Chapter 8

Elbert County, Georgia

June 6, 1979

 

Two muddy tire tracks snaked through the cow pasture in the middle of the Georgia sticks. It had taken an hour to drive here and, adding insult to injury, the client didn’t even get his boots dirty. Peter let the engine idle for all of five minutes while the two ton limo sank into the muck. Apparently his passenger had seen all he needed. The man spoke through the intercom and instructed him to proceed to the next destination. Peter knew he had heard the man’s voice before, but he couldn’t place it.

When he finally managed to get the immense car turned around, he noticed the realty sign had a red “SOLD” sticker affixed to it.

The first ninety miles from Atlanta were blacktop heaven but the last twenty had been back road hell. The hired driver struggled to keep the big beast travelling in a straight line. The Lincoln Town car limousine swayed and shimmied, its springs loudly protesting each depression in the road. It wasn’t much of a road. It was mostly gravel and potholes with washboard grooves scoured into it by the continual spring showers. The road would eventually dead-end at the Ellington quarry, four brutal miles from pavement usually only negotiated by large, high clearance trucks.

The brown cloud caught up with and enveloped the limousine as it rolled to a halt. Peter waited for the cocoon of dust to descend on the once black automobile before he stepped out to open the door for his important passenger.

Peter helped the man out and stole a brief glance at him. He appeared to be in his early forties. Blonde hair starting to show hints of gray peeked out from under his black beret. Wide rimmed black sunglasses and a thick moustache camouflaged his true features. The face, combined with the distinctive voice, still didn’t help to pry the man’s identity from the recesses of Peter’s memory. For sure he was a big time player in the south, but it wouldn’t do him any good to dwell on his identity. Peter’s personal rule was to never ask questions or make small talk unless addressed first. It was easier that way and honestly, the tips were better when the clients sensed their anonymity was being respected.

He got back in the driver’s seat and observed his passenger approach the squat, windowless office building. The familiar looking man carried a rugged aluminum attaché case in one hand and a three foot long black tube in the other. Peter watched him with idle curiosity until he disappeared into the building.

***

The bell at the top of the door jangled, announcing the possibility of a paying customer, few and far between these days.

“Howdy.” Milo Williamson looked over his bifocals at the tall stranger. “How can I help you?”

“I’m Robert Christian, I represent a consortium of businessmen and we are erecting a stone monument in Ellington.”

Milo looked the man up and down. It struck him as strange that the fella didn’t remove his sunglasses once inside, but it truly was none of his business. “What kind of monument and where will it stand?” Milo then realized, to his dismay that he forgot to introduce himself to his visitor. “Oh forgive me. It must be the humidity messing with my brain. My name is Milo Williamson,” he said, offering his calloused hand.

The man reciprocated, pausing for a heartbeat. “Robert Christian, the pleasure is all mine.”

What soft feminine hands, he must be an executive, Milo thought. All of the bankers that had been turning him down for a loan lately had the very same buttery hands. Giving out notes for twenty plus percent interest sure was highway robbery. It definitely wasn’t hard work. Milo was still sore the family business might fold. The economy had him in a bind and nothing was getting done... especially not in granite. “Sorry, I lost my train of thought. Refresh my memory, what and where?”

“It’s a piece of modern art and the property is in Ellington, like I said.” Milo’s potential client seemed annoyed. Well, country bumpkin, Robert Christian thought, “Do you have time to do the job or should I go elsewhere?”

Milo gestured to the cylinder on the counter. “May I see the plans?”

The man unrolled the blueprints, trapped one side down with his tan, brick-sized mobile phone and held down the other side with his free hand.

“Whoa... are these dimensions correct? Assuming they are, each of these slabs will weigh roughly ten tons each.”

“The plans are to be followed precisely. One deviation and the celestial features in the design won’t work.”

“What do you mean by celestial features?” Milo said, scratching what little hair he had left on his head.

The tone of the man’s voice suddenly changed. It was even more apparent his patience was wearing thin. “Do you want the work... or shall I move on?”

“Let me look at these for a moment.” The old quarryman started making calculations. “Not counting the etching, and there will be a lot of extra time consuming work there...”

Robert Christian interrupted Milo by placing the attaché case on the counter and opening both latches. “We need it completed no later than March twenty-second.”

“The timeline will be doable. It’s going to cost roughly thirty thousand dollars though.”

Robert Christian spun the case around to face the older man and opened the lid. Inside were neatly bundled stacks of twenty dollar bills. Andrew Jackson never looked better to Milo.

“There’s fifty thousand dollars here. Get the job done on time and the difference is yours. Consider it a performance bonus.”

Milo, not wanting to seem desperate, waited three seconds before accepting. “One thing though. What does the first line mean?” He had his finger on the blueprints. The first line that was to grace the monolith read Maintain humanity under 500,000,000 in perpetual balance with nature. “Is that some kind of cryptic warning?”

He never got his answer; the bell signaled the mysterious man’s exit.

***

During the two hour drive back to Atlanta, Robert Christian contemplated his actions and the times he lived in. The world needed a wake up call. And it had to be something more than a thirty second commercial portraying a polluted landscape with a lone American Indian, in full authentic native garb, shedding a tear for Mother Earth. Any heart strings the spot might have tugged were quickly snipped by the next ad urging, more, get it now, must have and consume.

During the sixties, as a much younger man he tried to do his part. He went to rallies, marched and participated in sit-ins.

The seventies saw him get involved in politics, only to have his eyes opened to the realities of the military industrial complex and how the two were tightly woven together.

The monolith would not only enlighten the people that read the engraved words, but it would also stand as a tangible reminder to keep the Guild on task.

Although the writings etched into the granite obelisk touched on population control and leaving the earth better for the next generation, it wasn’t a blatant call for eugenic action. Sadly, deep down Robert Christian knew that man would take care of that one way or another.

With the Soviet Union and the United States locked in a cold war, and a few hot wars by proxy, it was looking more and more like the cleanse might be accomplished through nuclear holocaust.

It didn’t matter. The Guild would be ready and waiting, no matter the world changing event, to step in, pick up the pieces and send mankind onward in a good orderly direction.

The man in the back seat drifted off still thinking about the eventual ascension of his new world order.

***

Milo had the rock quarried and carved exactly as instructed. With the help of two cranes and scores of workers, the precisely placed formation of granite obelisks that would later be named the Georgia Guidestones was erected on time. The date was March 22, 1980.

***

 

Present Day

Outbreak - Day 5

Guild Headquarters. Jackson Hole, Wyoming.

 

The rising sun illuminated the Grand Tetons making them glow as if they had been gilded by King Midas himself. The massive mountains and pristine wilderness was a fitting backdrop for the meeting about to take place. Twelve of the most powerful and influential men in America were arriving from all points of the compass. They were about to set in motion a plan that had been decades in the making.

Their latest Manchurian candidate was now dead. Odero deviated at the end and it cost him his life; still they had to press on. The crisis that had fallen into their lap wasn’t the one that they had strategized for, let alone could have ever fathomed. The United States of America was about to be drawn and quartered and each man would get their piece of the pie.

The mansion was the typical wood beam and stone construction that dominated in places where snow covered the ground the majority of the year. Sitting on a broad swath of land nestled up against the Grand Tetons, it was more compound than typical mountain McMansion. The first dead giveaway was the twelve foot tall by two foot thick rock wall ringing the perimeter of the property. Ubiquitous shiny black domes hung like bats from multiple locations. They housed the many video cameras and were strategically placed to provide overlapping visual coverage of the entire grounds. Security personnel, openly carrying automatic weapons, walked the grounds in and outside of the walls.

***

Armored SUVs of different makes and models began arriving at the grand estate, trickling in before dawn. The Escalades, Denalis and Hummers all entered through a remotely operated sliding metal gate.

Before the outbreak, the winter ski destination had been home to many Hollywood elites, CEOs of Fortune 500 companies and a smattering of billionaires and multi-millionaires. The majority of the resort workers lived on the other side of the Teton pass in Driggs, Idaho. During the summer months in Jackson Hole, Yellowstone National Park was the main attraction.

The security gate rolled away to let in the civilian model Hummer. Three men emptied from the vehicle, their big black carbines sweeping the circular drive seeking out any threats to their charge. Satisfied that all was as it should be, they escorted the back seat passenger from the Hummer. Even though the man wore a Kevlar anti-ballistic vest, the men formed a human wall that moved with him from his vehicle and up the flight of stairs leading to the huge wooden double doors that opened into the 28,000 square foot home. The mountain mansion had originally been owned by an A-list Hollywood actor and now belonged to Robert Christian. The flamboyant billionaire fancied himself as the most ambitious man in the world.

***

When the hidden door to the cavernous conference room opened, all eleven men seated around the dark mahogany table looked up from the documents they had been studying.

Robert Christian stood 6-foot-2. His presence dominated the room when he entered. “Stay seated, gentlemen,” the newly arrived man intoned.

“I will,” said the man still in his chair, directly to Christian’s right. “I stand for no man.”

The room broke out in laughter as, to a man, they all stood and greeted the deeply tanned, blonde haired, blue eyed man.

Each individual exchanged private words with the newcomer before taking their seats. Christian methodically worked his way to the head of the mammoth slab of polished old-growth.

“Gentlemen,” he nodded his head silently and looked each man seated around the table in the eye. Pausing for dramatic effect he straightened his red power tie before addressing them. He had no reason to try and influence or impress these men; they were all equals here with the same goal. Soon they would be dividing the United States between them.

“As we speak, the first part of our global agenda has begun and is unfolding as planned.” Christian cracked the seal and poured his bottled water into an ornate crystal goblet before continuing.

“I thank all of you for choosing me as the point man in New America.”

“You have the biggest balls in the room,” said the tanned thirtyish-looking man at the far end of the table. He was the youngest and yet the most outwardly confident man in attendance.

He had amassed his fortune in the dot-com bubble. An inside trader with tendrils in every boardroom in America had tipped him and all of the other men in the room off before the crash, allowing them enough time to park their money in safe havens offshore. Getting rich from the misfortune of the common man was a continuing cycle for the power elites. The first great depression had made most of these men’s grandfathers fabulously wealthy. This latest depression transferred even more spoils into their coffers.

“Gentlemen, all of you have been informed of our esteemed colleague’s untimely demise. I urged him to leave the White House and take his family to safety. Bernard Odero wanted nothing to do with our plan for this country after the fall. In fact, he told me in his very own words that he despised all we stood for. It pained him to go along with our plan and run for office.”

“Why did he agree then?” asked the former President, John Cranston.

Robert Christian pressed a hidden button. At the opposite end of the rectangular table ornately carved walnut panels parted silently, revealing an eight foot wide flat screen monitor.

“I reminded Mr. Odero that after four short years he would be in his early fifties and could spend the rest of his life with his wife and daughters, taken care of and protected by us... or I was going to make sure that copies of these found their way into the hands of his strong willed wife.”

The projector splashed picture after doctored picture of the young then-Senator, seemingly conducting an illicit affair. The woman had supermodel looks that would have given Heidi Klum a run for her money.

“Good God, those are brilliant. Whose work are we looking at?” Cranston asked.

Robert Christian couldn’t tell if the randy ex-President was alluding to the woman’s “assets” or the Photoshopped images. “It’s not important now. The bottom line is he didn’t follow protocol and now he’s no longer in control and that means we are no longer in a position to shape things. Furthermore, he ordered the rest of his cabinet back to the White House with him, jeopardizing our plan further.”

Griffin Blackburn spoke up. “Who’s supposedly in control of the country right now?” The man was the heir to the Blackburn fortune. His family had built their wealth the same way as all of the men in the room had: Gaming the system and profiting from wars while being privy to information that any inside trader would kill for.

Robert Christian promptly answered, “Valerie Clay.” His voice dripping with venom, he drew out the words. “We have never been able to get her in our pocket. We have sent delegates from the right and the left. Anyone that we thought might appeal to her sensibilities. It was all to no avail. Her father was a decorated World War II pilot; he went on to serve his home state of Washington for decades. Gentlemen, her patriotism will get in our way.”

Mark Buchannan, the newest made member of the billionaire boys club, made his fortune in the dot com era. He was the youngest American to amass such a fortune, at the ripe old age of twenty-seven. Now in his late thirties he thrived on power, competition and exclusivity - the reason that he initially angled to become one of them. “We haven’t a clue where she is but we have people working on it.”

“Gentlemen, the second phase of our plan is hurtling forward. Soon the U.S. Navy will retaliate against China for the sinking of the USS Seawolf. This should draw in the Russians because the engagement took place near the Kamchatka peninsula. It is one thing to lurk under their waters, but it is an affront to their sovereignty to openly wage warfare there. Getting the Eagle, Dragon and the Bear fighting each other only accelerates our plan.”

Captain of industry and big Texas oilman Hank Ross asked in his thick southern drawl, “How long do we have to keep our kin sequestered? It can’t be too long because living in Texas, they won’t stand to being cooped up.”

“The theory is the walking dead only have three to nine months before the decay stops them from being ambulatory, so don’t worry about them. All we do is sit back, sip cognac and wait for the infighting. Attrition is our friend.” Robert Christian leaned back and finished his water. “My good friend Chuck Heston was a proponent of the Second Amendment. I held a different view. I wanted to have the guns for myself... but in hindsight an armed America is a good thing. Now, given enough time, they will kill each other off and also take a large portion of the infected with them.”

Ross cleared his throat and drawled, “What will we do about the rest of the military, and the armed citizenry when we take control of the country?”

Ian Bishop spoke up. “I founded Spartan International and built it from the ground up for an event such as this. Men, we have a large private army built with funds paid to me by the U.S. Government.” The former Navy SEAL, corded muscles rippling under his shirt, stood up and raised his deep voice a notch in volume. “As we speak, elements of Spartan are fanning out from different parts of the country. Our primary objective is to acquire as much of the unguarded United States arsenal as we can.”

The oldest man in the room cleared his throat before addressing the young operator. “I know you well, Captain Bishop. You were on the tip of the spear the first time we had boots on the ground in Iraq. Is that right?”

“Yes, Mister President.”

The ex-President from Kennebunkport continued his line of questioning. “With all due respect Sir, do you expect the United States Military to roll over and hand us the keys to the kingdom?”

“From what I have been told, most, if not all of the bases to the east of the Rockies have personnel problems. They either have skeleton crews that are lying low and waiting for orders to come from a nonexistent government or they are unmanned presently. The fact that this thing started on a Saturday is both a blessing and a curse.”

The forty-third President of the United States entered the discussion. “Mr. Bishop, we haven’t met, but if my daddy will vouch for you then you’re all right by me. One question, what is the blessing and what is the curse?”

Bishop ignored the fact that two questions had been asked of him instead of the purported one. The ex-President had a penchant for double speak and butchering words.

“First the blessing. Since the United States has not been attacked by soldiers on our soil since the Revolutionary War, almost all of the military installations encourage their cadre to live off base, thus leaving very few behind to guard the henhouse. The curse is the fact that most of the civilian population was at home and not at work when the outbreak occurred. It would have been much easier to surround the population centers one by one and exterminate those things. Unfortunately, we’re going to have to conduct the cleanse starting in the suburbs and working into the cities.”

The former President belted out a wheezing laugh. “OK. Color me convinced.”