The Journal: Martial Law Read online

  A PERMUTED PRESS BOOK

  ISBN (eBook): 978-1-68261-375-7

  Martial Law

  The Journal Book 6

  © 2017 by Deborah D. Moore

  All Rights Reserved

  Cover art by Christian Bentulan

  This book is a work of fiction. People, places, events, and situations are the product of the author’s imagination. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, or historical events, is purely coincidental.

  No part of this book may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted by any means without the written permission of the author and publisher.

  Permuted Press, LLC

  109 International Drive, Suite 300

  Franklin, TN 37067

  Published in the United States of America

  CONTENTS

  CHAPTER ONE

  CHAPTER TWO

  CHAPTER THREE

  CHAPTER FOUR

  CHAPTER FIVE

  CHAPTER SIX

  CHAPTER SEVEN

  CHAPTER EIGHT

  CHAPTER NINE

  CHAPTER TEN

  CHAPTER ELEVEN

  CHAPTER TWELVE

  CHAPTER THIRTEEN

  CHAPTER FOURTEEN

  CHAPTER FIFTEEN

  CHAPTER SIXTEEN

  CHAPTER SEVENTEEN

  CHAPTER EIGHTEEN

  CHAPTER NINETEEN

  CHAPTER TWENTY

  CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE

  CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO

  CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE

  CHAPTER TWENTY-FOUR

  CHAPTER TWENTY-FIVE

  CHAPTER TWENTY-SIX

  CHAPTER TWENTY-SEVEN

  CHAPTER TWENTY-EIGHT

  CHAPTER TWENTY-NINE

  CHAPTER THIRTY

  CHAPTER THIRTY-ONE

  CHAPTER THIRTY-TWO

  CHAPTER THIRTY-THREE

  CHAPTER THIRTY-FOUR

  CHAPTER THIRTY-FIVE

  CHAPTER THIRTY-SIX

  CHAPTER THIRTY-SEVEN

  CHAPTER THIRTY-EIGHT

  CHAPTER THIRTY-NINE

  CHAPTER FORTY

  CHAPTER FORTY-ONE

  CHAPTER FORTY-TWO

  CHAPTER FORTY-THREE

  CHAPTER ONE

  John Tiggs, explosives expert, deep mining engineer, soon to be grandfather, and now FEMA lackey, sat having coffee in the dining alcove of his assigned motor home when he heard the screams.

  His small camper was parked close to the nearby and encroaching swamp and had been since the beginning. Screams were common from day one and he never got used to them. He grabbed the shotgun and cautiously opened the door.

  On the picnic table stood a young woman clutching a child. Under the table, writhing in the early morning dew, were a dozen snakes that had emerged from the new, and smelly, swamp looking for food. John put the shotgun back, picked up a fire extinguisher, and descended the rusty metal steps. A few blasts of the icy foam sent the snakes back into the warm muddy waters.

  “What are you doing out here this early, Moira? You know Sean is going to be pissed you put that baby in danger,” John said in his soft North Carolina accent, helping her down off the table.

  “I only wanted to take a walk while the air was still clean,” she whimpered.

  “Get back to your tent and I won’t tell him,” he said, understanding what she meant. The fires would start up soon, making the air almost unbreathable.

  After she scurried away, John got his shotgun again, glad she hadn’t looked up. In the large tree that hung over the picnic table, there were two Burmese pythons, at least twenty footers he guessed. The big snakes loved the moss covered dead branches for sunning and for the ease of dropping down on their unsuspecting prey. The hunting was good for the big snakes. Too good. He took aim and blasted both snakes from their perch. At least there would be meat for dinner tonight.

  One of the snakes twitched, raising its ugly head. John set the shotgun down inside the camper and came back with a machete. He took off the second head as two of the security guards came running in response to the gunfire.

  “Geesh, John, those are big! You got them both with one shot?” Sam said, amazed.

  “Hank said we have to conserve ammo,” John said straight faced. “You want to take these to the kitchen?”

  ***

  John returned inside to finish his coffee, mulling over how his life had changed in the last several months.

  He had been happy living in Moose Creek with Allexa, the happiest he had ever been, and he regretted not having told her that. Then Yellowstone erupted and he left to rescue his daughter. It was the biggest mistake of his life. Christine didn’t need rescuing, and he may have lost Allex as a result of his decision. Even being caught with the Beretta during martial law lockdown was minor next to losing Allex. After getting out of the detention camp when he agreed to help FEMA with the recovery efforts in Florida, he thought it would be an easy six months. He was wrong. It was hard work, messy and dangerous…and very rewarding. He was actually making a difference.

  ***

  “John?” Commander Hank Coulter, the FEMA camp supervisor, knocked on John’s door, rattling the flimsy metal.

  “Come on in, Hank.” John got up to get a cup of coffee for his boss and to refill his own.

  “Nice shot on those pythons. Two more we don’t have to worry about snatching a pet or a child,” Hank said, accepting the cup. “I’m sure glad I lifted the restriction on you being armed.”

  John gave him a slow smile. “It would have been rather awkward to have me repairing and maintaining your meager arsenal if I wasn’t allowed to touch a gun. Besides, I gave my word to help any way I could in exchange for getting out of that hellhole of a detention center, and I always keep my word.” Except when I broke my word to Allex about coming back, he thought glumly. “What can I do for you today, Hank?”

  “I need you and Kevin to lead a team to do some scouting a few miles up the coast for a couple of troublesome gators. Sam’s team can watch the shoreline here and get the fires restarted.”

  The fires were necessary to get rid of animal and reptilian carcasses that kept washing ashore and to keep the gators in the swamp. It was a dirty, gruesome task and filled the air with dirty, gruesome odors.

  “Where to?” John questioned.

  “St. Augustine.”

  Florida had cracked in half as a result of an oceanic eruption. Nearly everything south of a line from Tampa to Daytona was submerged and had sent thousands of animals, including snakes and gators, out of the Everglades seeking drier land, shallower water, or food. The humans didn’t fare as well. Although tens of thousands fled the encroaching water into Georgia, millions were lost. The coral substructure that was Florida continued to crumble and the demarcation line moved north, now running from Crystal River to Palm Bay.

  “What are we supposed to do once we get there, besides look for alligators?” John asked hesitantly.

  “Find us a new site. We’re moving.”

  “Okay. The Gator Garrison is at your command.”

  John chuckled, as did Hank.

  ***

  Hank Coulter settled into his leather office chair and spread out maps of the new coastlines: east, west and south. They were all shrinking at an alarming rate. The alluring garden that was once Florida would soon be only a strip of land from the panhandle to Jacksonville and there was nothing anyone could do about it. Nature had a way of reclaiming its own.

  Falling back to St. A
ugustine was inevitable. They had moved three times in as many months. They were a mobile unit and that was their job. Soon there would be no place left to retreat to. FEMA had done what they were supposed to do: they had fed, housed, and evacuated everyone they could find. They failed miserably at protecting those people though…until John was assigned to the area.

  Hank pulled out John’s file.

  John Tiggs, aged 55, single, was a munitions expert and supervisor for a mining company. He was also college educated and happened to have an interesting hobby. He was a gunsmith, and that made him more valuable than any of his other talents. With the corrosive ash fall from Yellowstone still covering the world, dropping grit and ash daily, combined with the humid conditions of Florida, the few weapons the FEMA team were issued were always malfunctioning. John kept them working. Plus he was the best shot on the team, as evidenced this morning by taking out two huge pythons with one shot. Granted it was a shotgun, with a wide spray, still, he was good.

  It was an unauthorized decision on Hank’s part to allow John access to weapons, and that trust had not been betrayed. Along with that privilege, John was allowed to have private quarters, even if it was only a small camper. Hank found out quickly that John was an honorable man, and that was an asset Hank depended on.

  FEMA was never intended to provide prolonged assistance like this, with circumstances that changed daily and dramatically. A disaster of the magnitude like what they were facing had never before occurred, and the rules had to be fluid as far as Hank was concerned.

  CHAPTER TWO

  “Come on, Kevin, we don’t have all day,” John said, checking the back of the trucks for supplies.

  The one time he didn’t check was the one time the assigned kitchen crew failed to add the MREs. It was an overnight trip and the team wasn’t happy. They had managed to kill a couple of rattlesnakes and cooked them for dinner. John thought the meat a little tough, stringy, and it tasted like squirrel, but it filled their bellies. When they got back, he never said a word. He didn’t have to. The team members let the supply crew know how displeased they were. It wasn’t the first fight John had to break up. This was a tough crew. They had to be for the work they did.

  “Why are we taking two trucks for ten guys?” Kevin asked. “We will all fit into one of these transports.”

  John shook his head, annoyed. He explained this every time they went on one of these patrols. “If we have only one truck and we break down, how do we get back? If we have only one truck and find survivors, how do we transport them? If we find a store to scavenge, where will we put everything?” He turned away from Kevin and headed to the nearest canvas covered truck.

  “How long will we be gone?” Kevin asked, trotting to keep up with John.

  John stopped and scowled. “I don’t know, Kevin. It depends on what we find. St. Augustine is only fifty miles north and east of here and will take us anywhere from an hour to two hours to reach. Per Hank, US-1 is underwater, so we will have to take I-95, which still might not be good.” He took a deep breath, remembering that Kevin was a volunteer too and not the brightest bulb in the box. “We should be back tonight, though if we don’t leave soon, we won’t be back until tomorrow. Now get the lead out and let’s move.”

  ***

  The rusting sign on the highway indicated they had entered St. Johns County. St. Augustine was close. John was leading the two vehicle convoy, and noticed how wet the road was getting the closer they got. He had followed I-95 to Hwy. 16, crossing the San Sebastian River to hit a hopefully drier part of US-1, north of the city. The river lapped at the bridge. He stopped at San Marco Avenue and got out of the truck, ankle deep in water. He saw more than one dark, scaly back of a gator disappear under the waves that emanated from the trucks, and got back into the cab.

  He headed south on San Marco, past the Fountain of Youth sign, past the Ripley’s attraction, and past all the closed shops. The water was now a foot deep and he could feel the displaced sand shifting beneath the worn tires. A hundred yards further there was a rise in the pavement that brought them out of the water and in view of a hundred alligators sunning in the muted, ash-filled afternoon sunlight.

  John stopped and hit the speaker on the mounted bullhorn. “Is there anyone within hearing distance that needs assistance?” The sound echoed in the stillness. He repeated the message, and waited. He inched forward and stopped again fifty yards from the sea of gators. The repeated message was answered with a rifle shot dinging off his front bumper.

  He spoke into the bullhorn one last time. “Hey, no problem, we’ll leave and won’t be back.” They carefully turned the trucks around and headed north again.

  The trucks rumbled along US-1 until they came to the Twelve Mile Swamp Conservation Area. The road leading across was so far under water it wasn’t even visible. John felt something bump against the tires and frowned. He was done looking and turned them around yet again, found Hwy. 16, and led them back to I-95. Once clear of the encroaching shoreline, he stopped again.

  “Now what’s wrong, John?” Kevin asked, emerging from the other truck.

  “Nothing, I thought we might want some lunch—on dry land for a change.”

  ***

  “Pick up the trash,” John snarled. He was in a foul mood and putting up with Kevin wasn’t on his agenda. Kevin was a slob and let his crew be slobs too, except when John was around and didn’t let them get away with it.

  “Who cares? All this will be under water in another or month or two,” Kevin said, reluctantly picking up the plastic sleeve from the MRE. The other men looked away and silently picked up the wrappers and bags. They had all seen John’s temper flare before and didn’t want to be on the receiving end of it.

  “I care, that’s who. And I’m team leader so do it. Besides, it attracts the big cats.” John tossed his bag of garbage in the back of the transport, recalling the first time he’d seen a panther pawing through garbage. He climbed into the cab behind the wheel and rubbed his eyes that were already turning red from the rank air. He ran his hands over his bald head in frustration, pushing off the ever present knit cap, and settling it back in place in one move.

  ***

  “Back so soon?” Hank said when John entered his office.

  It really wasn’t soon. They had been gone nine hours.

  “Yeah, nothing to see except gators. Hundreds of gators, Hank, if not more. There was no way we could deal with that many. St. Augustine is underwater. A total loss. And we were fired at. If some idiot wants to live like that, let ‘em.” John tipped his head back and closed his eyes.

  Hank glanced at the clock, and seeing it was already 7:00pm, reached into a drawer and pulled out a bottle of bourbon and two glasses. He pushed a glass toward John.

  “Suggestions?”

  “You’re asking me? You’re the boss, Hank. I do what you say.”

  Hank eyed the man sitting across from him. Over the last four months that John had been assigned to him, they had become friends. Not close friends; he didn’t think anyone was close with John, except someone named Alex. He still wasn’t sure who that was. He pulled out the maps again.

  “I’ve been thinking about Jacksonville.”

  John took a swig of the bourbon and let it slide down his dry throat before answering. “I disagree. Too crowded and no doubt already manned by other FEMA units.” He turned the map and studied it. “Past Gainesville, closer to Lake City. From there we can run this busload of stragglers into Georgia and keep searching for more.”

  John’s glass skittered across the desk and he grabbed it before it reached the edge. The rumble was low and strong, swaying the motorhome.

  “Crap, that was another earthquake. I thought we were done with those!” Hank said, standing to look outside. In the fading winter light, everything looked the same, except that the shore was now a few inches closer.

  “Maybe we should brea
k camp in the morning, before breakfast.”

  CHAPTER THREE

  “What do you mean there’s no breakfast?” a young girl screeched inside the food tent. “You’re FEMA, you’re supposed to feed me!”

  “Excuse me, young lady,” John said, overly polite. “Are you finished packing?”

  She glared at him and turned back to the kitchen help, ignoring John. “I want something to eat now! That skimpy dinner last night wasn’t nearly enough and tasted weird. What was it, anyway?”

  “Oh, you must have had the python I killed yesterday morning,” John said sweetly.

  Her eyes got wide. “Python?”

  “Yeah, snake. Some swear it tastes like chicken. Personally I think it tastes more like squirrel.”

  “Squirrel?” Her dark hazel eyes widened, her face went pale, and she ran from the tent.

  “Don’t forget to pack!” John called after her, and then he snickered. “If there is anything I hate more than a rude, self-important, entitlement minded brat it’s…I dunno, that’s the worst thing I can think of right now. You got any coffee, Seth?”

  “For getting rid of that girl, I’d make you a fresh pot, except it’s already made. Hank wanted to make sure all the drivers had their brew,” Seth said.

  John handed him his thermos. “By the way, we leave in one hour.”

  ***

  “John,” Dr. Williams called out, approaching from behind. “I wanted to say it’s been a real…experience working with you.” He chuckled, extending his hand.

  “That sounds like you’re leaving,” John said, firmly grasping the doctor’s hand.

  “I’m going back with this next busload. My three month tour is over and I want to get back to my private practice.”