Broken Tide | Book 6 | Breakwater Read online

  BREAKWATER

  Broken Tide Series

  Book 6

  By

  Marcus Richardson

  Mike Kraus

  © 2021 Muonic Press Inc

  www.muonic.com

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  No part of this book may be reproduced in any form, or by any electronic, mechanical or other means, without the permission in writing from the author.

  Table of Contents

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  Chapter 11

  Chapter 12

  Chapter 13

  Chapter 14

  Chapter 15

  Chapter 16

  Chapter 17

  Chapter 18

  Chapter 19

  Chapter 20

  Chapter 21

  Chapter 22

  Chapter 23

  Chapter 24

  Chapter 25

  Chapter 26

  Chapter 27

  Chapter 28

  Chapter 29

  Chapter 30

  Chapter 31

  Chapter 32

  Chapter 33

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  Special Thanks

  Special thanks to my awesome beta team, without whom this book wouldn’t be nearly as great.

  Thank you!

  Chapter 1

  I-17 Interchange

  East of Rantowles, South Carolina

  Juan Eduardo de Francisco chewed on a piece of canned bread. He made a face and looked down at the moist brown bread—with raisins. "People eat this stuff?"

  Bryce Jenkins, his second-in-command, reached out a hand and waited for Cisco to give him the can. He used a plastic fork to scoop out a chunk of the moist, brown bread. "Ooo, I got a raisin!"

  Cisco spat out the driver’s window of their stolen truck. Parked on a slight overlook, he kept a watchful eye on I-17. They’d been sitting there most of the morning. Cisco had needed to get away from the camp in the Braaten Forest Preserve. The few invalids and survivors of the disastrous final raid—the moron who’d tripped over a log and the man who stayed behind to help him—never did make it to the actual fighting. Once the old man’s house blew up and the gunfire started, they somehow "got lost" and ended up back at the camp well after Cisco and Jenkins had returned with the truck.

  The looted provisions from the pair of houses they'd raided on their way out of Bee’s Landing had gone a long way toward raising the spirits of the remnants of Cisco's army. But, he admitted with a sour taste in his mouth, they were just remnants. He’d brought 43 fighting men to Bee’s Landing after sacking the Rolling Hills subdivision. Just a couple days after encountering the treacherous Flynt and his merry band of residents, Cisco could count only seven effective fighters. But they’d only be effective after some more time to heal.

  He clenched the hand resting on the door into a fist as he remembered how he’d been about to execute the two morons when one of them piped up that they needed more men. "I can find plenty more to replace you two idiots," Cisco had growled as he pulled a pistol from his belt and racked the back slide.

  "No, no! I mean, we can bring you more people—I hear there's refugees—I was one!"

  Cisco smirked from the driver’s seat, as he remembered lowering the weapon. The man had relaxed but pressed on. "Remember when you guys found me at Rolling Hills?" He said. "My car broke down—I was traveling on the interstate. There were thousands of people out roaming around...there's probably still plenty of people out there, and by now they're probably starving…all they need is a strong leader and some supplies…" the man had said, as he eyed the pickup truck full of food liberated from Bee's Landing.

  Jenkins, increasingly the voice of reason, had pulled Cisco aside and suggested they follow the man's advice, at least at first. "If it doesn't work out, it's not like we can’t come back here and blow his head off. Anytime we want."

  As usual, Cisco thought as he clenched his jaw, Jenkins had made a lot of sense. He didn't know whether to appreciate the fact that he had someone under him who was so smart, or be wary. In his experience, smart people—especially ones with a proven track record of violence—did not like to play second fiddle. He plucked at the shirt that clung to his chest, slick with sweat. "That was me…"

  "Huh?" Jenkins asked around a mouthful of Boston brown bread.

  Cisco grunted. "Just talking to myself," he muttered quickly. "Easy to do after everything that's happened."

  "Mmmhpmm," Jenkins muttered, diving back into the bread. "This stuff is delicious," he groaned. “Sure you don’t want any?” he asked, as he held the can in front of Cisco’s face.

  Cisco made another face. "Tipo…that's just nasty." He picked up the binoculars hanging from the gearshift and got back to work scanning the ribbon of interstate that stretched out before them, north and south. The sun was almost directly overhead, and it was easy to search in both directions without glare. And if anyone approached their position, he'd know it miles away. "What do you think the chances are we’re gonna find some people out here?"

  Jenkins grabbed a bottle of water from the pile of supplies on the front seat bench and took a long pull. "Who knows?" he confessed. "What's-his-face might be right…maybe there are people wandering around out here…” Jenkins paused to chew his canned bread. “Then again,” he said, and swallowed, “maybe it's been long enough that they've all been killed off or died by the side of the road or something. The government didn't come help them, that’s for sure."

  "It's a free-for-all over here," Cisco agreed, "there's no denying that. Still…" he mused as he shifted the binoculars and looked north. "We’re going to need some bodies before we can hit Bee’s Landing again."

  Next to him, Jenkins sighed. "Boss, seriously…why you got such a hard-on for that place? Why don't we just leave and find easier pickings?"

  "That's what they’d like," Cisco mumbled through clenched teeth as he kept the binoculars pressed to his face. "I never walked away from a fight, Jenkins, I ain’t gonna start now."

  "You have to think about the big picture, boss," Jenkins said. He scraped the bottom of the can of bread with his plastic fork. The sound made Cisco frown. "What are we going to do, move in and live at Bee’s Landing forever? We gonna make that place our new home base?” He inspected the empty can for crumbs. “We’re kinda out in the middle of nowhere…you know? It's a half hour drive—when the roads were clear—to Charleston or anything worth hitting. And there ain't nothing left in Charleston.

  He lowered the can and stared at Cisco. “I say we head inland. All the pickings along the coast are going to be all…nasty," he said as he knitted his brow. "It's been what, two a
nd a half weeks since the tsunami hit? Three? I don’t even wanna think about what it smells like closer to the coast. How many people you think didn't make it out? Shoot, I barely made it out…and I knew it was comin’ and had an easy way out of the swamp."

  Cisco pulled the binoculars from his face and looked at Jenkins askance. "That's not the point. This new world we live in an…" Cisco began as he looked out onto the highway again and narrowed his eyes, "…things matter differently than they did before. Reputation counts for a lot more now. Those people in Bee’s Landing…” He sighed and shifted his position against the sweaty car seat. “…they knew about us from reputation, ese. They knew what we did at Rolling Hills and those other places, and it scared the crap out of them."

  "Yeah and look what that got us—they turned that place into a freakin’ army base," Jenkins mumbled.

  "That's exactly my point," Cisco said rounding on him. "Imagine what people will say about us if we walk away from Bee’s Landing and go find some easier pickings," he said, throwing Jenkins’ word choice back in his face. "We show up at the next little subdivision, start bustin’ down their white picket fences and they’re gonna laugh at us. They gonna say, ‘we heard what Bee’s Landing did to you, we can take you on, too…’ It'll never end! No," Cisco said shaking his head. "We need to crush Bee’s Landing—destroy them—absolutely ransack that place and spread the word. We’ll let a couple survive and chase them off into the boonies. If they make it to the next neighborhood, those people will know if we come knocking, they better just give up. They won't risk us laying down the law and destroying everything."

  Jenkins stared out the windshield for a moment, silent.

  "All right," Cisco sighed. "You got opinions on everything I say…what is it?"

  "No, I actually think that makes a lot of sense," Jenkins said quietly.

  "That's not what I—what?" Cisco replied. "I mean, yeah, that’s right."

  Jenkins lifted his hand. "Can I borrow the binoculars?"

  Cisco handed them over. "You got something?"

  Jenkins tossed the empty can of bread out the window along with the plastic fork and raised the binoculars to his eyes. "I think...where’d you go…" he muttered as he shifted his aim.

  "I don't see anything out there," Cisco added, as he squinted down the interstate.

  "I thought I saw movement…but now…wait—there. Gotcha." He handed the binoculars back to Cisco. "See where the road curves around that clump of trees way off in the distance? I think I saw somebody come out of the woods. They just ran up to the road and grabbed something, then ran back."

  Cisco looked where he was directed and stared for a long moment. "There ain't nobody—wait, there. I see somebody. Looks like…a skinny white guy?"

  "No…" Jenkins said slowly. "I saw a black woman…or black guy with long hair…either way, they weren't white, and they weren't skinny."

  "Well, I think we got something here…" Cisco said as he shifted in the driver’s seat. "Yep." He lowered the binoculars and handed them back to Jenkins. "Looks like a small group coming around that bend. Whoever came out of the trees must be a scout.”

  "I got a cop car, too," Jenkins said, his voice rising in pitch. "Got the lights on and everything…it's moving real slow, though…"

  Cisco took the binoculars back and zoomed in. Sure enough, where the ribbon of asphalt separated the trees at the far horizon to the south, a beat up white squad car with its dome lights flashing and blinking edged around the curve and slowly made its way forward. Following behind it was a line of four or five people walking at a slow pace.

  As Cisco watched, another row of people emerged, then another, then another. A smile spread across his face as he realized the cop car was leading almost 30 people, maybe more, as they shuffled along with garbage bags and pulling wheeled suitcases. "They're marching right down the middle-of-the-road…" Cisco muttered.

  "I guess they figured, why not? Going to be the easiest way to walk anywhere nowadays. No sense in clomping through the woods when you got a perfectly good road that's already headed where you're going."

  "It does make a certain amount of sense, doesn't it?" Cisco replied absently. "Wonder what that cop’s doing?"

  "Sheepdoggin’ ‘em, I guess," Jenkins muttered.

  "I think it's time to put your plan into action," Cisco said as he tapped his fingers on the door. He glanced at Jenkins and started the truck. The engine came to life with a throaty roar, and he released the brake and rolled them forward.

  It had taken more time than Cisco had wanted to prepare the food supplies in the back of the truck that they brought from their base. Bouncing down the hill would’ve ruined all the work they’d already put into Jenkins’ hairbrained idea. Cisco sighed and carefully worked the truck down the grassy hill from their observation post to a crash investigation site along the side of the interstate. Once the tires of their stolen truck crunched on the gravel shoulder, Cisco turned the vehicle around and parked it so the bed faced south.

  Then he and Jenkins climbed out and waited. It took almost 40 minutes for the slow-moving group of pedestrians—refugees—to plod their way north within shouting distance of Cisco and Jenkins.

  "Remember, keep your gun behind your back. Keep that rifle hidden under the tarp there," Cisco said out of the side of his mouth as the cop car picked up speed and moved forward to intercept them.

  "There's no telling how many of these jokers are armed."

  Jenkins nodded as he waved at the cop. "Got it, boss."

  Cisco looked at Jenkins. "You do the talking. Remember what we discussed. They won’t take me serious—or they’ll shoot me. At least you look somewhat respectable."

  Jenkins nodded, and adjusted his shirt. As the cop car slowed to a stop, the driver’s door opened and a uniformed officer stepped out and placed a state trooper’s campaign hat on his head. "What you boys up to?"

  Jenkins plastered a smile on his face and leaned on the truck’s tailgate. "How you doing, officer?" He glanced at Cisco. "We’re from the Charleston Protection Alliance. It's our job to meet refugees on the road. You all set up for food and water?"

  "Charleston Protection Alliance," the cop said as he moved out from behind the door and walked forward. Cisco didn't fail to notice the man's hand rested on the service weapon at his hip.

  "Whoa, officer—there's no need for that," Jenkins said as he put both hands up. "We’re unarmed,” he lied. “We're just here to offer food and water to any refugees that decide to join us."

  "Join you?" asked the cop as he came closer. He was scruffier than any cop Cisco had ever seen. Deep bags hung under his eyes, dark circles that told the world the man had gotten little sleep before the tsunami and hardly any after. He hadn’t shaved in at least a week, and dark stains splattered his tattered, filthy uniform. Cisco grimaced. He knew those stains—the cop had recently been in a gunfight.

  "Don't mind my asking, but how do we know you're really a cop?" Jenkins asked. "I don't mean to be insensitive, it's just a little strange to see a state trooper get out of a…what is that, a Beaufort police car?"

  The cop looked down and removed the campaign hat from his head. Gray tousled hair that once was cut like a flattop, clung to his scalp. He wiped the sweat from his face, glanced up at the sun behind mirrored sunglasses, then looked over his shoulder at the approaching group of bedraggled refugees.

  "Thing of it is, I'm about at the end of my rope. Last one left from my patrol station. I was on liaison assignment to the Marine Air Station at Beaufort when everything hit the fan. Between all the riots that broke out and the fighting, there wasn't much left of the town. Then the fires started. Most of Beaufort burned to the ground. Nobody knows who started it, or how, but Beaufort’s gone."

  “They the only ones that made it out?” Cisco asked.

  The cop looked at the refugees and grinned. “No, there were a lot more. but they kinda scattered in the wind. These are what’s left of the group that headed north. Most have family up
near Charleston or hereabouts. I was headed this way, so I offered to protect them.”

  Jenkins grabbed a bottle of water from the pile in the truck and stepped forward slowly. "You look like you could use one of these, sir," he said respectfully as he handed it over.

  The cop smiled in relief, took the bottle and drained half in one pull. "Much obliged,” he gasped when he came up for air. “I can't tell you how good this tastes…" He looked back over his shoulder and waved at the refugees, who'd huddled together perhaps 100 yards back. At his signal, several began clapping, and a weak cheer went up. Then moved forward at a faster pace.

  "You boys sure are a welcome sight." He drained the rest of the water bottle. "What's the Charleston Protection Alliance, anyway? Can’t say as I’ve heard of it, but then again, groups are popping up all over the place. Bad as weeds."

  Jenkins glanced at Cisco and smiled. "Well, Charleston didn't fare as good as Beaufort. There wasn’t enough of the city left for fires, once the wave was finished with it. Then the hurricane showed up…" Jenkins shrugged. "We got together under the mayor and formed this alliance out of a need for mutual protection. Any refugees coming in from other areas...well...we've taken in and kind of made our own city. Went out into the forest preserve back yonder," he said, jerking a thumb over his shoulder. "It's called the Braaten Forest Preserve?"

  The cop nodded. "Yeah, I've heard of it. Never been there, though."

  "They got a big ol’ nature center there," Jenkins lied. "Plenty of shelter, plenty of space, and we figured it was an easy spot to set up shop.” He shrugged. “Been takin’ in everyone willing to join—and pay the price—they can have a spot, a cot, and three squares a day."

  The officer frowned. "Price? What price?"

  Jenkins spread his hands in innocence. "The only rule is if you want to eat, you work. We got plenty of tasks for everybody, from cleaning up, to gatherin’ wood for cooking fires and light, to growing food at the farms we got set up… There's plenty for everybody to do. And we also need help with security."