Push Back: A Post Apocalyptic Thriller (The Disruption Series Book 2) Read Online Free Page A
Author: R.E. McDermott
Tags: Survival, dystopian fiction, apocalyptic fiction, survival fiction, post-apocalyptic fiction, EMP, prepper fiction
soon as I see a break in those trees,” Tex replied, eyes glued on the tree line. “THERE!”
Wiggins whipped the wheel to the right, bouncing down the steep embankment toward a barely visible gap.
They lost the right-side mirror going in, and Wiggins was forced to a crawl, dodging larger trees and bulling his way over and through smaller saplings and brush.
“I give up,” Wiggins said through clenched teeth as he held the wheel in a white-knuckled grip. “Where are you taking us?”
“In about fifty yards, we’ll come to the old towpath for the Chesapeake and Ohio Canal, which runs concurrent with the AT here. Turn right and run due west along the river back to the bridge; then we’ll hide in this same strip of woods that runs under the bridge. I figure the last place they’ll look is the place we ran from. The woods should shield us from view, and the bridge will hide us from choppers. We don’t have a chance of outrunning them, so we have to outsmart them.”
They broke out of the trees as she finished, and a smile spread across Wiggins’ face as he whipped the battered car right on to the towpath. “I’ll be damned! Pretty smart, Tex.”
She rolled down her window. “Save your admiration and step on it. I hear a chopper.”
The chopper got louder as they raced for the bridge, but it was north of them, invisible below the tree line. They nosed their way into the wooded strip beneath the bridge with just seconds to spare. They heard the chopper circling as they cut brush and piled it around and on top of the SUV; it landed just as they crawled into their new hide.
“And now we wait,” Wiggins said.
Tex nodded. “And hope like hell no one puts two and two together. We’re sitting ducks if they figure this out.”
Chapter Two
Presidential Quarters
Camp David Complex
Maryland
Day 24, 10:15 a.m.
The Honorable Theodore M. Gleason, President of the United States of America, glared at the two men seated across the desk, a study in contrast. One was balding and of late middle age, his receding chin clean-shaved. He wore an obviously expensive suit and sported a Mont Blanc pen in the pocket of his freshly pressed snow white shirt. A gold Rolex peeked from beneath the edge of a monogrammed sleeve bearing the initials OAC. Even given the man’s current unease, he wore the uniform of the Washington power broker naturally, despite, or perhaps because of, the fact the world was going to Hell. But even wearing the external trappings of wealth and power, Secretary of Homeland Security Oliver Armstrong Crawford, or ‘Ollie’ to those who pretended to be his friends, was visibly uncomfortable. He was doing all he could to keep from squirming under the President’s gaze.
The second man was the polar opposite. In his late thirties and the picture of composure, he wore the black uniform of the newly formed FEMA Special Reaction Force, with a tape above his breast pocket bearing the name RORKE, and a single star on each shoulder. His sandy hair was neatly trimmed, as was his goatee, and an otherwise handsome face was marred by a thin, ropelike welt of scar tissue emanating from the corner of his eye and running down his left cheek. In an odd way it seemed to enhance rather than detract from his appearance, and he looked for all the world like a movie version of a pirate or perhaps a Viking. Brigadier General Rorke returned Gleason’s gaze evenly and without the slightest indication of concern.
Gleason focused his wrath where it was having the most impact. His voice was calm, but quiet menace dripped from every syllable.
“Four days, Ollie? Tremble gave you the slip four days ago and you’re just now getting around to telling me?”
Crawford shifted uncomfortably in his chair. “Actually, Mr. President, it was a single fugitive, so it’s unclear if it was really Tremble. I was attempting to ascertain—”
“Cut the crap, Ollie! Who the hell do you think you’re talking to, some brain-dead group
Wiggins whipped the wheel to the right, bouncing down the steep embankment toward a barely visible gap.
They lost the right-side mirror going in, and Wiggins was forced to a crawl, dodging larger trees and bulling his way over and through smaller saplings and brush.
“I give up,” Wiggins said through clenched teeth as he held the wheel in a white-knuckled grip. “Where are you taking us?”
“In about fifty yards, we’ll come to the old towpath for the Chesapeake and Ohio Canal, which runs concurrent with the AT here. Turn right and run due west along the river back to the bridge; then we’ll hide in this same strip of woods that runs under the bridge. I figure the last place they’ll look is the place we ran from. The woods should shield us from view, and the bridge will hide us from choppers. We don’t have a chance of outrunning them, so we have to outsmart them.”
They broke out of the trees as she finished, and a smile spread across Wiggins’ face as he whipped the battered car right on to the towpath. “I’ll be damned! Pretty smart, Tex.”
She rolled down her window. “Save your admiration and step on it. I hear a chopper.”
The chopper got louder as they raced for the bridge, but it was north of them, invisible below the tree line. They nosed their way into the wooded strip beneath the bridge with just seconds to spare. They heard the chopper circling as they cut brush and piled it around and on top of the SUV; it landed just as they crawled into their new hide.
“And now we wait,” Wiggins said.
Tex nodded. “And hope like hell no one puts two and two together. We’re sitting ducks if they figure this out.”
Chapter Two
Presidential Quarters
Camp David Complex
Maryland
Day 24, 10:15 a.m.
The Honorable Theodore M. Gleason, President of the United States of America, glared at the two men seated across the desk, a study in contrast. One was balding and of late middle age, his receding chin clean-shaved. He wore an obviously expensive suit and sported a Mont Blanc pen in the pocket of his freshly pressed snow white shirt. A gold Rolex peeked from beneath the edge of a monogrammed sleeve bearing the initials OAC. Even given the man’s current unease, he wore the uniform of the Washington power broker naturally, despite, or perhaps because of, the fact the world was going to Hell. But even wearing the external trappings of wealth and power, Secretary of Homeland Security Oliver Armstrong Crawford, or ‘Ollie’ to those who pretended to be his friends, was visibly uncomfortable. He was doing all he could to keep from squirming under the President’s gaze.
The second man was the polar opposite. In his late thirties and the picture of composure, he wore the black uniform of the newly formed FEMA Special Reaction Force, with a tape above his breast pocket bearing the name RORKE, and a single star on each shoulder. His sandy hair was neatly trimmed, as was his goatee, and an otherwise handsome face was marred by a thin, ropelike welt of scar tissue emanating from the corner of his eye and running down his left cheek. In an odd way it seemed to enhance rather than detract from his appearance, and he looked for all the world like a movie version of a pirate or perhaps a Viking. Brigadier General Rorke returned Gleason’s gaze evenly and without the slightest indication of concern.
Gleason focused his wrath where it was having the most impact. His voice was calm, but quiet menace dripped from every syllable.
“Four days, Ollie? Tremble gave you the slip four days ago and you’re just now getting around to telling me?”
Crawford shifted uncomfortably in his chair. “Actually, Mr. President, it was a single fugitive, so it’s unclear if it was really Tremble. I was attempting to ascertain—”
“Cut the crap, Ollie! Who the hell do you think you’re talking to, some brain-dead group
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