of a body, every blow to his blunt chin, but in the end it wouldn’t bother him. It would be the fact that Sully Craven got away.

Bon winced in distaste at the thought of the grizzled predator who dealt in child trafficking. He shook with a violent shudder as if simply thinking of the man made him dirty.

He had been on Sully’s trail since California where Bon and his brother Hoffer were moving down the coast as itinerant preachers. Twins, they were named for the theologian and martyr Dietrich Bonhoeffer, though their parents had opted for an Americanized spelling.

Hoffer sported a similar shoulder tattoo—his reading By Grace Alone—and was older than Bon by a minute. It was something of a family joke that the order of their names didn’t follow their birth order. They were raised in the Pacific Northwest after which they enrolled in the College of Ministry at Northwest University in Kirkland, Washington. They dropped out three years later with the collapse of the U.S. government.

Bon last saw his brother in Clayton, California, where a small group of believers had put them up in return for spiritual guidance and some manual labor. They performed odd jobs around peoples’ homes and property, patching the random roof leak or swapping out shot car parts. On Sundays they preached at one of the churches or homes in the area.

Not all communities were like Clayton, though. The United States Valiant would deny that their five-state union adhered to any form of social hierarchy, but in practice the affluent preyed on the weak under the guise of freedom.

One hazy night in Los Angeles, Bon had stumbled out of an alleyway and onto the street, raving and distraught over the dead homeless girl he found half-stuffed into a dumpster. It was the first time he'd seen anyone dead.

A straight-faced man in chinos and boat shoes took him aside with a comforting arm around his shoulder. Hey man, he said. No worries, OK? It’ll get cleaned up by morning.

Bon had stomached it with a silent, grim aching that he hoped would reside. It never did. Instead it smoldered into a searing hot ember, a compressed, combustible thing that would eventually engulf him in a righteous fire, thirsty for justice.

Sully Craven was the spark that set him off. He had been making his rounds, looking for new blood, around the same time the twins arrived in Clayton. Sully was caught trying to hook two teenage girls on barbiturates after which he was chased down by Hoffer and one of the girls’ fathers.

Mr. Montgomery, a Clayton resident, offered his spare room; they kept Sully under lockdown until they could decide what to do with him. A storm hit the next night and Sully managed to slip away, but it wasn’t until morning that they learned the girl next door was missing. She was only nine.

Bon snapped back to the present. Now Sully was pushing further east, his captor in tow, and Bon was stuck playing hide and seek with the local hoodlums who just might have a leg up on him. He was outnumbered for one, low on slugs for two, and collapse-on-his-face tired for three.

Bon squeezed the shotgun once more, the grip digging deep into his calloused hands as the sound of crunching glass and whispered threats sounded from down the hall.

4

Cleveland, Ohio

Bobby watched from three stories up. The Meatplow dragged along several bodies as it broke loose from the main concentration of the mob. Two bodies were wedged beneath the angled plow; another hung ragged from the undercarriage.

The brutish vehicle, its flanks painted with the black and white stars and stripes of the Directorate, rumbled down the panicked street to the next intersection where it pulled an awkward, destructive U-turn. Clipping other vehicles and climbing onto the curb, it charged again, diesel roaring, and menaced down upon those who struggled to get clear of its path.

Bobby's stomach lurched as the Meatplow ran down those too injured to move out of the way; several prostrate forms lay scattered with no escape as the truck rolled over them like they weren’t there. Wailing mouths vomited entrails; he imagined bones snapping with disgusting cracks.

Onlookers on the sidewalk voiced Bobby’s outrage as he gripped his rifle to respond in a way they couldn’t, but he faltered at the sound of confusion and anxious voices in the hall outside his apartment. It was enough to interrupt his rash decision. He set the rifle on its butt and leaned it against the wall before stepping away.

Bobby cracked the door as far as the security chain would allow. He listened to the fretful Mrs. Weatherby from two doors down express pangs of grief-stricken horror at what she saw through the window at the end of the hall.

The crusty old timer directly across from Bobby’s unit emerged at the same time. He nodded to Bobby in the way he always did, with a careful tipping of his lined brow that seemed to sheepishly ask for approval.

Bobby unfastened the chain and stepped into the dingy hallway, returning the greeting with his own nod. He didn’t know the man’s name and couldn’t remember if he had ever been told. They both stood under the dim fluorescent lighting, equals in that neither feared the other—and sometimes that was enough for peace of mind.

They’re just mercenaries, you know. The old timer spoke matter of fact in short, clipped phrases, the spittle in the corner of his mouth sliding along the edge of his lips. His brown pleated slacks, worn thin in the knees, rode at his belly. A damp undershirt hung loose on his slack frame.

That’s what keeps me from signing up, Bobby said. It was a lie and he knew it, but it was enough for making conversation.

They’re probably drumming up the unruly ones so they can dispatch them before the new Grand Marshall comes to town. The old man spit ‘Grand Marshall’ like it was poison, waved a dismissive hand toward the window, and then looked at Bobby for agreement.

Bobby snapped out of the hazy, sweaty clamor that had moved from the hallway into his head. Something about the Grand Marshall reclaimed his waning attention. What was that?

The old man spoke louder, as if he were repeating himself to one of his half-deaf cronies at the senior center. I said the new Grand Marshall is supposed to come to town. Some type of promotional tour. My guess is the Military Police want everyone scared and in-line.

Bobby nodded with a quiet Oh. The states had dissolved with the dissipation of the Union. Rough territories remained with a Grand Marshall overseeing each: New England, New York, Pennsylvania, Ohio, West Virginia, Virginia, the Carolinas, and Georgia. A loosely patrolled border ran along the edge of the western-most regions, some of it cutting into what used to be Tennessee and Kentucky.

Crossing his arms, the old man prattled on. I heard he’s a local boy. His name is Blet, or something or other.

Bobby looked up, eyes wide as if he had walked into oncoming traffic. Trevor Blet?

The old man wrinkled his brow and puckered his mouth in slow agreement. Yeah, I think that’s his name.

Bobby accepted this confirmation like he had been struck. The roiling in his gut told him to run down to the street and join in with the looting, to parade his disrespect for the Directorate for all to see. Instead he only let loose a muttered curse, setting it free like some inconsequential animal, before turning back toward his unit.

Closing the door on the confused, tired bones of his neighbor, Bobby returned to the folding chair by the window.

Trevor Blet was the source of an inconsolable rage that boiled inside him. The man had terrorized his mother, pushed his father to heart failure, and killed his dog. It had been four years since he saw him last. Bobby still hungered for justice, and he would do anything to get near Blet, even if for only a few seconds.

He sat and considered the rifle.

5

Columbus, Ohio

Maggie Finch pulled a can of baked beans down from the flimsy particleboard shelf. She inspected the date printed on the underside; in skewed blue ink, it said the contents were two months past their ‘best by’ date.

The beginnings of perspiration appeared at her freckled brow; her cinnamon hair was swept back and held in place by a black tie. She wished the sultry air would move; it lay thick as musk outside the screen door, strangled by the buzz of everyone else’s air conditioning unit.

Maggie turned to the fridge behind her and opened the door, tried to ignore the sparse shelves, and grabbed a package of scrawny, no-name hot dogs. She didn’t get paid until the following week and had to stretch what she had. Twice in the last month she had to borrow money; she didn’t want to make a habit of it.

Three hundred dollars was all that stood between Maggie and an empty share draft account, and CFM Credit Union’s policies dictated that she have at least two hundred dollars at all times. Otherwise she would incur penalties.

That meant a hundred dollars on which Maggie and her two sons could eat, except that her battered Pontiac Sunfire needed a new tire. She somehow convinced the mechanic at a nearby auto repair shop to mount and balance the new tire for an even hundred; major purchases would have to wait until the following week.

It helped that Maggie didn’t have to work that day. Not only was she a member of CFM, but she worked there too. She had been employed at the downtown branch since before the Directorate took over. Credit Unions weathered the split better than the banks did, and the U.S. Dollar remained an accepted currency in the East.

Maggie tore open an end of the hot dog package and drew the franks out one at a time. She sliced them in even, quarter-inch pieces and dumped them into a saucepan with the beans. She placed the pan on the stove and turned on the only burner that worked. It would be dinner for her and her sons, Jack and Nate.

Jack, her eleven year-old, watched T.V. in the other room.

Nate wasn’t home yet. In the summer he worked odd jobs with a friend mowing lawns, painting, and running errands. It kept him in the suburbs for the most part, and for that Maggie was grateful. The influence of the Directorate was stronger downtown as was the presence of the Military Police.

Her fear that Nate might be lured to join their ranks began after she found an informational pamphlet in his room. It promised a higher pay grade than the average laborer, benefits, stability, and most of all, the fear and respect of one’s fellow citizens.

Maggie had confronted him about it, and an argument ensued. She didn’t want him to become another one of the cold, detached faces she saw drive by in patrol vehicles each day. However, she couldn’t do anything to stop him; Nate would be eighteen in two weeks, at which point he could legally sign-up of his own accord.

The pounding of a sub-woofer interrupted her train of thought. The obnoxious thump reverberated through the shared wall of the duplex.

Someone new was moving in next door; she’d seen the rental truck in the drive. Their music had blared on and off for the last hour.

She crept out into the shaded living room and stepped over Jack who lay on the floor. The searching sun angled through the storm door, casting a warm patch of light onto the mat that said Welcome to our Home. Maggie stepped into the sun’s glare and peered out through the flimsy screen.

An unshaven man with stringy blond hair hefted a cardboard box, cigarette stuck behind his ear, as he sauntered into his unit. He passed a stumpy man and slouchy woman talking and drinking in the diminutive yard.

The stumpy guy stood with one thumb hooked in a belt loop; his other thumb worked with an index finger to keep a beer bottle from escaping his loose grasp. He shot a Hey, what have we got here? kind of leer at Maggie.

Maggie felt violated even fifteen feet away. She retreated into her unit. C’mon honey, she said to Jack. Turn off the T.V. for now. It’s time for dinner.

Jack followed Maggie into the kitchen where he took his usual seat along the wall. His straw-colored bangs lay plastered to his forehead; a few stray strands floated near his crown.

Maggie gave the beanies and weenies one last stir and then spooned out two servings into chipped ceramic bowls. She placed them on the table, sat down, and then reached out to take Jack’s hand.

Each bowed their heads and Maggie prayed the blessing for the meal. She also asked that God would watch over her boys, the most precious thing to her. She never wanted anything more than to be a mother.

A firm rapping at the door interrupted their meal.

Leaning around the corner, Maggie could make out the wispy hair of her new neighbor just outside the storm door. She stood and took a few reluctant steps into the living room. She raised her voice, trying to get it to carry to the door. Who’s there?

Hi, uh, ma’am. My name’s Rawley. I’m movin’ in next door. You wouldn’t happen to have a screwdriver, would ya? The man leaned his forehead against the screen, trying to see into the living room. He wore a cut-off mesh T-shirt.

Maggie closed the distance to the door. A screwdriver?

Yeah, I uh, I need to take a door off its hinges.

Maggie knew she had one, probably just like what the man needed. All the tools were in the garage. It would be a simple enough thing to lend it to him, but she wanted to lie, just to get the man off her stoop. Yes, I think I have one in the garage.

She reached for the flip-handle on the door and the man stepped back. I’ll be back in a minute, honey, she said over her shoulder before heading out.

In the yard, the two gawkers remained planted in their sloth. The stumpy man turned to watch Maggie. Hey, sugar, he said with a squinty grin.

Maggie returned an artificial smile and murmured a curt Hello.

Two garages sat on the other side of Rawley’s unit, and one of them belonged to Maggie. She made quick, deliberate strides in that direction, the glaring sun toasting her fair skin. Each step through the soft grass tickled her sandaled feet and made her feel more exposed.

Bending over, careful to lean in a modest direction away from the others, she yanked the wooden door up the tracks.

Without her Pontiac, the one-car garage looked even more bare-bones than usual. Cracked cement with oil stains frowned back at her. In the far left corner, a shallow bench and pegboard sat huddled together. A black toolbox lay on the bench.

I think I’ve got a screwdriver in the toolbox, she said to Rawley.

He followed her halfway into the garage.

Maggie flipped the lid and rooted through the second-hand tools. When a shadow fell across the work bench, she turned to see the stumpy man from the yard.

He halted in the open doorway, passed an awkward glance from Rawley to Maggie, and then advanced a few steps inward. His substantial gut protruded beneath a sleeveless softball jersey; his free thumb remained hooked in his belt loop. Focusing on Maggie, he examined her from top to bottom with attentive eyes before turning to his friend. Say, Rawley. Your new neighbor like to party?

6

Huntingburg, Indiana

Low hills and dense clusters of foliage dotted the countryside as the Raider continued to cruise along State Road 64. His westward course met with little to no traffic while he and Santo passed patchy fields and the silent railway.