False Flag: A Post-Apocalyptic Tale of America's Impending Demise (American Wasteland Book 1) Read online

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  ACKNOWLEDGMENTS

  All glory, honor, and praise to the King, my Savior, Jesus Christ.

  I would like to thank my Editor-in-Chief Catherine Goodwin, as well as the rest of my fantastic editing team, Laura Edge, Stacey Glemboski, Sherrill Hesler, and Claudine Allison.

  CHAPTER 1

  I beheld the earth, and, lo, it was without form, and void; and the heavens, and they had no light. I beheld the mountains, and, lo, they trembled, and all the hills moved lightly. I beheld, and, lo, there was no man, and all the birds of the heavens were fled. I beheld, and, lo, the fruitful place was a wilderness, and all the cities thereof were broken down at the presence of the Lord, and by his fierce anger.

  Jeremiah 4:23-26

  “Gravy Train, this is Jennifer, how can I help you?” A pretty young brunette stared at an Excel spreadsheet while she waited for a response from the person on the other end of the phone.

  “No way! Gravy Train? That was my idea.”

  “Lucas?” She’d not heard his voice in ages. She sat up straight in her office chair.

  “Of course.”

  “How did you get my number?”

  “Nice to speak with you as well.”

  “No, that’s not what I meant—it’s…great. How are you?” Her heart beat faster as a flood of emotion washed over. “I’m just a little surprised is all.”

  “Good. I’m good. I called your dad’s dealership. He gave me your number.”

  “Oh—that’s great.”

  “So, Gravy Train, that’s so awesome. I’m glad you finally did it. I never thought you’d leave Clayton.”

  “Yeah, I thought about opening there, but Atlanta just offered so much more room to grow. The farm-to-table scene is big here. Plus, I watched my dad struggle to get good help for years in Clayton.”

  “Yeah, country folk are laid back,” said Lucas.

  “A little too laid back, sometimes.”

  “So, how’s it going—the restaurant, I mean?”

  “It was great…”

  “Until the Sichuan flu lockdowns,” he finished her sentence.

  “Yeah.” She frowned at the spreadsheet. “Until the lockdowns.”

  “Didn’t you get some of that bailout money?”

  “Some, but it wasn’t enough. Half of my staff never came back. I guess they’re getting plenty of bailout money. I’ve had to do everything from washing dishes to waiting tables.”

  “At least you’re earning extra money in tips.”

  “The front of the house staff pools tips. I don’t take a cut.”

  “Why not? You do the work. You’re entitled to share.”

  She sighed. “The reality is that none of these guys have to be here. They could all make just as much sitting on the couch and cashing their government checks. I guess not taking a cut of the tips is my way of saying thanks for choosing to work instead of milking the system.”

  “What about cooking? That’s what you love. Being a chef and farming was why you always wanted a farm-to-table restaurant.”

  “That all ended the day I signed the lease. Too many other things pulling me in a million different directions. Fortunately, I have a great chef and some really good local suppliers.”

  “You always said you’d hire a general manager so you could pursue your passions.”

  “Easier said than done.”

  “There was a time when I was going to be the GM.”

  “There was a time…” She was struck by a sudden sense of melancholy.

  “I still could.”

  “Yeah, right. The Army would never let you go.”

  “Actually, they just did.”

  “What? Why? I thought you were a lifer.”

  “So did I.”

  “What happened?”

  “A myriad of disciplinary issues.”

  “That doesn’t sound right. You were always the model soldier.”

  “The definition of model soldier has been overhauled.”

  “What do you mean? What did you do?”

  “I refused the jab for one thing.”

  “The vaccine? I thought that was voluntary.”

  “Nope. Not anymore. The deadline to get vaccinated came and went. I never took it. I applied for a religious exemption because the vaccine was developed using aborted babies. My exemption was never approved.”

  “You said a myriad of issues. What else?”

  “I was written up for poor attitude. Then I was tried by court-martial for refusing to obey a direct order.”

  “And you lost the trial?”

  “Yep. Dishonorable discharge.”

  “What was the order—that you refused, I mean?”

  “Wearing high heels.”

  “You’re joking.”

  “I wish I were.”

  “But that doesn’t make any sense at all.”

  “It was part of our mandatory diversity training.”

  “And what was it supposed to achieve?”

  “Officially, it was supposed to help us overly-aggressive, testosterone-driven, straight males empathize with the LGBTQ members of the military—see things from the other side, so to speak. Unofficially, it was a test to see if we’d go along with leftist woke propaganda. The military is being purged.”

  “I may not have all the details, but I know enough to guess that where you work is hostile territory. Getting shot with a gun doesn’t frighten you as much as a little needle?”

  “Not as much as this particular needle,” Lucas said. “Haven’t you heard the stories?”

  “A few, but they’re outliers. I saw the news story about that mom in Nashville who got paralyzed, but even she still supports taking the vaccine.”

  “You don’t really believe that, do you? Did you take it?”

  “The shot? No. I had the Sichuan flu already. I was sick as a dog—sicker than I’ve ever been.”

  “But you didn’t die.”

  “Obviously not. But the health department may require all food service workers to be fully vaccinated at some point. I may have to.”

  “Don’t. It’s an experimental gene therapy drug that’s never even been tested on animals. It could be years before we know what the long-term side effects are. Not to mention the deaths, miscarriages, blood clots, strokes, and extreme adverse reactions people are having. The death rate from the Sichuan flu for people our age is 2 one-thousands of a percent. And that includes people with underlying health conditions. Nothing about this makes
sense.”

  “Well,” said Jennifer. “I haven’t heard about all of that.”

  “Your dad gave me your email. I’ll send you some articles.”

  “From where—fanatical conspiracy websites?”

  “From doctors, from people who worked at the major pharmaceutical companies, from the CDC, and medical professionals around the world. The Department of Health and Human Services has a webpage. It’s called VAERS—Vaccine Adverse Effects Reporting System. You’ll have to download a spreadsheet to view the data. But once you do, try searching terms like death, stroke, aneurysm, palsy, suicidal ideation, myalgia, cardiac arrest. It’s downright frightening when you see everything that isn’t being covered in the media. This is all in the official record books of HHS.

  “Keep in mind, they have all of this data that’s being reported as adverse effects, even when the majority of medical professionals refuses to recognize the correlation between the jab and these extreme side effects. The reported cases are at roughly a million. Imagine how many are never even being identified.”

  “One of the waitresses here died of a stroke.” Jennifer searched the internet and found the VAERS/HHS webpage.

  “Did she get the vaccine recently?”

  “Yeah, but I’m not sure that was what caused her stroke.” Jennifer found the zip file containing the spreadsheet and downloaded it to her computer.

  “Yes, you are,” said Lucas. “You know.”

  She put the phone on speaker and extracted the spreadsheet from the zip file. “I’ll look all this over. I’ll check out the other stuff as well if you send it to me. But it’ll probably be next week before I can really dig into it.

  “It was nice to hear from you, but I’ve got to get going. Friday night, 4th of July weekend, and the mayor just let us reopen to full capacity. It’s probably going to be slammed tonight. And like I said, it’s impossible to find help with the huge stimulus checks the government is sending out.”

  Lucas added, “People dropping dead and being incapacitated by the jab isn’t helping either.”

  His theory sounded a little too over-the-top to Jennifer. “Regardless of why, I’m going to be doing a lot of the work myself. I have no choice if I want to get caught up on the bills. Besides, they may close us down again if more variants hit us this fall.”

  “I wasn’t kidding about helping out. I’m at Fort Benning with my bags packed. I could be there in two hours—ready to work.”

  She closed her eyes together tightly. “Thanks for the offer, but I’ll figure it out.”

  “Why not? You need the help.”

  “Where would you stay?”

  “Your place.”

  “No, no, no…”

  “On the couch—of course.”

  “It’s not that simple, Lucas. I don’t hear from you for three years, then as soon as your plans don’t pan out, you expect me to be just waiting here for you? I’ve moved on.”

  “Oh.” He was quiet for a moment. “You’re seeing someone?”

  She fidgeted with the half-carat diamond ring, turning it upside down on her finger. “Yes.”

  “I understand. I can’t say that I’m not a little disappointed, but I can’t say I’m surprised either. I’m a big boy, I can handle it, and I’d still like to help out. In all sincerity, you’d be doing me a favor. This whole thing caught me off guard. I don’t have a clue what I’ll do or where I’ll go.”

  “Why not go back to Clayton?”

  “There’s nothing for me in Clayton.”

  “My dad will give you a job. You could work in sales or he’d train you if you wanted to work in the service department. He’d pay you very well. He thinks you’re a hero.”

  “But you don’t.”

  She paused. “I admire your commitment to America and your sense of patriotism.”

  “But?”

  “But…” She hesitated to expound on the thought. “In the end, those things were more important than me. You’ll have to forgive me if I view your service a little differently than my father.”

  “I’m sorry,” he said.

  “Don’t be. That’s how God made you. I’ve learned to accept you for who you are.”

  “For hurting you—I mean.”

  “Water under the bridge.”

  “So?”

  “So what?”

  “Can I come?”

  “Lucas!” she spun the ring around several more times.

  “I’ll find some dive hotel to stay in. I’ll help you with the restaurant. It would really help me out if I could keep busy while I figure out my next step. If I don’t find something to do, I’ll go insane from fuming over this whole thing.”

  “You can come. But stop by the restaurant before you get a sleazy hotel. I might be able to find you somewhere to crash for a few days while we look for better accommodations.”

  “That would be great! What do you have in mind?”

  “I just want to check with somebody before I say anything.”

  “Why? Is it someone I know?”

  “Just give me a couple of hours. I’ll let you know when you get here.”

  “Now you’re torturing me. Who is it?”

  “Forget it. I shouldn’t have said anything. I’ll see you in a while.”

  “But you did say something. Come on. Who is it?”

  “Fine,” Jennifer huffed. “Cameron might have an extra bedroom.”

  “Whitey? He’s in Atlanta?”

  “Yes. Francesca, too.” She faced the diamond downward. “She’s helping with the restaurant.”

  “Your old BFF from cheerleading squad? What about Whitey? Is he working at Gravy Train also? This will be just like old times!”

  “No, he’s a pastor—on staff with North Ridge.”

  “That big megachurch up by Alpharetta? That’s a long way from downtown.”

  “He’s the children’s pastor at one of the satellites, the one in Buckhead. And nobody here calls him Whitey. It’s just Cameron now. Besides, I’m in midtown. It’s not that far from Buckhead. His place is near here.”

  “Oh, okay.”

  “So, I’ll see you in a while? Do you know where to find me?”

  “Yeah, I’m looking at the map right now.” Lucas paused. “Wait.”

  “What is it?”

  “Are you talking about Whitey—I mean Cameron?”

  “What?”

  “The person you’re seeing—are you going out with Cameron?”

  She took the ring off to examine it. “Yeah. That’s why I wanted to check with him first—to make sure it’s not going to be weird for him. If it’s going to be uncomfortable for you, I can just not say anything.”

  “No, it’s fine with me. We were the three musketeers in grade school and middle school—but then…”

  “Highschool. Cheerleading. I started hanging out with Francesca more.”

  “I was going to say puberty, but yeah, I suppose your summation is just as accurate. Anyway, I guess it was inevitable that the two of you would end up together.”

  It was not inevitable, she thought. “Okay then. I’ve really got to get going. I’ll see you in a couple of hours.”

  “See you then.” He ended the call.

  CHAPTER 2

  The world today has 6.8 billion people...that's headed up to about 9 billion. If we do a really great job on vaccines, health care, reproductive health services, we could lower that by perhaps 10 to 15 percent.

  Bill Gates-Excerpt from his 2010 TED Talk, Innovating to Zero

  Francesca, a pretty, fit brunette, opened the door to the back office. “The delivery from Rabbit Run Farms is short.”

  “On what?” Jennifer frowned.

  “Chicken.”

  “No! That’s what we’re running for the special tonight! How much chicken did we get?”

  “None. They’re sold out.”

  “Great!” Jennifer huffed. She retrieved the restaurant credit card from her purse sitting on the desk next to her computer. “Ca
n you go to Clean Foods Market for me?”

  Francesca took the card. “Sure. How much should I get?”

  Pablo, the head chef, came to stand behind Francesca. He was 5’6’’, the same height as her, but his stocky form made him look shorter. “Take everything they have. Pick up fifty pounds of potatoes also. We’re out.”

  “What kind of potatoes?” Francesca stuck the card in the pocket of her jeans.

  “Yukon Gold,” he replied. “Did Rabbit Run say why they’re out of chicken?”

  “I asked,” said Francesca. “But he was just the delivery guy. He didn’t know.”

  “It would have been nice if they’d called to let us know,” Pablo grumbled.

  Jennifer shook her head. “No one calls anymore. They just assume people expect the order to be missing something. Driver shortages, fuel shortages, feed shortages, farmers can’t get parts to repair or replace broken equipment; if it’s not one thing, it’s another. Suppliers don’t have time to waste explaining the details of the crisis du jour.”

  Dada, the head server approached the group. He was 6’3” with a manicured beard and skin as black as night. He spoke with a Nigerian accent. “Your boyfriend is here, Ms. Jennifer.”

  “It’s her fiancé,” Francesca corrected with a contrived French pronunciation of the word.

  “Pardon me.” Dada mocked her intonation, “Your fiancé.”

  “Thanks, Dada.” Jennifer pushed her chair back. The informal meeting adjourned and the attendees scattered to pursue their individual tasks. Jennifer walked out into the shabby chic dining room where reclaimed pallet wood covered the interior accent wall and caged Edison bulbs dangled low over the tables. The walls were adorned with black and white photos of trains and rail workers from a bygone era.

  Cameron White sat at the bar looking at his phone. His platinum hair hung over his eyes like a sheepdog’s when he looked down.

  “Hey!” Jennifer pulled up the stool next to his.

  He looked up, brushed his hair back with his hand, and kissed her. “I saw your text and thought I’d stop by. What’s up?”