Chapter Nineteen
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CLOSING GOVERNOR GIAMANO’S door, Creel paused to stare at it for a few moments. The guards in the hallway were all his men. He’d replaced every militant in the building with people he could trust. Nodding at his fellow preppers, he headed back to his office further down the hallway.
Mr. Lawson glanced at Ivy Roche’s door on his way past her office. “She’ll end up in the building we’ll be filling with breed-worthy women,” he said with a smirk. He planned to be the first to try to knock the snooty young woman up.
Snickering to himself, the prepper returned to his desk.
He sat down and rested his chin on his palm.
Something had changed with the governor.
“He used to be vague and dreamy, but he’s been sharper lately,” he said.
It was still easy to manipulate the Italian-American, but he had a feeling his boss wasn’t as befuddled as he seemed.
“He’s still losing his damn mind, but at a slower pace now,” he figured. While he wasn’t a psychiatrist, Creel was shrewd when it came to figuring people out. He could tell when someone was faking it and Oliver Giamano was faking it big time.
“He needs to go,” Mr. Lawson muttered, sitting back in his leather executive chair and crossing his arms. “Giamano might have a fancy education, but I’m wilier than he’ll ever be. I know what this country needs to get back on track.”
He’d always planned to take over eventually, but had decided to take things slow. Xathan was at the top of his kill list even though the bald creep had managed to get Manhattan up and running again.
“I’ll kill Xathan first, then I’ll wipe out Rahab and the rest of his steroid using biker friends,” he said cunningly. That would take a lot of planning, or it could end in complete disaster. Creel couldn’t dispute that the huge, muscular men with red-tinged eyes were dangerous.
“Some of them are downright crazy,” he said. He’d heard rumors about Rahab going on killing sprees in the other boroughs. Lachial and Vetis, the blond weirdos, also had a reputation for slaughtering people without due cause.
All of the Soldiers of Chaos motorcycle gang were hardened killers, that much was obvious. Creel’s troops would have to lead them into a trap in order to take them all down with minimal casualties on their side. How they were going to do that was still a mystery.
“I’ll think of something,” the prepper said confidently.
Creel’s mind went into overdrive as he tried to come up with a workable scheme.
The main problem was that his enemies were so widely scattered.
Some of them patrolled Manhattan, but the others were spread out throughout the other boroughs.
How could he draw them all into one place?
Overwhelming force would be needed to eliminate them, since they seemed so damned hard to kill.
Their enemy biker gang they called the Knights of Order had killed off a few of Rahab’s crew, but there were still far too many of them left.
“Boss, we’ve got a bunch of survivors incoming towards the Lincoln Tunnel. Over,” one of his minions said through his walky-talky.
“Roger that,” Creel said. “How many are we talking about? Over.”
“At least two hundred. Over,” was the reply.
“Call for reinforcements. I’m on my way. Over and out,” Mr. Lawson said. He’d felt like getting some action. This would give him the perfect opportunity to leave his office.
His guards fell in behind him as he hurried from his office.
They took the elevator to the first floor to find a squad of twenty preppers waiting for them.
Piling into pickup trucks that were parked just outside, they zoomed through the streets that had been cleared.
Only a few clear pathways led to the tunnels and bridges, but it was enough for the militants to get around quickly now.
Other vehicles were approaching the tunnel as more mercs were sent to assist with greeting and sorting the newbies.
Creel checked the assault rifle he’d grabbed on his way out of his office.
A pistol was tucked into a holster beneath his left armpit.
His guards were fully armed and they all had spare ammo.
The truck sped through the Lincoln Tunnel that was now brightly lit again.
Mr. Lawson climbed out of the truck and approached the militants.
“What’s their ETA?” he asked as he scanned the computer screen.
One of Xathan’s lackeys had hooked cameras up to the computer so they could keep watch for inbound survivors.
“They’re almost within view now, sir,” the guard said and gestured ahead.
Creel watched the band of survivors on the screen to get a closer view. His upper lip lifted when he saw how many of them had dark skin. “We’re going to have to do some serious culling this time, boys,” he joked.
“We’re locked and loaded and ready to blow some brains out, sir!” one of his sycophants exclaimed. Laughter broke out as they waited for the mob to arrive.
Anticipation buzzed inside the preppers as the crowd drew closer. Most were gaunt and some looked ill. Others appeared to be healthy, which was a surprise. They all carried backpacks or duffle bags. They were pulling carts full of supplies and were guarding their haul with rifles.
“I hope Rahab’s goons don’t show up this time,” Creel said. “Maybe we’ll get lucky and cull their numbers before those idiots show up.”
His minions nodded in agreement, compulsively checking their weapons as they nervously waited for the survivors to reach them.
A man with skin almost as dark as Xathan’s was in the lead. He lifted his hand to make the others halt, then he and several men and women stepped forward. Their expressions were wary. “We’re here to join the militia,” their leader said. His voice was deep and his eyes were intelligent.
Creel turned his arm just enough for the guy to see his swastika. “I’m afraid we’re full up, son,” the prepper said with a big, fake smile. “But I’m sure we’ll be able to find suitable positions for you and your kind.”
“What’s that supposed to mean?” a brown-skinned woman asked shrilly. “Are you some kind of racist bigot, you short little Raggedy Andy lookalike?”
The survivors snickered at her comparison to a doll some of them had probably played with as children.
Creel was about to order his men to open fire on the group when a pickup truck zoomed through the tunnel.
His mouth twisted in annoyance when he saw Phul was behind the wheel.
“It looks like we won’t get to wipe the vermin out now,” he muttered.
Another truck was right behind Phul’s vehicle. Ten Soldiers of Chaos climbed out.
“I’ve got this,” Phul said in a cold, hard tone, glaring down at Creel when he strode over.
His men watched his back as he turned to the mob.
“Welcome to Manhattan!” he called out. “We’ll be sorting you all into various groups now.
Anyone who is sick or injured will be taken to a hospital for treatment.
We need able-bodied men and women to help us keep food production up and running, as well as militants to guard this fine city. ”
Phul and his companions deftly took charge, depriving Creel of his fun. The preppers were outnumbered, since the survivors still had their weapons. Splitting them up was the first step. Once they’d been sorted and ferried to different locations, then they would learn their true fates.
With a group this large, they couldn’t just gun down the sick and worthless survivors. Instead, they were placed in large trucks. They would be driven to one of the areas where the culling was performed before being shot and tossed into the closest body of water.
“I love my job,” Mr. Lawson said, picking out the prettiest women who he would soon have the great pleasure of planting his seed inside.