Next World Series by Ewing, K. (white hot kiss .txt) 📗

he commanded, already knowing the likely direction and vowing to put Sergio’s head on the end of a pole to be raised over the camp at total victory.

“We also have four dead, but we’re not sure how,” added another.

“Of course, you do,” replied Baker, ordering everyone out of his new house. “At least we have a river nearby,” he said out loud, getting a sheepish look from the men that knew.

“It’s not running, sir. I mean, Colonel, sir,” said one, sputtering.

Baker motioned for a man to head down and check it out. He ran, coming back moments later, out of breath and announcing, “There are small pools of stagnant water but nothing flowing.”

“It’s the time of year for the heaviest runoff!” Baker spat. “Someone is playing the devil with my river, and when I find out who they are, there is going to be a penalty of biblical proportions!”

Baker turned back towards his following of a thousand or more—even he wasn’t sure anymore—and instructed one of his Inner Circle to devise a temporary plan to haul water from the Big Thompson River they had passed a few miles back. He was tired, even after being carried from the last camp to here. He instructed the tents to be erected quietly while he took his afternoon nap, which he hadn’t missed in nearly three years.

“Early to bed, early to rise, work like hell and advertise” he remembered his father saying years ago. It took him quite a few years to adopt the model, but since the day he had done just that, he was in bed by 9 p.m. and up at 4 a.m., with a 2 p.m. 30-minute power nap, and of course his daily sermons in front of his ever-growing group, broadcast to who knows how many across the country. It was quickly becoming routine, and by the size of the group growing each week, it seemed to be working.

* * * *

The tent city was set up in a matter of hours, with many pitching in, understanding there would only be dinner and sleep after it was complete, however long it took. Enough water was secured for 24 hours, assuming no bathing of any kind. Some in the group quietly complained, while most others were happy to be off the road for however long.

Maybe 20 percent truly understood why they were here and what sacrifices would need to be made if they were to continue living like this, regardless of the hardships of spouses, family, giving up pets and possessions, and living like occupied citizens of the most prosperous nation in the world only weeks ago. The rest were along for the ride—only concerned for the next meal and, if they were lucky, a biweekly shower. Very few understood they were expected to fight for their very lives in a matter of hours, or a few days.

“There is no such thing as a free lunch,” Baker would say at the end of his daily sermons. Most dismissed it entirely as a saying they had heard before, but a few took it to heart, and those men that bore the brand took it as gospel.

* * * *

Baker called his inner circle for a meeting late in the afternoon and told them everything he knew about Sergio and the missing machinery. He demanded full confidentiality from his men and a vow to keep Sergio alive until the order was given otherwise.

We will give them one more day while we settle in here, and attack at first light the following morning. If any more of our trucks and flying machines should go missing before then, a brand will be the least of your concerns. Baker finished his time with them and waited for his usual crew, all women, of course, to share his home.

It amazed him that he could yell at his guards, most of them killers now, threatening their very lives, and not one of them thought to form a group to overthrow him. Even one of them could take over if they really wanted to, he thought, saying out loud, “fascinating, truly fascinating, how the human mind works. Isn’t that right, God?” he said, looking to the sky. Baker talked to God a lot; in fact, multiple times per day, and usually out loud. He was sure a man of his caliber would hear something back, and maybe even have a full-on conversation with the “Man Upstairs,” but he never did.

* * * *

All in camp settled in for the night, with extra security on the western and northern borders. Preparations the following morning started early, with a runway plowed into the hard dirt of the field and packed down by heavy truck tires to ensure its support. Baker sent a six-man team upriver to locate the source of water he was sure flowed through the valley year-round.

Two hours later, a small flood ran down from above, and two of Hanson’s neighbors lay facedown in the water.

“That’s how you take care of a problem,” said Baker right before his morning sermon, and ending in a clear statement: “Tomorrow we shall purify the wicked and settle into our forever home.”

He tasked his leaders with preparing those who would fight with clear instructions on the when and how. Even losing half of his machines, he was confident in a massive landslide victory, putting him in his new home once the carnage was cleared.

* * * * * * *

Chapter Nineteen

The Rimrock Above Saddle Ranch

Loveland, Colorado

Drake and company watched intently, radioing to Mac every thirty minutes.

“The shelters are temporary,” said Sergio to Drake and Mike from up on the hill. “They are coming soon.”

Meetings in the Valley, both on the Ranch and at The West, took up most of the morning, with differing opinions of when everyone not on the front lines should shelter in place.