Rated: M for adult themes: language, violence, mental rape, character death, mech erotica, torture, gore, and suicidal ideation. This varies from chapter to chapter, so read at your own risk.
Important Note: I started this series of fics before Revenge of the Fallen hit the theaters. This is an A.U. 2007 movie verse fic, NOT a ROTF/DOTM/AE/LK/BB or whatever follows fic.
Disclaimer: The only thing I own in this work of complete fiction is Velocity/Sira and Hardcore. They are mine. Everything else is copyrighted and owned by some really rich people. I make no money from this but wish I could.
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Full Velocity: Apocalypse Code
Chapter 3: Posse Comitatus
XxxX
Secretary of defense Miriam Hernandez wiped the dinner crumbs from the battered wood table. The meal consisted of beans with a bit of dried venison and cornbread, butter, and jelly. Simple food to fill the stomach and offer enough calories to stay alive. The months since the EMP attack drastically changed the United States. Food became scarce, and people had to band together and share resources or die.
The morning after the Cybertronian attack on Washington, Paul, the CID officer detailed to protect the SecDef, showed up with horses and a wagon to evacuate her and several others out of the city. It took them two days of riding to make it here; an old two-story farmhouse snuggled deep in the West Virginia wilderness, hidden from the atrocities of the world around them. Paul reassured her left word where he had taken them, an emergency evacuation to secure part of the Presidential Line of Succession.
Hidden but not sequestered, they heard the news from travelers trying to find missing loved ones or searching for a better chance for survival. Rumors and tales told that the entire country was dark, no electricity, nothing with circuitry worked, no phones, no mail, and no way to contact the other side of the nation or someone mere miles away. The grapevine said gangs controlled the cities, hoarding all the food and supplies, robbing, and raiding. Other stories had the cities empty, bereft of humanity, and prowled by packs of feral dogs. No one knew what to believe. But one thing seemed certain, the government was impotent and could not respond to the growing disaster.
Taking the rag to the sink, Miriam shook out the crumbs and hung the cloth to dry. Paul's Aunt, Beth, a willowy woman with cords for muscles and iron-gray hair, lived this land her whole life. She knew how to make do with almost nothing, and she opened her home to a pack of strangers because of her nephew. Miriam had never lived in poverty, her parents had struggled when they were young, so they made sure she never went without. Watching Beth mix the dough for tomorrow's biscuits reminded Miriam of her mother making tortillas, a skill she had never learned. In a blink, the knowledge that ran the world became useless and mundane know-how could keep a person fed and warm.
"Beth, do you need help with that?"
The gray head shook. "No, dear. This won't take long."
Miriam nodded. Her lack of cooking ability became a black mark of ineptitude.
The back door flung open, jarring the stateswoman out of her thoughts. Paul stomped his boots to remove mud, his arms loaded with cut firewood.
"Where do you want this?" he asked after offering his Aunt a kiss on the cheek.
"Next to the fireplace. The fire's out, so you can sweep the ashes." Beth instructed. The woman had a no-nonsense tone to her mountain accent and assigned chores with the efficiency of a drill sergeant.
Paul disappeared into the other room to stack wood and clean up the hearth. The brick fireplace became the center of the house, all their meals were cooked there, and they gathered around it at night to talk or stare into the dancing flames.
"Save the ashes. We need 'um to make soap," an afterthought Beth yelled into the other room.
Miriam looked around. The area appeared clean and straightened if battered and dented from generations of use. "Thank you for dinner," the Secretary offered; she felt the need to thank the woman for everything; she owed this lady for opening her house and sharing her food with a group of government refugees.
Walking into the "sittin' room," as Beth called it, she found Secretary of Energy Mark and his assistant Brian sitting together on the couch, their thighs touching. Since the world fell apart, they ended the pretense of hiding their relationship. A pang of jealousy stabbed Miriam; she wanted someone to tell her they loved her and hold her as the Apocalypse unfolded.
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They left Interstate 270 before Clarksville, the roads congested with dead and abandoned vehicles. None of their alt modes functioned well for off-roading in the hilly terrain, forcing the team to walk. Also, he wanted to avoid humans as much as possible. The longer the Null Zone remained intact, the more humans would die, and the survivors became desperate to survive. Over the last few days, they had been shot at, people begged them, cursed them, and one woman tried to give him her crying infant to take to a better place. Prowl watched the hope die in her eyes as he explained there weren't any better places.
The Tactician followed the Potomac, using the service roads parallel to the river, but the water source attracted the living. He did not want to engage with people, people slowed them down, and these people were not his concern. They traveled as fast as logically feasible, passing humans and hopefully out of sight before the alarm sounded. Unfortunately, the closer they came to their destination, the worse conditions became. Even the jubilant Bumblebee became subdued seeing the bodies floating downstream.
Forced to wade through the shallows to avoid humans, they splashed through the currents avoiding the deeper channels where even Warpath disappeared beneath the water. In the river, death floated nearby. A canine tugged at a body rancid with decay; the tags on the dog's collar softly chimed as it jerked rotten flesh from bone. At a small cataract, a dozen or more corpses jammed against a rock, a tangle of gray limbs. Sunstreaker waded through the water to pull them free, only to watch the current carry away the dead.
The misery inflicted upon this planet bothered him; it dredged up brutal memories of a war-ravaged Cybertron. Wrongly accused by many of lacking emotions or sympathy, he silently carried the weight of tragedy in his spark. He didn't offer condolences or wasted moments mourning the dead, but deep in his spark, he promised Soundwave would pay for this.
Eventually, tree-lined banks and makeshift dwellings gave way to roads clogged with dead vehicles, then taller buildings lining the distance. More and more bridges spanned the river. Prowl stopped his team, wanting to check the map; he loathed wasting time due to simple errors. A quick comparison between what surrounded them and the map placed his team right where he wanted them.
A tap on his shoulder. As Prowl carefully folded the map and tucked it away, he turned to Bumblebee. The scout silently tipped his head upward and stared. Following the young mech's line of sight, the SIC found two humans on horseback, watching them from one of the bridges. Backlit by the rising sun, he could not make out many details or even gender; he mentally defaulted to all humans as male.
For several astroseconds, both parties studied each other, and a warning tickle crept along his spinal assembly. Then, one of the riders turned his horse and galloped away.
"We've been made," Warpath huffed, his peds splashing in the water, stirring up sediment, as he slammed a fist into the palm of his other hand.
"No, shit. And if you would stop acting like you want a fight, we might get through this with our afts," Huffer snapped. The older mech could hold his own in battle but would walk away from one when he could. One of the reasons Prowl chose him.
Addressing his team, Prowl warned, "We are here on a peacekeeping mission, not to deepen the rift between Cybertron and Earth. If that is a problem, leave now." No one moved to retreat, and they matched his hard gaze with their own. "Good." He continued forward, glancing at the human on the bridge as he trudged beneath it. The rest of his team followed; anticipation crackled in their electrical fields, feeding his own misgivings.
They walked under the bridge, optics flicking upward, watching and waiting. In the shadows beneath the span, small birds, disturbed from their roosts, swirled and chattered their alarms. The Autobots did not find any danger. No threats appeared, and they passed into the morning sun unmolested and unhindered. Glancing over his shoulder, Prowl saw the horse and rider above, had moved so he could continue watching them.
They continued forward, passing an island dividing the river, finally going to shore near a simple white bridge. Climbing up the short rise to stand on the span of concrete, what was left of the Washington Monument marked their destination.
He had been in cities all over the galaxy, and they all had the common elements of noise and movement. Even the most economically repressed civilizations were filled with noise and movement, vendors barked, hawking their wears; the bleats, chirps, and caws of exotic pets; the rush of traffic, and the pounding of feet. Cities whirled in constant dizzying motions, Textiles flapped in the wind, small animals scurried to stay unseen, and citizens rushed through their day. This city offered none of those things. So still and dead. The Mall beside them should have had people, tourists walking and jogging to see the monuments around them. Only breeze-stirred trees filled the capital.
A series of hand signals and his team went on the defensive, everyone watching and listening for threats.
Following the paper map, they slowly traveled along a congested Constitution Ave. Around them, stalled vehicles sat at odd angles. Grass and flowering weeds grew between the cracks in the concrete and overran any area of open ground. A fox trotted in front of them and stopped, his black nose sniffing the air. Quickly he moved on, slinking beneath a car and out of sight. A horse and rider materialized from behind a derelict bus. The human wore a dusty gray overcoat, a hood, and a fabric that masked the rider's nose and mouth, hiding the gender. The stranger watched them, a rifle slung across the person's back and another in a scabbard on the saddle.
Prowl motioned to Sunstreaker and Bumblebee, and the Autobots moved, setting up a flanking guard. Warpath shifted toward the center; as a heavy hitter, he would meet a threat from any direction. Prowl kept point as Brawn secured the rear of their group. They had done this a thousand times on Cybertron, positioning themselves far enough apart to fight but close enough to back each other.
Lifting a hand, the Tactician waved to the mystery rider. Only the horse responded, stomping a hoof on the concrete.
"Not very friendly," Warpath grumbled over Prowl's shoulder.
The SIC grunted and lowered his hand. "Changes nothing. We continue with the mission. Move out."
As a unit, they continued to President's Park, the horse and rider stayed ahead of them, a silent guide. Prowl found the open parks along Constitution Avenue a relief; it allowed them room to move and made it harder for enemies to ambush them. Unlike the claustrophobic press of Iacon's Towers, the swathes of trees, grass, and bright blue sky above gave this capital city a pastoral feel. Except for the cars strung along the road and several dead passengers, their bones exposed, forever grinning at an endless traffic jam, Prowl could envision the movement of this city. He gave the dead cursory glances, but Bumblebee and Sunstreaker took long looks, thankfully keeping their thoughts to themselves.
They reached their first objective, the broad swath of weeds and grass strewn with trash and several flimsy tents rippling in the breeze, Presidential Park. Leaving the street, the Tactician led his team into an elliptical opening skirted by trees. From his location, Prowl could see what remained of the White House. Gutted and hollow, the home of the human leader lay in ruin. Smudges from a fire stained the white marble, and the roof had collapsed, taking part of the front facade. As the Tactician stared at the husk of the famous building, he wondered if the humans felt the way he did when Megatron's forces razed the Prime's residence in the High Tower of the Citadel, and the explosions lit up the sky. Did they feel the despair in their souls, knowing a violent new era had just unfolded, and grieve at the collapse of what had been? Or did the humans rejoice, relieved that a perceived oppressor was defeated?
Right now, Prowl felt frustration; it chewed at his circuits. He knew that he would find the Capitol Building in a similar state. Political ideology and policies of the humans did not matter to him; what mattered was that a people without a central government became impossible to mediate a formal agreement. When everyone was out for themselves, no one would survive very long.
Over his shoulder, Prowl called, "We need to find any members of the government. Our mission is to help secure and protect what is left. Stay within visual range; we don't know if the humans here are hostile." The Autobots knew their orders, but the silent rider did not. He wanted to know where the mystery human fit into this - if at all.
The rider and horse moved toward them, and the Tactician waited, arms crossed. In his electrical field, he noticed Warpath moving closer behind him, a silent threat of force if they needed it.
"If we are hostile depends on you," the human shouted, the voice registered in the pitch Prowl associated with female. Beneath the clothes and coat, he noted a smaller frame and wisps of long white hair escaping the hood. Older female, he decided.
"I am an envoy for the Prime of Cybertron. We are," he motioned to his team, "charged with locating and protecting the United States' Governing body."
The woman laughed, the sound harsh and bitter; even the horse flicked its ears as if annoyed. "Too late for that. The only government here is the one we made out of this." She tipped her head to the destroyed White House in the distance. "Go back where you came from; we don't need you. If you are on this side of the Potomac at dark, we won't be so hospitable." She pulled the reigns, turning the horse around. Spurring the animal in the flanks, they both galloped away and disappeared among the trees leading to the Hoover Building.
A heavy venting preceded Warpath's question, "What do we do now, Boss?"
"Make sure we are on the other side of the Potomac River at dark," Prowl retorted, his tone biting with frustration.
XxxX
As the sun dipped into the western sky and painted the world in fiery oranges and vivid pinks, Prowl led his mechs past the Lincoln Memorial and onto the Arlington Memorial Bridge.
Their search of the city yielded nothing and ended too soon. They could not explore very far, the movement of Earth's sun ticking away the minutes as it tracked across the sky. They bypassed areas of ruin, assuming survivors would have left. Along one thoroughfare, makeshift gallows offered multiple corpses swinging from ropes in the breeze; the dead provided no information. Most living people they encountered either showed open hostility or disappeared around corners or into buildings. The President was presumed dead; no one would tell them where any of the nation's leaders might be located.
Their pedfalls echoed as they crossed the bridge, accented by the clops of horse hooves behind them. As the day wore, they saw more and more of the mounted humans; a small group followed them where ever they went, always silent, always watching.
Warpath and Huffer both fidgeted with their weapons, touching them repeatedly, reassured by their presence. Bumblebee remained silent, constantly checking over his shoulder. Sunstreaker frowned his annoyance at the entourage. Prowl's processor continually analyzed the different ways humans could overcome them. Size, strength, and endurance placed the odds in the Autobot's favor, but those odds diminished without blasters and other long-range weapons. He did not want to fight the humans and test the odds.
"Primus, I hope they aren't lying about leaving us alone at the river. They creep me out," Warpath grumbled in the Common dialect of Cybertronian, unease flickering through his electrical field.
Bumblebee whistled his agreement as he moved closer to the big mech.
"It's because they cover their faces; all you can see are their eyes. No way to read emotions, like when Prime goes into battle." Huffer mumbled as they continued walking.
"When Optimus has his face plate engaged, you still know his mood," Sunstreaker's voice softly floated around them. "His emotions are always in his optics; he can't hide them, no matter how much he tries. Same as those people. Their eyes show fear; they are afraid of us. Fearful humans are violent humans."
"Oy, and how do you know that?" the challenge clear in Warpath's voice.
"If you spent more time paying attention than blowing up shit, you would know."
"Enough," Prowl barked. He did not want those two to come to blows, especially far from a medic.
They reached the other side of the Potomac River. The SIC pushed his team ahead, leaving him on the bridge alone. Turning, he faced the riders and shouted, "We are out before dark; will you keep your word?"
One by one, the humans turned their horses and rode away.
"Let's find a place and recharge. In the morning, we will search this side of the river," the Tactician instructed his team. "I want two mechs in recharge and the rest on watch."
"Autobot, this is not a safe place for you."
Even Prowl startled at the voice. So preoccupied with the horseback posse and the thoughts in his processor, he had not paid attention to the immediate area; none of them had. Swords and battle axes drawn, the Autobots encircled the source of the words. A man sat where the bridge anchored into the riverbank, easily hidden by the angle of the architecture. A thick beard and mustache covered half of his face, but it could not hide the sunken cheeks of too little food.
Standing, the man climbed toward them. All optics watched his approach. Dust covered his jacket, but his face and hair appeared clean. Reaching the top of the embankment, he held his arms wide and palms out. "I'm not here to threaten you. I need to give you a message."
Prowl left the bridge and knelt before the man, but he did not order the Autobots to sheath their weapons. "What is the message?"
Carefully, the man pulled a slip of paper from his pocket and offered it. "I know who you are, Prowl. I have seen your dossier, which is the only reason I am giving this to you."
The Tactician took the tiny piece of paper and read it. His optics opened in surprise, and he quickly stowed the note away. "How did you know we were here?"
"News travels fast; everyone knows Autobots are in D.C. Now leave. No one wants you here. They have sent riders to get executioners; if you stay, they will kill you."
"They ain't killing me!" Warpath thumped his chest, sending a tornado of startled birds into the sky.
The man addressed the towering Autobot. "They may not get you, but what about your friends? These guys are good at taking down your kind. You all need to leave D.C." The man turned and stepped on the bridge, heading the way they had come.
When the man slipped out of sight, Prowl turned to his team. "New plan; we are heading west."
XxxX
Author's Notes
Posse Comitatus: An American law - a posse comitatus is a group of people who are mobilized by the sheriff to suppress lawlessness in the county.