Families First: A Post-Apocalyptic Next-World Series Volume 6 Battle Grounds by Lance Ewing (best non fiction books of all time txt) 📗

I need to watch it this year; I’m sure my father won’t mind if it’s a few months too early, considering all of this,” he added, waving his arm around the camp.

“Y’all look like you’re getting buddy-buddy,” said one of the other guards. “I thought you didn’t like him, Serg?”

“I don’t, but the Colonel told me to keep a close eye on him, and I’m doing just that.”

“Hmm,” is all the guard said, wandering off.

“Don’t you just feel like Flavor Flav sometimes?” asked Mike. “Like you have a big clock on your chest, but this one is counting down the minutes to your demise?”

“Every day, my brother…every single day… How about you?” asked Sergio. “Are you married to your group?”

“I have a girlfriend I should properly marry before I lose her, like the last one, and a young boy we unofficially adopted. No paperwork, I mean. His mother may still be here, but I don’t know. As far as the group, I was committed to getting them here and defending an attack that could wipe them out. Beyond that, I don’t know what my family and I will do.”

“I’m only asking because men like you and me are rare. I read once that only 11% of steak eaters order it rare. More like it medium rare and medium, while the highest percentage—a full 24%—eat it well done. Can you believe that?”

“Probably with ketchup!” Mike joked.

“Exactly. You see, we are one of a kind; and Baker, Ronna, and the real Colonel all know it. All I’m saying is if you get bored after defending the Valley, let me know. We have a lot of work to do, and most men want nothing to do with it,” added Sergio.

“Thanks. I’ll keep that in mind,” replied Mike.

“Now, I’m going to get out of here,” said Sergio, “before someone gets the wrong idea—or maybe the right one.”

* * * *

Max took Sergio’s words at face value and still ended up sharing a bunk this night with Dr. Baker.

“Don’t worry, New Max,” said Dr. Baker. “I won’t tell Mr. Baker about us,” she whispered.

“You mean Colonel Baker,” he corrected her.

“He’s no Colonel; everyone knows that,” she whispered. “He had a small church in our hometown of Topeka for years. I don’t think I ever saw more than thirty people in the congregation at once, and that was Easter Sunday. Now he has hundreds, or maybe even thousands, of followers and it only took a month of the power being out. I’m not saying he’s a bad man; after all, he is my grandfather. But a Colonel he is not. So, I hope you stick around for a while, New Max.”

“We will see,” he replied, falling for her just a bit but not enough to derail his father’s revenge.

* * * *

Baker was growing agitated, and everyone close to him knew it. He was stuck short of his goal, and no amount of preaching at 10 a.m. would move him closer. Daily radio calls with base operations at Horsetooth Lake remained stagnant.

“Call a meeting!” he commanded. “I want everyone in the circle here in one hour!”

The alarm was sounded—not the same as the drill last night but a different one that only a few had heard before. The circle meant his personal guards and the camp guards designated by the brand needed to attend. Sergio had one, as did the rest of the 15 men’s inner circle. Only two women bore it, and they were both tougher than any man at the ceremony. They didn’t make a sound as the crude brand TPKP was burned into the left upper arm. The crude ritual started with five the first time and Baker added one or two at each ceremony. The brand was mandatory for anyone who got close to Baker on a regular schedule. Sergio had one nobody outside the circle knew about, and Mike was next.

The regulars gathered an hour later, with only Mike as the new guy. “I have an announcement,” said Baker. “There will be no discussion, and I expect my wishes to be carried out in a timely and orderly fashion. You here have all proven your loyalty to me and to this group—all of you, minus one. Mike, come forward!” he commanded.

Mike made his way to the front as best he could, refusing help from anyone.

“Can I trust you,” asked Baker, “with my life?”

“I’m here to do whatever you need,” Mike responded.

Looking around, Baker said, “These people were all asked the same question, and there are only two answers—yes or no. Which is it?”

“Yes,” replied Mike, not overly concerned with telling a lie at this point, or maybe ever if it suited his plan.

“Good. Remove your shirt,” Baker instructed.

Mike did as asked, and he looked to his left at the branding iron, glowing bright red with the initials TPKP.

Two men held him tight, as a third—without expression of any kind or even a word of caution—put the red-hot metal to his upper left arm. The sound was a sizzle, like waiting until the cast iron pan was searing hot before putting the steak on—ironically, a secret of fine steakhouses everywhere. The smell wasn’t far off from a rare ribeye. There is a point in every man’s life where he wonders what his flesh would smell like on a grill if he left his hand on too long. Mike already had his answer, but it wasn’t his, never his. He first saw it in a movie where Denzel Washington was a bodyguard for a little girl, maybe called Man on...something he couldn’t recall. He remembered the part where the main character, John Creasy, cuts the man’s fingers off one by one, only to cauterize them with a cigarette lighter immediately.

Mike didn’t scream, couldn’t scream, wouldn’t scream, or even call out in pain.