Amsterdam apocalypse, p.19
Amsterdam Apocalypse, page 19
Nine's auburn eyes looked like burning coals. “I knew you were a brother the moment I saw you standing there—a bright light in the darkness—an angel of the Lord created for his glory—a prophet sent to save the lives of his flock,” he said, his voice a loud whisper. “But even Lucifer was of God. The Lord warned us of fallen angels—fallen angels who become false prophets and shepherd herds of goats—goats who do not unto the least of these, as he commanded.”
The man stopped walking, placed his hands on the slats of the wrought iron fence, and looked through. “And that's what you are, aren't you? The servant of the rich fool who valued his possessions over the good of his fellow man. You make right their covetous actions in this life, sliding them further and further from the path of God. But vengeance is mine, sayeth the Lord. I will drive their enemies from the land on the tips of the swords of my faithful servants. Oh, yes. I will drive them from the land.”
Jacob stopped walking and looked back at the man. A hint of a smile played at Nine's lips. There wasn't going to be a peace with this man. He didn't want peace. He didn't want to negotiate. He wanted a target.
Chapter Thirty-Seven
Jacob stared through the fence, running Nine's words through his mind as the man stood inches away. Men like this were dangerous. Since ancient times, they'd staved off the anger of their own people by conquering the lands of their neighbors, living on the spoils of war for as long as they could, and then manufacturing new enemies to repeat the process over again.
As a more thoughtful man than he had been in his younger years, Jacob had become a reader and student of history and had seen the scenario play out over and again in the pages of the numerous books he read each year. Central to the conqueror’s actions was a narrative—a story by which he inspired his people to continue following him. And if he was reading Nine's words correctly, then the man's intentions were to inspire the people of an older and less desirable part of town to fight against their more affluent neighbors.
Jacob recalled the words the protestors had been chanting over and over. “One Percent. Discontent. One Percent. We'll torment.” The words seemed all the more haunting now that he considered their real meaning. Nine was borrowing liberally from a political ideology that had become popular just prior to the H16N1 pandemic in an effort to cast his enemies as the so-called one percent—the haves of a have-versus-have-nots scenario—the class of people whom the ideology had vilified.
For the first time, Jacob looked past Nine to the crowd of people behind him. Some were black like Nine. Others were white like him. Some looked well dressed. Others looked disheveled. By all appearances, they didn't look any different from the people of Amsterdam or Patterson Creek or Coaling Hollow or anywhere else. But if Jacob's suspicions were correct, then Nine had convinced them they were different—that they were the permanently oppressed underclass of society who needed to rise up and take back what had been unjustly taken from them.
Jacob looked at the base of the fence where rough chunks of pavement gave way to green patches of grass. Sooner or later, the conquerors ran out of places to conquer or they met a foe who wasn't so easily taken. When that happened, their house of cards collapsed. But Jacob had little hope that the few men gathered in the former veterans affairs facility could outlast Nine's assault. He didn't see any weapons in the crowd, but felt sure there were some present, and while the soldiers were probably better armed and better trained, the protestors had the advantage in numbers and more were arriving from the neighborhoods beyond by the minute. If they rushed the fences, they'd have control of the facility within minutes and the soldiers would be pinned to a few random locations and forced to defend themselves until they ran out of ammunition, at which point they'd be at the mercy of the angry mob.
What did he do? He didn't want the old hospital and he was pretty sure no one else inside did either. But that wasn't what Nine wanted, though his protest had been organized under such a pretense. Jacob knew the man's desired end was a fight, but how would he get there? All Jacob needed was the time to collect the supplies and the people inside and get out of there. But what did he say to Nine that would buy them that time without making it obvious that he was only stalling?
“I'm no fallen angel. I'm a servant of the Lord like you—the salt of the earth come to preserve it so that those who are in it can be saved,” Jacob began, making things up as he went along and feeding into the deranged reverend's twisted theology. “God gave Pharaoh ten plagues—that's nine warnings to let his people go before he finally destroyed the firstborn sons. These men in here, their hearts aren't as hard as Pharaoh's and it won't take ten plagues. Let me be the messenger between you. Let me carry your message to them and deliver your demands.”
Jacob knew that “die” was the only demand Nine really had, but he didn't think the man would come right out and say it. There was a certain pageantry to how Nine conducted himself, and Jacob didn't think he'd order his people to attack immediately. He'd let the situation play out for a while in order to milk whatever he could out of it—in order to create a scenario that served his greater narrative and would make it seem like the people still needed him. Hopefully Jacob could use that to his advantage.
“The governor and his people arrived here for lack of any other place,” he continued, purposely raising his voice so that the crowd could hear what he was saying. “Me and my people arrived here for much the same reason. Our plane crashed and we had to go somewhere—we ended up here. But we have homes elsewhere—families we'd rather be with, even if it means having to go without some things. If you'll let us go, we will. You can have this place. It's well stocked with food and medicine. It has electricity generated by a solar farm. There's enough room for at least a few hundred people and if you do some work to these outer buildings, there'd be room for even more. You can let the world fall down around you while you stay safe inside these fences.”
An interested murmur passed through the crowd and Jacob looked back at Nine. The man's eyes narrowed. Jacob had beat him and he knew it. He'd given the crowd everything they thought they wanted and now it would be up to Nine to convince them otherwise—to come up with a new reason for them to be angry and to attack. That would take time. And time was all Jacob needed.
Nine looked around rapidly but without turning to face the crowd. He didn't want them to see the look of panic on his face. “For letting you leave in peace,” he said, the preachy tone gone from his voice, “we want your weapons and vehicles, too. You leave with only the clothes on your backs.”
The crowd murmured their approval.
Jacob shrugged. “You can have it all. We just want to go home. Let us gather the rest of our people and we'll exit through these gates as you enter. We'll walk down that road and out of sight and you'll never see us again.”
A low cheer passed through the crowd. Jacob turned and made his way to where Abernathy and the major stood. The major's face was twisted in anger. “What have you done?” he whispered. “We can't give them our weapons—”
Jacob stared at the man with a knowing look, silently ordering him to stop talking. “Get everyone ready to go,” he said loudly. “We leave as soon as everyone is gathered.” He held his arms out, ushering the group of men back toward the main entrance. It wouldn't take long for Nine to reconnoiter and figure out that all he had to do was convince the crowd that Jacob had been lying. At the very most, they had a half an hour to gather their supplies and get out of the back gate.
Chapter Thirty-Eight
“So we're not surrendering our weapons?” the major said as they crossed the half moon road and entered the main parking lot again.
“No,” Jacob said, keeping his voice down. “That man back there—their leader—Reverend Nine—doesn't want this place. He wants a fight. I saw it on his face and read it in his words. What I agreed to back there was tantamount to outmaneuvering him, but it won't last. How many vehicles do you all have?”
“Three Humvees and two troop carriers,” the major said.
“We have two SUVs—Chevy Suburbans,” Abernathy said.
“So we have enough room for everyone plus some supplies. That's good. That's what we need. Pass an order around—off the radios—for your men to move the vehicles to wherever the loading and unloading zone is and for everyone to gather there. Once everyone is together, we need to find out from Staunton where the medical provisions are stored and clean as many of them out as we can transport.”
“Then what?”
“Then we're out of here. There's got to be a way of accessing that back gate by vehicle or else it wouldn't be there.”
“I saw a road on the blueprints I was looking at earlier,” the major said. “It's not far from the loading zone—maybe a few hundred yards through some of the rear parking areas—but it's there.”
“Good. Send the order now. We don't have much time.”
“James,” Abernathy said to his staffer, “come with me to get my family and the others.”
“Yes, sir.”
“Where's the loading area?” Abernathy asked.
The major thought for a moment. “Southwest corner of the main facility.”
“We'll meet you there.” Abernathy jogged off toward the main entrance, his staffer following closely behind.
“You two,” the major said, addressing the two soldiers who had been keeping watch by the front gates, “one of you take the east and the other the west. Spread the word to the patrols and lookouts. Get them back here as quick as you can without drawing any attention.”
“Yes, sir.”
The two soldiers moved off in opposite directions.
“That leaves you and me to move the vehicles around,” the major said. “The two troop carriers are already in the loading area and the Humvees are just around the corner from it. We should probably move the SUVs first. They're parked just east of the main facility—just up ahead.”
Jacob nodded his agreement, but before he could respond audibly, an angry shout arose from the front gates. “No, no, no,” he said, turning and running back toward the gate, his feet pounding over the pavement. He stopped at the edge of the parking lot, sliding on some loose mulch in a flowerbed and using the trunk of a tree to keep himself from falling. “No,” he said again as he looked across the yard to the wrought iron fence. With his hands raised in the air, Reverend Nine addressed the crowd of protestors as two other men in black clothes stood beside him, each pointing towards the southeast corner of the facility—sector five as the National Guard had named it.
“Go back,” Jacob said, turning to the major as the man arrived beside him. “Get everyone to where we agreed and get the supplies loaded. Use the radios now—it doesn't matter anymore. I'll try to stall them as long as I can.”
He didn't wait for the major to agree; he took off running, feeling the grass shift and tear loose beneath his feet as he pushed himself to go faster. Another angry cry erupted from the crowd as they saw him approaching.
“You gotta give us more time!” he shouted, slowing himself by allowing his legs to move ahead of the rest of his body. “We need more time!”
“You're out of time, Lucifer!” Reverend Nine sneered as he turned around, a wild look in his eyes.
“Our people are spread out. We can't organize them this—” Jacob stopped himself as he noticed the two men standing beside Nine. He recognized the baggy-clothed hoodlums from the gang who'd attacked them as they'd crash-landed. And without a doubt, they were the same hoods who had approached the rear gates and attempted to enter the facility.
“We were willing!” Nine yelled, throwing his hands in the air. “We were willing to listen—to let you go. But you neglected to tell us you'd just killed two of our own unprovoked.” He waved his hands toward the two gang members. “They approached your men peacefully and were shot down because they weren't like you!”
“They weren't—they attacked us,” Jacob stuttered. “Out there.” He waved a hand in the direction of the downed plane. “One of mine—a friend is dead because of them. We had every reason to think they meant us further harm.”
“Lying liars and the lies they tell!” Nine shouted, throwing his hands in the air again. The crowd yelled angrily behind him.
“You've gotta believe me—look at them,” Jacob said, pointing to the two gang members who stood sneering at him. “They attacked us first.”
“Tell that to Lil' Jay, yo,” one of them said. “He's the one who got the bullet in the head as we walked up looking to make peace with y’all.”
Jacob remembered the body of the thug lying on the pavement. He'd had a single gunshot wound to the head and the look on his face said that he hadn't seen it coming. Jacob had wondered if the same corporal who had threatened to shoot his group upon entering hadn't dispensed with the warnings this time and just opened fire. His own cursory examination of the scene had indicated just that. But it didn't matter what had really happened. In reality, the gang was probably Nine's loyalist crew. The protestors weren't interested in the truth, and Nine had found his new rallying cry—a dead gang banger responsible for the death of A.J. Deyerle.
Jacob backed away from the fence. The crowd jeered him, throwing beer bottles and other trash from a row of bins across the street.
“Take these people apart!” Nine shouted. “Take back your rightful property!”
The latch on the wrought iron gates clanged against its catch, barely holding as the crowd rushed forward as a single unit.
Jacob ran.
Chapter Thirty-Nine
Gunshots sounded from behind him and Jacob ducked, nearly falling as he ran across the front lawn. He kept his head lowered, the world around him moving in slow motion. Why couldn't he run faster? He pushed himself harder, screwing his face up as loud pops from semi-automatic pistols continued. He waited for a bullet to strike him in the back—to bring him crashing to the ground. The lighting around him changed and he noticed the looming trees of the parking area overhead. He felt his legs leave the ground. Why had his legs left the ground? He closed his eyes and brought his arms up involuntarily as he impacted with the pavement and slid a short distance. “Ugh!”
Sharp pain shot from his forehead down his spine and into his legs, making them tingle. He rolled onto his back, took stock of himself, and rolled again, pushing his feet against the flower bed he'd just tripped over and using it to push off as he continued running. From the sound of it, only the gang members were firing at him, but he was sure there were other guns in the crowd. It would take them a few minutes to get over the fences, but they were coming. He rubbed stones and dirt from his elbows and forearms as he looked for injuries. His head was throbbing. Where was he? He turned in a complete circle, his eyes barely able to focus on any one thing. Something black and shiny caught his eye—an SUV—two of them—parked in front of the brick building not far from the main entrance.
He recognized the vehicles as he approached. These were the vehicles that had been driven by Scott Abernathy and his people. He pulled on the door handles. Locked. “Dammit!” He rushed to the main entrance, expecting the electronic doors to slide open, but they didn't. He lowered a shoulder and struck the window hoping the door would come open, but he only bounced off the bronze-tinted glass. He shouldered the glass again with the same result. Angry shouts came from behind him and he turned, seeing the first of the protestors enter the parking area and rush toward the main facility. He ducked away, hiding first behind the SUVs and then behind some unkempt hedges as he made his way to the winding sidewalks he'd arrived on.
What had the major said about the loading area? The southwest corner of the building? He took stock of where he was. Assuming the main entrance was due north, he turned and ran south along the sidewalk. Gunshots sounded. But not around him. Somewhere else on the property. He looked around as the sidewalk ended at a paved two-lane road. He was in sector five, where they'd faced off with the armed thugs minutes earlier.
“Arghh!”
Jacob turned to see three protestors rush down the sidewalk in his direction.
“Contact, twelve o'clock.”
He turned again as a group of soldiers appeared from around a building, their M4s aimed in front of them in fighting positions. “Craft!” he said, throwing his hands in the air. “It's Jacob Craft!”
The soldiers kept moving, their rifles trained on their targets and their minds focused on bringing down a threat. Being alone and outside, he was in the most dangerous position he could possibly be in—a position that could easily see him mistaken for one of the invading protestors and shot by his own people if he wasn't careful. He needed to get inside—to find cover and to find his people. But how? Where?
He bolted into the burned out building he'd taken cover in earlier as the soldiers opened fire into the advancing group of protestors. Had they seen him? Did they know who he was? Would they investigate or just shoot him? He couldn't risk it. He climbed the steps to the second floor, two at a time, to get out of sight. His breath was coming in deep gasps and his head was still throbbing. He stopped at the top of the stairs and touched his forehead, pulling back two bloody fingers. How bad was it? He touched the area again. It wasn't bad—just an abrasion from his fall. He looked around. The building had been stripped of everything. Only loose boards where drywall had once been hung were left on the walls and the floors were bare plywood covered in inches of dust.
Did the building connect in any way to the main facility? It was close enough to be possible. He made his way to another set of stairs and climbed, the aged steps groaning under his weight. Three stairs from the top, the step he was on snapped in the middle. He grabbed for something—anything to keep himself from falling. The steps collapsed. Grabbing frantically and involuntarily, he caught onto a board nailed to the third-floor platform. Holding on by his fingertips—his legs dangling over the second-floor stairwell twenty feet below—he looked for something more substantial, something that would give him the leverage he needed to pull himself up. He gripped a nail jutting out of the board and tested it. It would hold. He pulled, straining and swinging his legs to give himself momentum. Managing to get one foot against the outer brick wall, he pulled and pushed until his torso was on the platform. He used his fingers and the gaps between the boards to pull himself the rest of the way onto the third floor and rolled onto his back, breathing heavily.
