by Ralph Gibbs
“I understand,” Major Barrette said, making a show of not using the required sir. “I will protest this action with the leadership when we return.” He knew it would do no good. It might get him demoted, but right now, he didn’t care. Maybe when he returned, he’d leave. Shit, perhaps he wouldn’t wait till they got back. What the hell would Danica say if he showed up in Colorado?
“That is within your right.”
“I doubt anyone is coming back,” Major Barrette said trying to make one last attempt to keep him from destroying the place. “My guess is they’re headed north to Round Hill. They made a point to tell me they’re going through the mountains. I never got the feeling Paris fully trusted me, so I’m sure that was a lie. Then again, they’d be crazy to head south, so, most likely north.”
CHAPTER 42
“You’re doing what?” Greg Fulton said aghast, laced with a heavy dose of bewilderment and intermixed with a large feeling of dread. “Do you know how fucking dangerous going south is?”
“Stop your whining,” Paris said as she maneuvered around one of the hundreds of cars jammed along the highway leading out of the city. It had only taken the group two hours to run into their first impassable traffic jam. They had talked about trying to find a way around it but, after a short discussion, decided it best to abandon their vehicles and find new ones on the other side. As they left the safety of the community, Greg rode in silence, shocked and dazed at his betrayal of the Winthrop group. Danica tried not to feel sorry for him, considering who he was running with, but his expressions made her think of him as an abused puppy. Until they started walking through the line of abandoned cars, Greg hadn’t paid attention to their direction. Once he looked up at a passing highway marker and realized they headed south, he asked when they were turning toward the mountains. Franklin’s answer nearly caused him to wet his pants.
“You’re not the one they are going to torture,” Greg said rounding on Paris. He pointed to Franklin. “You, they’ll lynch from the nearest tree, but it will be quick.”
“What about Paris and Danica?” Gunilla asked, concerned.
“I can tell you what they won’t do with me,” Paris said, putting her hand on her weapon.
“They won’t rape you,” Greg said. “They’re bad, but they’re not that bad. Their disgust at what happened to you was heartfelt. My guess is that since you’re affiliated with the government, they’ll shoot you. I’m not sure what they’ll do with Danica. They could shoot you or let you go. I guess it’ll depend on how worked up they are when they catch us.”
“Danica is white,” Gunilla pointed out.
“She’s too strong-willed,” Greg said. “They don’t like strong-willed women. They’ve banished women that won’t conform to their male-dominated society. Basically, for them, it’s 1950 again. A woman’s place is in the home having dinner ready for her husband when he gets home from work.”
“What about everyone else?” Toscana asked.
He gave her a hard look. “They blame Mexicans and gays for the plague,” Greg said.
“I’m not Mexican. I was born in Charlotte.”
“It doesn’t matter,” Greg said. “If you look like you were born south of the border, then you were.”
“So, they’ll shoot me,” she said.
“They’ll kill anyone that’s not white,” he said. “It’ll be quick. The rest they’ll give a choice. They can go to Atlanta or not. Me, on the other hand, I will be days in dying. It’ll depend on how good Gunilla is at keeping me alive.”
“I won’t help them,” Gunilla protested.
“Yes, you will,” Greg said, seriously. “What would you do if they put a gun to Nate’s head?” Her silence spoke volumes.
“It can’t be helped,” Danica said, sounding annoyed despite feeling sorry for him. It still upset her to leave her father’s cruiser behind. When they came upon the traffic jam, she mentally kicked herself for even bringing it. Not only was the car blatantly obvious, but now she was forced to abandon one of the last connections she had to her father. To make matters worse, they had to hide the patrol car by pushing it down a hill and into the woods. Otherwise, they might as well paint “We went this way” on its side.
“Storms have made a mess of the mountain,” Paris said. “They’ll be damn near impossible to cross.” As if to punctuate her statement, lightning sliced through the sky followed by rolling thunder.
“I don’t believe that,” Greg said, clearly agitated. “There are lots of roads in the mountains.”
“True, but do you know which ones?” Franklin asked. “Your colonel knows we’re headed to Colorado, and we told Major Barrette we’re going through the mountains to get there. Even if he suspects we lied, he’ll have to detail a few men to search the mountain roads. If we go through the mountains, most likely we’ll be dogged the entire way, and if we backtrack just once, they’ll be on us before we can try again.”
“Even if they don’t believe us, it works in our favor,” Paris interjected.
“How?” Gunilla asked.
“Since they don’t know which direction we went, they’ll have to split their forces to find us,” Franklin said. “Just like that group did at Fort Royal. If they find us—and that’s a big if—it will give us a fighting chance because we’ll be facing a much smaller force.”
“Fighting is something we want to avoid,” Paris said. “Especially with all the women and children in the group.”
“Agreed,” Danica said.
“If they find us, you won’t have a choice,” Greg said.
“No,” Paris said. “I don’t suppose we will.” Danica glanced over her shoulder and swore. Everyone turned to see thick black smoke rising in the distance.
“They’re burning it,” Danica said shocked.
“The colonel must be really pissed,” Greg said. “I’m so fucked.”
Once on the other side of the bridge, the group spread out and salvaged a half-dozen vehicles but needed to abandon them again two hours later. As they crossed a second, smaller bridge, Danica glanced over the side. With the number of cars and trucks jammed onto the bridge, she was expecting to see dead bodies everywhere, but instead, there were only a handful of bloated corpses decaying along the shoreline.
“The water’s deep here,” Franklin said.
“I imagine they jumped over the side and washed downstream,” Danica said.
“Your first time seeing this?” Franklin asked. Danica nodded.
“Everyone that came through the community told us the worst part of their travels were the bridges,” she said. As she said that, a small body broached the muddy waters and just as quickly disappeared beneath the currents. How many bodies were below the surface?
An hour later, they came upon another bridge, but this one was only slightly congested.
“I think we can push through this,” Franklin said. Using his truck, he pushed vehicles aside, clearing a path for everyone else. A few miles down the road, Franklin exited the interstate, drove a mile and then pulled off the road. It was time for a break to let everyone freshen up and relieve themselves.
As Franklin, Danica, Paris, and a few of the community leaders discussed their route, Nate slipped away to find food. It was almost dinnertime, and he didn’t feel like eating peanut butter again. When he stepped to the back of the nearest house, he spotted one of the most beautiful sights he’d seen since before the plague. At the edge of the yard were a peach tree and a pear tree growing so close together the branches intertwined making it hard to distinguish between the two. Rushing through the tall grass, he jumped up, grabbed a peach, and devoured it almost without breathing. Next, he tried for a pear, but it was just out of reach. Jumping higher, he swatted at the pear trying to knock it free but failed. He backed up for a running start. He could have climbed either tree, but eating the peach made him playful. Sugar always did weird things to him. Once he tasted the pear, he would alert the others, and they could pick as many as they could carry. They’d pr
obably pick the whole damn tree.
With the extra momentum, he easily jumped high enough to yank the pear from the branch, but the effort threw him off balance. He fell and rolled several feet laughing. The laugh was cut short as he felt a sting on his arm.
“Son of a bitch,” he said, sitting up and jerking his arm protectively to his stomach. At first, he thought it must have been a bee, but that idea was laid to rest at the distinct sound of a rattle. His head shot around to see a four-foot gray and black rattlesnake curled up ready to strike again. He screamed and rolled away, hoping he was out of range. Looking down at his arm, he could see two small puncture marks just below the elbow with a small droplet of yellowish liquid mixed with blood dripping from the wounds. Adrenaline surged through his body, and his heart began racing. He sprinted three feet before he realized he was panicking and stopped. He had to calm down, or he was a dead man. The pain in his arm grew with each passing moment. His arm started to swell and turn an angry shade of red. As he trudged through the yard, he felt nauseous, and his vision began to blur.
“What’s the matter?” Franklin asked as he rounded the house with Danica, Paris, and Anita. “We heard you—”
“Snakebite,” he said, holding up his arm for inspection.
“Nate,” Anita said, rushing forward. Danica grabbed her.
“Don’t move Anita,” Danica said. “Nate, where’s the snake?”
“Back near the trees,” he said, pointing over his shoulders while still holding his arm to his stomach.
“Anita, go get Gunilla,” Danica ordered. Anita did not argue. She raced around the corner, screaming for Gunilla.
Nate took another step forward and collapsed, no longer in control of his muscles. Franklin caught him and laid him gently on the ground as Nate’s muscles began to twitch uncontrollably. Gunilla arrived with Greg close behind.
“What kind of snake?” Greg asked.
“Rattlesnake,” Nate whispered.
“Did you see what it looked like?” Greg asked.
“It was black and gray with a black tail,” Nate said.
“Timber,” Greg said.
“How do we treat this?” Gunilla asked, almost pleading. “I’ve never treated a snake bite before.”
“Normally, we’d keep him still, transport him to the hospital and give him anti-venom,” Greg said. “But since this isn’t normal, we’ll need to keep him still and hope he didn’t get a full dose. Except for young snakes, most poisonous snakes can control how much venom they inject. I read that up to half the rattlesnakes that bite people don’t inject their venom.” He examined the wound and noticed yellowish blood seeping out. “No such luck here. He’s got all the hallmarks of being poisoned. The question is, how much?”
“How do you know so much about snakebites?” Franklin asked.
“I went to the library in Atlanta and read about it after a Cottonmouth bit someone.”
“Did he survive?” Danica asked. She could see the answer in his eyes.
“It was a different scenario,” he said to give them hope. “Cottonmouth’s have always been aggressive. It bit him three times before the fool thought to kill it.”
“Can’t we go to the hospital and get a cure?” Anita asked.
“I’m sorry, it’s not that simple,” Greg said. “Anti-venom has to be kept refrigerated. It’ll be spoiled by now.”
“Make some,” Anita ordered.
“I can’t,” Greg said. “To make anti-venom, you have to remove the poison from the snake, inject it into a horse; after that, no idea. I think it also needs to be from the same species of snake. So, if a King Cobra bit him, you’d have to use King Cobra anti-venom. I could be wrong. I just don’t know.” He lowered his voice to a whisper. “There’s a lot we don’t know now.”
Anita grabbed Paris’ weapon from her holster.
“Hey,” Paris said, grabbing Anita’s hand. “What do you think you’re doing?”
“I’m getting that snake,” Anita answered.
“No, you’re not,” Paris said. “No one is going over there. That grass is too tall. We can’t risk you getting bit.”
“We can’t make a cure without that snake,” Anita said, trying to tug her arm free.
“Honey,” Paris said. “It takes weeks to make the cure.” She left unsaid that Nate would likely be dead by then.
“You’d think with our level of technology we’d be able to make synthetic anti-venom,” Danica said.
“We can . . . or could,” Greg said.
“Then let’s go get some,” Danica said.
He shook his head. “It’s no different from regular anti-venom,” Greg said. “It has to be kept refrigerated. If we find any, it’s probably spoiled as well.”
“You said probably,” Paris said. “That means there’s a chance, and if there’s a chance we have to try.”
Greg shrugged. According to the information he read, there were three to five thousand snakebites in the United States annually, but only a small fraction died. Of those that did, most were elderly or young.
“We need to remove the arm,” Greg said.
“What?” Nate said, trying to sit up.
“It’s the only way,” Greg said.
“I don’t have the tools to do that,” Gunilla said.
“No one’s taking my arm,” Nate said.
“There’s a house right there,” Greg said. “Throw him on the table, and I’ll find a saw or an ax.”
“A saw,” Gunilla said horrified. “We’re not using a saw. There’s got to be a hospital around here somewhere.”
“There is,” Franklin said. “One of the exit signs said there was a hospital on this exit.”
By the time they reached the hospital an hour later, Nate was slipping in and out of consciousness and most of his arm had swollen, discolored, and dozens of blood blisters formed around the area of the bite. When he was conscious, he was crying in pain.
Once at the hospital, Franklin used the truck to push vehicles out of the way. Rushing inside, he pushed a dried body off a gurney, threw off the sheets and wheeled it to the entrance where Greg was waiting with Nate cradled in his arms. Gunilla started an IV.
“Greg, see if you can find that anti-venom,” Gunilla ordered. “And pain meds. People were gathering at the door of the room. “Paris, get them out of here.”
“All right people make yourself useful,” Paris said. “Split up and look around for anything we can use: medicine, medical supplies, emergency kits, anything.” When they left, Paris went out and grabbed her backpack. Pulling out her laptop, she established a connection. No sooner did she hit enter than a man flared onto the computer screen.
“Agent Ishida,” the stranger said. “The director has been eager for your call.”
“Good, I need to speak with him,” she said with urgency.
“Can you call back in an hour?” the man said. “He’s in an important meeting with the president. But I know he wants to talk with—”
“You’ll have to interrupt him,” Paris said. “I have an emergency.”
“I can’t—”
“If he doesn’t help me, a boy, a young boy, will die,” Paris said. There was only a moment’s more hesitation before he picked up the phone.
“I need Director Walsh,” he said. “I know, but it’s an emergency. Interrupt him and have him come to communications. Tell him Agent Ishida is online, and it’s a matter of life and death.”
CHAPTER 43
“Good afternoon ladies and gentlemen,” President Dixon said as he entered The Mountain’s largest of four situation rooms, followed closely by two Secret Service escorts. Each time the president entered Situation Room One, he felt as if he were entering the bridge of a futuristic spaceship. On more than one occasion, he considered ordering the techs to replace the door with one slid open at his approach and made a swooshing sound.
Because military types liked to be melodramatic, the room was nicknamed the War Room. Military leaders insisted the extra n
ame was necessary to distinguish this situation room from the others. He never pointed out that the number “ONE” written on the door in bold black letters already did that.
The room itself was impressive, reminding him of the Combat Information Center—CIC as the Navy liked to call it—on an aircraft carrier, only three times as large, but just as dimly lit. He hated dark rooms but was told the low lighting was necessary to allow people monitoring computer stations to see their screens clearly. There were a lot of computers in the room, nearly fifty in all, but only ten of which were manned at any given moment. The other stations were manned in cases of emergency. Several of those unmanned stations, he was shocked to discover, were fire control systems. He was disappointed to discover that giant gun barrels didn’t expand from hidden gun ports built into the side of the mountain. Instead, most controlled weapon systems on bases throughout the United States and Europe. Additionally, if needed, they could link with navy ships or aircraft and use their weapon systems.
“Why would you need to do that?” he once asked.
“We’d only do something like that if the pilot refused to deliver their payload,” General Angles said. The president didn’t need to be told she meant nuclear payload. The military was always paranoid its people wouldn’t follow through with their mission, often holding realistic drills to weed out just those type of individuals. So, it made sense to have a backup plan. Although there weren’t large guns, two stations operated two dozen strategically placed Phalanx close-in weapon systems around Cheyenne Mountain, and another station operated five SM-3 anti-ballistic air defense missile systems.
In one corner of the War Room, three stations looked suspiciously like his nephew’s gaming center. One of the key features of the station, which set it apart from the others, was a pair of plush brown leather chairs, sitting side by side. All the other chairs at the monitoring stations were black and uncomfortable looking. He suspected that was to keep the watch-stander from falling asleep.
They informed him the station wasn’t a high-tech gaming system used to help soldiers rest and relax, but a military drone control center. Each station controlled two drones. Currently, they used the drones to monitor the Mexican border, and also to map the path of the chlorine gas release in Kansas. Although extremely remote, the wind could push the poisonous cloud from Kansas and up the mountain to where the community was set up around Peterson Air Force Base; they didn’t want to take chances.
