Rise Once More (26 page)

Yet this former building had no wires running up to it. Alex surveyed the property once again, this time looking for evidence of power. There were many small buildings spread around the property, most of which had crumbled onto their foundations from neglect, but one building stuck out; the hip-style barn in the center of the yard.

Alex walked over to it, the building leaned heavily to one side, its massive structure was remarkably sound, a testament to its sturdy old growth timber construction. It was by far the oldest structure on the farm, and surprisingly the only structure that still stood. While the rest of the buildings had long since collapsed, this ancient relic of the past stood defiantly upright.

Alex did not know it at the time, but the farm had been homesteaded by a Mennonite family. They had constructed the barn in 1875, in traditional fashion, the former home and outbuildings were destroyed by a fire; later purchased by Vickers father.

The barn had been outfitted for electricity, with a single cable leading out to the north western edge of the property. Alex followed the cable until it came to rest in a pile of rubble, a former small shed of approximately the same dimensions as he had remembered.
This must be it.
He thought to himself as he snatched up fallen timbers and tossed them to the side.

Alex stopped his noisy work periodically, turning his ears away from the wind, thankful not to hear any other noises surrounding him. The old farm was creepy enough in its own right, his chilly memories of that night long ago gave him a ominous feeling, one that he knew was just his mind playing games.

Sure. That night with old man Vickers had scared the living crap out of him, but he was just a kid then and looking back as an adult, the situation warranted nothing more than a nostalgic flashback. In very short order Alex had removed enough of the fallen timbers to reveal the dirt floor below.

Then Alex saw what he was searching for. A single, corroded brass loop protruded from the brown earth, and an edge of aged gray wood formed the outline of a small door. Alex swept away the dirt, revealing even more of the old weathered wood, but the color had changed. No longer did he see gray, but a darker shade of brown of the newly uncovered wood.

Unlike the outer edge, and the rest of the structure for that matter, this wood had been buried under the protection of the Earth. It had shielded it from the weathering affects of countless thunderstorms, and in doing so, had preserved it in a much different state of decay. Alex lifted up on the brass loop, he expected a little resistance, but found none as the door literally disintegrated in front of him.

The wood would have fared better if left exposed to the elements; instead the near constant moisture of the ground had rotted it through, and could barely support the weight of the soil above it. Had it not been for the hundreds of plant roots that entangled it, it too would have collapsed long ago.

Small fragments of wood and dirt fell below, as he tossed the remnants of the door to the side. The sun partially illuminated the passage, crudely crafted steps led down into what at first appeared to be a root cellar. The darkness quickly regained its hold on the structure, revealing very little but a set of stairs. Alex had finally made it back to Vickers crypt.

Chapter Twenty Eight

Vickers Crypt

Alex had waited for this moment for many years. It had always been one of those lingering thoughts, but one that until this time hadn't warranted too much attention. Now that he was back, his body hovering slightly above the hole, his curiosity was getting the best of him.

Alex reached into his bag and retrieved an LED-AD8. It was an object you couldn't obtain in the private sector, partially because it was designed by Amos and a team of engineers from the X-wing of Omega Phi. Alex had also contributed to its creation, lending his own combat experience, and the usefulness the object could provide.

Its name stood for Light-Emitting-Diode-Amplification-Device-Prototype-8 affectionately nicknamed the L8. It was circular in shape, a self balancing gyro, and concentric rings of LED lights, with refractors that spread the light out in every direction. The independent clear outer shell allowed it to stay upright, and still continue to move without causing blur to the light it created.

Its ability to light an entire room as opposed to a focused beam of a flashlight gave it many more applications in the field of battle. It also had several configurations that would allow it act as a flash grenade as well, or even a strobe light. Alex held the small button down until it pulsed once, and threw it into the room below.

The L8 hit the dirt floor below with a muffled thump, it immediately lit up with a powerful white light, and Alex proceeded down the stairs. The room was larger than he was expecting, much larger than the shed that was used to conceal it, almost the size of a single family home. There was a main entry room, a hallway, and a few adjacent rooms; the size of them Alex wasn't quite sure of just yet.

The first room looked like it was used to plan some kind of military strategy. There were faded old maps, varying in size and layout attached to the cinder-block walls, one of which was a topographical map of Steelville. Another looked like an elementary school rendition of the United States, each state color coded, with very little detail. There was a large map, framed up nicely in glass that looked completely alien to Alex. It was of military issue, and to the best of his knowledge was once part of a tactical briefing map.

Along the western wall was a work bench, fitted out as a reloading station, with several tubs of spent brass casings. Next to the reloading station were stacks of metal ammunition cans, and upon closer inspection found to be filled with ammunition of several different calibers.
I knew it.
Alex thought to himself as he turned to face the eastern wall.

Situated on the eastern side of the room was a small dining table, a single wooden chair was seated at it, and a very old refrigerator. There were several pads of yellow note paper on the table, along with various pens, pencils, and an empty coffee mug.

Alex walked over to the table, picking up one of the pads of paper, and turned it towards the light in able to read it. The handwriting reminded him of someone in a hurry, scrawling out the message as fast as they could, as if driven by some unknown deadline. The writing was difficult to read and was accompanied by several sketches.

I know you. You saw me. Nothing left but 3. I won't tell.

They can't make me. They will make you. Don't tell me NO! You have to go.

A simple sketch of several mangled bodies, some of them dismembered broke the text up. The artwork was very crude, clearly the work of someone who was not much of an artist, but obviously wanted to get something of his chest.

“Sympathetic art...” Alex said out loud. He had heard the term used years ago, while he was dating a psychologist, who just happened to be working for the military at the time. The big problem at the time was PTSD as she called it, and despite serious pleas from her, the military didn't think at the time that there was a problem. They simply just had shell shock, and would eventually come out of it.

Alex recalled how she had developed a way to get patients to open up, even those that were resistant to standard therapy sessions. She found that once someone had experienced something so severe that they didn't even want to talk to another human about it. There was however a third option that she described. It was giving the patient another outlet to communicate. It could be a simple notepad, an inanimate object such as a stuffed bear, or even a living animal.

Animals had a special affect to the patients. They could form a loving bond with another living creature, without the fear of judgment, or maybe it was just easier to talk to something that they knew wouldn't hurt them. The only downside with the animals, if they were removed, the patient would often withdraw back even further. She found it best to use rescue animals, and then gift them to the patients as lifelong partners.

In the case of old man Vickers, he was lost long before this approach had been taken, and his only outlet was his notepads. Alex looked down at the large collection of note pads, placing the one he was reading on top of the pile. There was a part of him that wanted to continue reading, to get a better understanding of Vickers, but another part told him to leave it be.

“I'm sorry. That was meant to be private.” Alex said out loud.

Alex looked down towards the hallway, there were three more rooms in the underground bunker, and he could see the outline of the doors in the light. He took out several more L8's, activated them, and tossed them into the rooms.

One by one, they activated, illuminating the underground structure perfectly, and he walked to the first room on the right. Upon entering it, Alex was slightly taken aback, and quite envious. The room was filled with weapons, most were antiques, and a few were ancient.

Alex walked towards the opposite wall, retrieving one in particular from the wall, a Gladius sword. It was surprisingly intact, so much so, he was at first convinced it was a good replica. Upon closer inspection he realized that it was an authentic weapon of the ancients.

Alex marveled at the mostly rotten blade, its scabbard was barely held together by scraps, and the hilt was cracked in many places. As he held the weapon in his hand he couldn't help but wonder which Roman soldier had possessed it. Had it been in the possession of a great historical leader? Perhaps it was wielded by a great gladiator. How many lives had this blade cut down during its useful life?

The sword itself should have been stored in a museum, yet here it was in the collection of a strange hermit in Missouri.
How much did this cost you?
Alex wondered to himself, as if Vickers was in the room to answer back. The feeling of admiration faded quickly, as he realized he was rummaging through the personal effects of a person that he in no small way contributed to his death.

Old man Vickers death might not have come that night; there was no way of knowing how much gas the old man had left in the tank, but to Alex it didn't matter. He was just as much part of his death as father time. He also shared a new bond with the old man. He was a soldier too. He had fought, seen things that he tried to forget, and knew all too well the pain of difficult choices.

He felt a special connection with Vickers. No longer was he some creepy old man on the edge of town. It wasn't until he got a taste of the so called real world that only a soldier could experience that he realized just how wrong he and his peers had been. He wasn't crazy. He was injured. If his mental scars could somehow manifest into physical ones, people would not have shunned him, they would have took pity on him.

Alex placed the sword back on the wall, taking time to hang it neatly, as much as he would have loved to keep it for himself, this was a museum. Not one that will ever be toured, or have a line of spectators lining up to see it in all its glory. This museum was private, and only the initiated may enter.

Alex left the room, turning around in the hallway, for one last look at it. It was an impressive collection, and reminded him of his own. The one he had left behind, the same one that he and Amos had carefully assembled. He had made the choice to leave it behind, and the blood that it stood for. He was retired, and in doing so, the weapons were retired as well.

Had he known that his island retreat would be so short lived, he would have hoarded a few prized pieces for use at a later date. Alex thought about this for a moment, and let out a small chuckle. He looked over at the L8 shining on the floor.
Old habits die hard.

As much as Alex had wished to leave his old life behind, it still followed him, residing somewhere in his subconscious. The same skills that had kept him alive during all of those years of fighting were still alive and well in his own psyche. The preparation for the inevitable had permeated every pore of his body for so long, that he didn't even pay attention when it happened.

He had made a decision somewhere along the way. A decision to keep certain things, whatever thoughts he had used to justify keeping them escaped him, but his instincts had guided those decisions and once again it was correct.

Alex walked into the next room. An old Ham radio sat on a worn out desk. It was covered in a layer of dust; next to it was several index cards, with call signs hand written on them. Some had extra notes assigned to each card, and others were nothing more than call letters. A single lamp hung above the desk, its green painted housing looked like a Christmas ornament from years past.

Alex turned around and walked towards the final room in the hall. Unlike the previous two rooms, this one had a door, and it was shut. Alex reached down to turn the knob, only to find it locked. This rooms door was centered at the end of the hallway, as the others were adjacent openings in the floor plan.

Alex took a step back, readied himself, and thrust his foot at the door jam. The door shuttered for a second, until the wood frame gave way, and the door opened slowly. Alex retrieved on of the L8's and tossed it into the opening.

The light scattered out into the room, illuminating many shelves, each shelf was loaded with cardboard boxes. He recognized the lettering outside of each box.
MRE's.
Glass mason jars filled the gaps between each box, and there were several 55 gallon drums as well. These no doubt contained preserved grain food, such as rice, corn, or wheat.

This room was much larger than the previous ones. It had been prepared for many years, and under meticulous conditions to preserve it. It was no wonder how Vickers had considered it important enough to lock away. He might have been crazy, but he was no fool.

All of the food stored here, could safely be eaten at a moment's notice, and Vickers had done his homework. He had prepared this place for someone. Maybe even himself, or the family that never was, it was difficult to know exactly.

Right now it was a gift. Something that Alex and Eve needed badly. Food, first aid supplies, a plethora of medications, and tools.
I will only take what is needed.
Alex thought to himself as he started to load up the bags he found nearby.

Alex packed three bags, being careful to utilize every square inch of the containers. The bags themselves contained many pockets, much like the modern bug out bags sold at stores, but these were much older and no doubt military issue.

Had Vickers been born a generation later, and made his intentions known, he might not have been labeled as crazy. He would have simply been called a prepper. In his time, these self-preserving tactics were met with disbelief, and seemed eccentric.

Even in Alex's generation a seemingly assured destruction was an accepted fact, fueled by paranoid doomsday prophecies and an endless fascination with the end of the world. As often as he dealt with the crazy doomsday folk, he just shrugged them off as harmlessly ignorant. Alex had learned his skills from his father, the military, and a handful of experts.

His preparations were not made for a biblical judgment day, but for a very real possibility that his family might one day need to be self-sufficient. He knew it was only a matter of time before things went south, and the only people he would be able to rely on were family.

Governments were simply too unstable to survive for any lengthy period of time. He knew that, his father knew it as well, and so did history. Alex had always imagined that the so called “end” would occur due to the loss of cheap fossil fuels, but the recent events had altered his perspective. The end result was the same, regardless of the catalyst, and he was ready.

It was now just a matter of time, waiting until the dust settled and things resumed just as they always had. The landscape may have changed, the population might be heavily reduced, but inevitably some people will survive and the cycle of life would begin again. Governments would rise, fall, and be rebuilt again. This time falsely believing that it was going to be different. Just like last time. History has a nasty way of repeating itself, Alex knew that, his father did as well, and that is what made them different. Or did it?