The Ungovernable Read online

  Copyright © 2019 by Franklin Horton

  Cover by Deranged Doctor Design

  Editing by Felicia Sullivan

  All rights reserved.

  No part of this book may be reproduced in any form or by any electronic or mechanical means, including information storage and retrieval systems, without written permission from the author, except for the use of brief quotations in a book review.

  Created with Vellum

  Contents

  Also by Franklin Horton

  About the Author

  Untitled

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  Chapter 11

  Chapter 12

  Chapter 13

  Chapter 14

  Chapter 15

  Chapter 16

  Chapter 17

  Chapter 18

  Chapter 19

  Chapter 20

  Chapter 21

  Chapter 22

  Chapter 23

  Chapter 24

  Chapter 25

  Chapter 26

  Chapter 27

  Chapter 28

  Chapter 29

  Chapter 30

  Chapter 31

  Chapter 32

  Chapter 33

  Chapter 34

  Chapter 35

  Chapter 36

  Chapter 37

  Chapter 38

  Chapter 39

  Chapter 40

  Chapter 41

  Chapter 42

  Chapter 43

  Bonus Content

  Meet The Mad Mick

  Also by Franklin Horton

  The Borrowed World Series

  The Borrowed World

  Ashes of the Unspeakable

  Legion of Despair

  No Time For Mourning

  Valley of Vengeance

  Switched On

  The Locker Nine Series

  Locker Nine

  Grace Under Fire

  Compound Fracture

  Blood Bought

  The Mad Mick Series

  The Mad Mick

  Masters of Mayhem

  Stand-Alone Novels

  Random Acts

  About the Author

  Franklin Horton lives and writes in the mountains of Southwestern Virginia. He is the author of several bestselling post-apocalyptic series. You can follow him on his website at franklinhorton.com.

  While you’re there please sign up for his mailing list for updates, event schedule, book recommendations, and discounts.

  1

  The Power Plant

  When Boss saw his own hand dropping away from his body, severed at the wrist, he knew he had to act fast or he was a dead man. He was already groping for the tourniquet on his belt as he rolled from the icy steel decking. He plunged into the dark, icy water with a heart-seizing abruptness. In his multifaceted career, Boss had taken the Army’s Combat Water Survival Training. He’d also taken cold weather training with the Norwegian Army, which had required jumping through a hole cut in a frozen lake. Unfortunately, none of the techniques he’d learned in those trainings would help him at this very moment. He would die quickly unless he stemmed the free flow of blood from his wrist.

  At his back, he tugged at an orange nylon tab, opening the pouch containing his tourniquet. He got a firm grip on it, knowing he was screwed if he lost the precious lifesaving device in the current. He thrust the stump above water, looped the wide tourniquet around it, and tugged the device as tight as he could. When the Velcro end was fastened securely, he twisted the capstan and locked it down, gritting his teeth against the painful pressure.

  There was too much blood and too little light to know if he’d been successful or not. He’d know shortly. If he passed out and died he’d have his answer.

  Containing the bleeding alone did not guarantee his survival. He’d only dealt with one of the multitude of threats trying to kill him at the moment. He would die in the frigid water if he didn’t get out and get warm. There was shock to contend with, and the possibility he’d lost too much blood to function effectively. Still, quitting was not in his vocabulary.

  He scanned his surroundings for both threats and an escape route, but the limited light prevented a thorough visual assessment. In a small blessing, the swift water had carried him away from the scene of the fight. He saw no one in any of the pockets of light. Neither the men he’d been fighting nor his own men.

  The entire scene was surreal. Steam rose in dense clouds as floodwaters hit fiery furnaces. Emergency floodlights sliced through that steam, creating sporadic pockets of glowing fog. The scene was eerie and nightmarish. In some areas the facility lighting faded and blinked out as water shorted electrical components.

  Carried by the current, Boss was slammed against a steel beam protruding from an unlit platform. The bone-jarring impact rattled him and he grunted in pain. He managed to hook a leg around the beam and stop himself. The current pulled at him but he clung tightly to the beam like a bull rider, his legs wrapped around it, a single arm upraised and held out of the water.

  He started to shiver. That was okay. When the shivering stopped his heart might not be too far behind. Time was running out. So was his strength.

  In the shadows he could see the beam below him was attached to a steep structure that rose high above the roiling waters. There was a raised platform over him, attached to more catwalks and platforms. He spied a familiar vertical pattern in the darkness and prayed it was a ladder. He scooted along the beam, pulling himself toward it until he was close enough to grope for it. His single frozen hand banged against smooth rungs and he locked onto it with a death grip. He unwrapped his legs from the beam and floated toward the ladder, aware that losing his grip at this point would be a death sentence. He only had the strength for this one chance.

  His feet banged against the submerged rungs of the ladder and he jammed s heavy boot onto it. Once he had a secure footing he wasted no time. He had to climb immediately but the shivering and stiff muscles made it difficult. His body was going numb and he was losing dexterity. He had to focus on every single movement. He could not rush. Any mistake at this point would be fatal and Boss refused to die of weakness, of his own inability to complete the mission.

  He climbed a single step at a time, getting both feet on a step before sliding his hand upward and locking it in place. He did this repeatedly until eight feet of precarious climbing got him to the level of the raised platform. He rolled onto a deck of rusty steel grating, the texture rasping and grinding against his skin. He staggered to his feet. Stillness was death. There was no time to rest. No time for anything but getting his body temp back up to where it was supposed to be.

  A gust of wind blasted him and passed right through his damp clothing. He wondered what the temperature was with the wind chill. Low thirties? High twenties? Either way, it was too cold for a wet man to survive much longer.

  He forced himself in the direction of the nearest shelter, some type of structure on the catwalk. He wove back and forth between the yellow safety railings like a pinball. His target was thirty or forty meters away. He stumbled several times as his legs increasingly refused to cooperate. He commanded and they tried to ignore him.

  Boss hit the steel door and groped for the knob. Thank God for lever handles. He pressed down and the lock opened. The door flew open and Boss fell inside, landing on the floor. He lashed out with his foot, catching the door, and kicking it shut.

  The room was heated, or at least it had been. It was warmer than the temperature outside. Boss yanked a chemic
al lightstick from his vest and cracked it. He could see now that three walls of the structure were mostly glass but one was covered in dials and gauges. Boss got to his knees, then stood.

  He scanned the room, trying to find the source of the heat and see if he could possibly ratchet it up. He saw no ductwork, no radiator, nothing that looked like a heat source. As he moved around the room he felt a pocket of warmth near the gauges. He put the lightstick in his mouth and felt around the wall. He found heat coming from an insulated pipe running to a gauge.

  Boss pulled his knife from his belt and slashed the length of insulation, tearing it away with the tip of the knife. Below it was a stainless steel line about the size of a regular residential plumbing pipe. He stuck a finger to the line and found it hot to the touch. With a furious cry he began hacking at the pipe with the heavy knife. After several vicious slashes he heard a hiss and steam sprayed from the damaged pipe. Boss stepped back and delivered a firm kick to the pipe. It bent, the opening growing wider and releasing more steam into the room.

  Boss backed away from the wall, moving to the farthest reach of the steam. He hesitated, then eased himself into the warm cloud. The steam was rapidly losing its heat and did not burn him, instead enveloping him in a lifesaving mist. He dropped his knife to the floor, then hit the buckle on his battle belt, which clattered to the deck.

  He struggled to wrestle his way out of the thick fleece pullover he wore as outerwear. Beneath that was a heavy skintight Under Armor compression shirt. He tried to take the garment off but it was too tight. When he managed to get it over his head and off a single arm, he allowed the damp shirt to hang loose, trapped beneath a tourniquet he had no intention of releasing.

  With further difficulty, the boots, pants, and thermal underwear followed. When he was as naked as he could manage to get, he felt better. The room was heating up around him. He hadn’t succumbed to blood loss. He might survive this after all. He searched the room for anything that could be used as clothing but the stark, industrial space had little to offer. Finally his eyes settled on the coal-stained rugs at the two entrances into the room. He rolled one around the lower part of his body, then the second around his torso. If the steam quit, this might still be enough heat to keep him alive until morning.

  He propped himself against the wall and studied the stump of his arm. That was a bad call. Once he did, he felt a devastating wave of pain and nausea. All the limb pain he’d ignored while nearly freezing to death came rushing toward him. He reached for his pants and fished a device from a cargo pocket—an emergency satellite beacon. Even in these conditions it would trigger a rescue. There were men on the other end who owed him. Men who wanted him alive. He pressed the SOS button.

  He sagged to the floor, allowing the device to slip from his fingers. The skin beneath his short hair was pressed against the cold, gritty floor. His thoughts were a flurry. How could his operation have gone so wrong? Who had done this to him? To the country?

  He would find out. When he did, they would pay. He would kill them one inch at a time. He would torture them, bring them back to life, and torture them some more. They would know his suffering and worse.

  A wave of dizziness hit him and he reeled. His eyes fluttered and he started to slump over. Refusing to succumb to unconsciousness, he banged the stump of his missing hand against the ground. White hot pain exploded in his head. Every nerve in his body surged as if his wiring had been overloaded with a voltage it was incapable of handling. He threw his head back and roared with an animal rage.

  2

  An Army chopper crew was overnighting in Oak Ridge, TN, after delivering some human cargo. They’d ferried several utility engineers and a couple of bean counters there to provide an assessment of what might be required to provide full power restoration to the Tennessee Valley area. The Crew Chief, Gordon, was awakened at 3 AM by a persistent beep from the control panel.

  The interior of the chopper was not much warmer than the winter air outside. Gordon could see his breath in the pale artificial light filtering through the windshield. He groaned and slithered out of his sleeping bag. He turned on a light, slid on a headset, and tried to focus on pushing the right buttons. After a brief discussion that mostly consisted of him making affirmative, one-word responses, he slid the headset off and sagged back in his seat. He wanted to get back in his sleeping bag but that would only delay the inevitable.

  He spun in his seat to wake the other two men, both pilots, but found them already sitting up expectantly.

  “What’s up?” Davis asked.

  “We need to get in the air,” Gordon said. “We have to investigate a high-priority distress beacon in the southwest Virginia area. The distress signal happens to correspond with a power plant going offline at the same location around the same time. They can’t raise anyone on the radio.”

  There was a groan and a string of curses from Stanley, the co-pilot. “Dude, when are we getting a day off? We’re running missions all day, every day. Aren’t there regs about this shit?”

  “I’m sure you could get a transfer,” Gordon said. “You want to pull guard duty at one of those comfort camps? Would you rather sit on your ass and guard a power plant all day, every day?”

  No one replied. They knew they had better duty, and considerably better living conditions, than most people did right now. They had weapons, they were eating regularly, and their odds of survival were pretty darn good. It was best to choke down any dissatisfaction and keep their mouths shut.

  Their biggest complaint was they were often short-handed. They’d have preferred a four-man crew but were stuck with three now. The desertion rate was high. Men were understandably worried about their families and were slipping off at the first chance that presented itself to them. No matter what role the military found itself in during this crisis, they always seemed to be a few men short of a full complement.

  Someone flipped on a light in the back and the men crawled out of their sleeping bags, shivering from the cold. They fumbled for jackets. Everyone already slept in hats and gloves. They’d been offered accommodations inside one the buildings but the crew slept on the chopper for most of these runs outside the wire. Even within secure facilities, this was the only way to be certain they wouldn’t lose fuel, gear, or even the chopper itself. They all knew there were desperate men who’d love to steal their bird and fly home to their families. None of the crew wanted to be stranded at some distant hellhole just because they decided to take a warm bed over the cold deck of a Black Hawk.

  “So, no word on who the beacon belongs to?” Stanley asked. "With all the shit going on now we’re supposed to be jumping just because a beacon is triggered? Are there actually people out there worth this much effort?"

  Gordon shrugged. "I guess somebody thinks so. All I can say is, if they want him brought in, then somebody in the government really has a soft spot for this guy."

  The crew stowed their gear and jumped into preflight checks. Though they had gear for making coffee they didn’t have time to make any. Everyone lamented that fact but readied themselves as fast as possible and powered up the engines.

  “Whoever this VIP is, he owes me a hot cup of coffee,” Stanley grumbled, slipping on his headset.

  “Quit your griping,” Gordon said, taking his station.

  "Here we go!" Davis called into his headset, sounding more like a cowboy leaving the chute on the back of a bucking bronco. Davis didn’t particularly care where they were going. It had to be more exciting than running a shuttle service for engineers. Those dudes weren’t much for conversation.

  They were soon up to a speed of over one hundred and sixty miles per hour, racing across the dark hills of eastern Tennessee. They sometimes had a hard time believing this was America, where lights were usually plentiful. Not anymore. Once they left Oak Ridge, there was nothing. No flashing cell towers, no bright parking lots, no rural porch lights, and no glowing cities reflecting off the cloud cover.

  In about an hour the crew closed in
on the coordinates they’d been given, a small community in southwest Virginia that didn’t even qualify as a town.

  "What the hell?" Davis muttered. “We’ve been here before. This place should be lit up like a Christmas tree. They make their own power. They can waste as much as they want.”

  There was no power now, only sporadic pockets of illumination that likely came from battery-powered emergency lighting. It was not nearly bright enough to conduct a search by.

  “I remember this place," Stanley said. “It’s a bit tricky. There are transmission wires and towers all over the damn place. It’s like an obstacle course. We doing this by night vision or spotlight?”

  The chopper had wire strike protection, mechanical cutting blades designed to slice through wires before they had a chance to crash their aircraft, but it was not a foolproof system in tight quarters, like the river valley below them.

  "Stay in position,” Gordon said. He unbuckled from his seat and clipped into the tether system that would prevent him from falling out when conducting open-door operations. He shoved the door back, filling the cabin with gusts of bitter cold air, folded his night vision goggles into position, and stared below him.

  “What do you see?” Stanley asked.

  “Lots of water. The damn place is flooded!” Gordon announced. “The landing pad we used last time is gone. The whole valley is full of water and there’s debris everywhere. I even see a few bodies snagged down there.”