Zimmer recognized him as well, though it had been a while. It was Dice, Fletcher’s right hand man. He’d aged a bit over the years, but it was him nonetheless.
“Thought that fucking thing would have died by now,” Dice said.
“One could only hope,” Archer added.
Zimmer shook his head, ignoring the gunshots still happening in the background. “No. These bleeding hearts patched him up. I tried to end the mutt, but it backfired.”
“I can see that,” Fletcher said as he kicked at one of the drain tubes lying nearby. “Looks like they did the same for you.”
“Barely,” Zimmer said as a singular thought burned a hole into his brain. “You weren’t supposed to come here. Ever. Or even look for us. That was the agreement.”
“Well, that was the deal with Frost. But that dynamic has changed after what happened at the Trading Post.”
“Wait, that’s not right. I kept my end of the bargain with all that intel on Edison.”
“And we’re thankful. But like I said before, things have changed.”
Zimmer held out an arm in Fletcher’s direction and started to lean up and onto his feet. “Help me up, Fletch.”
“Not so fast,” Fletcher said, nudging Zimmer back to the edge of the bed. “We need to have a little chat.”
Zimmer wasn’t sure if those words were a problem or not. Perhaps Fletcher just wanted to make sure he was strong enough to move before he offered assistance. Then again, this was the man whose men were swarming Nirvana and unleashing a hail of death and destruction.
Dice moved behind Fletcher and took position on the other side of him, spreading out their coverage in an arc, if he factored in the relative positions of Archer and the mustache man. Those movements were not benign. They felt planned. Tactical.
Zimmer pointed at the door behind them, hoping to break their focus. “You know there are women and children out there?”
“Yeah, so what’s your point?” Dice snarked.
Zimmer ignored the redhead, keeping his focus on Fletcher. “Those people are innocent. They’ve got nothing to do with any of this.”
Fletcher scoffed with eyes wide, angling his head in a sudden movement. “I never thought I’d hear words like that coming from a traitor like you.”
“I’m not a traitor. Just a realist.”
“I guess that all depends on how you look at it.”
“Look, I did what I had to do. It kept this place safe over the years. Obviously a lot has happened since I last spoke to you in person.”
“Yes, far more than you know. Now we’re going to work out a new deal.”
Zimmer liked the sound of the man’s last comment, giving him hope that there was a purpose to this massacre. Something that might keep him alive in the process. Something that he might have some input on, massaging the direction this new dynamic was heading. “What are you thinking?”
“We start by you telling me what I want to know.”
“That’s assuming I know anything.”
“Where is he?”
“I’m sorry, who?”
Fletcher grabbed Zimmer by the neck and squeezed, sending a jolt of pain into his body through the wound Liz had patched up.
“Wait. Please. Wait,” Zimmer said, the air flow disappearing from the pressure.
Fletcher leaned in close. “It would be wise to answer my questions the first time. Where is he?”
Zimmer struggled to get his response out. “I don’t know who you’re talking about.”
“Lipton.”
“Can’t . . . breathe,” Zimmer said with the only oxygen left in his body, praying the words were audible.
“Tell me now,” Fletcher yelled before letting go of Zimmer’s neck, shoving him back in the process.
Zimmer grabbed his own throat and coughed between a few rapid-fire gasps, his lungs fighting to right themselves. “Didn’t know . . . who you were talking about.”
Fletcher pulled a pistol from the holster on his hip, aiming the business end of it at Zimmer’s left eye.
Zimmer held up his hands. “Wait, wait, wait, I'll tell you. Just give me a second,” he said, his voice taking a lot longer to return than he hoped.
“Clock’s ticking,” Fletcher said. “Five . . . four . . . three . . . two . . .”
“Yes, he’s here. You’re right. He’s here. At least he used to be.”
“What do you mean, used to be? There’s no place else to go.”
“He just left with Krista and Summer,” Zimmer answered, thinking about how Lipton had found his way to Nirvana. He wondered if Fletcher and company had followed the man somehow or perhaps had placed some kind of tracker on him. “But how did you know?”
“Actually, we didn’t until just now,” Fletcher said, lowering the gun. “We knew he went AWOL, we just didn’t know where.”
Dice spoke next, his eyes trained on Fletcher. “That means he left us to come here.”
“Edison must have recruited him along the way,” Fletcher said to Dice before looking at Zimmer. “Why didn’t you inform us?”
Zimmer directed their attention to his wound and the tubes on the floor, still rubbing his neck. “Didn’t have a chance, now did I? Was a little busy trying to keep breathing. Not that you’re helping any.”
Fletcher didn’t respond.
“You know I’m a man of my word.”
“A traitor of his word,” Dice replied.
“I wish you’d quit using that word,” Zimmer said.
“You said he left. Where did they go?” Fletcher asked.
“They’re meeting with a new group they just made contact with.”
“And they took Lipton—why?” Dice asked.
Zimmer shrugged. “Krista didn’t say.”
“What group?” Fletcher asked.
“They call themselves Blackstone.”
“Sounds like government to me,” Dice said.
“Maybe black ops,” the mustache man added.
“How’d they make contact?” Fletcher asked, his eyebrows pinched and face stiff.
“With a transmitter that Morse got working.”
“Shit, they have comms,” Dice said in a matter-of-fact tone.
Fletcher turned his head to mustache man and Archer. “Find it. Now.”
The two men nodded, then dashed out of the infirmary, their boots in high gear.
“Tell me about this meeting,” Fletcher said.
“It’s an exchange for chemicals and seeds.”
“Chemicals?”
“Apparently, we have a bacteria problem that’s killing all our crops. Without the chems and new seeds, this place is doomed. We have less than 30 days, then it’s over.”
Dice tugged on Fletcher arm. “That’s why they recruited Lipton, boss.”
“Maybe,” Fletcher replied. “But how?”
Zimmer held up his hands. “Guys. Guys. Guys. That’s not what happened. Lipton ending up here was just dumb luck. So was Horton. Krista ran into them on the way back from the Trading Post, after Edison was killed.”
“Horton is here, too?” Dice asked. “Where?”
“In the brig with the Scab girl and the dog.”
“Shit,” Fletcher snapped as his face turned a deep shade of red. Then the tension in his jaw vanished. “Wait a minute. What Scab girl?”
“The one who rescued Horton. Word has it she kept them safe from a rogue hunger gang.”
“Them?”
“Lipton, too. He said he was out there looking for Horton, but I don’t think I would trust anything that man says.”
“A Scab girl did all that?” Dice asked.
“Yeah, that’s the story. But then again, there’s no way to verify any of it. All I know is they ended up here. At least Krista kept them locked up. That’s one thing at least.”
“A fucking Scab girl—” Fletcher said, his tone dry, almost as if those words were an afterthought.
“But wait, it gets better. We have a bunch of Scab women in hol
ding as well. They’re a clan, apparently. And their leader is—” Zimmer said, stopping his words when he saw Fletcher raise the gun again, looking even more determined than before. “Easy now, buddy.”
“Where is this meet?” Fletcher asked.
“Krista didn’t tell me. All I know is they’re headed northwest. Two days’ drive is what she said. Maybe three.”
“They must have been stockpiling fuel, boss,” Dice said. “That’s why they weren’t upset when Frost shorted them at the last meet.”
“Actually, they took the gasifiers. The plan is to burn wood they find along the way.”
“Not the most efficient means of travel, but it makes sense,” Dice said.
“That’s the reason they took Doc,” Fletcher said. “To keep them running.”
Dice nodded. “Instead of our refinery. Fucking asshole.”
Zimmer gave them both a thin smile, figuring what he was about to say might ingratiate him to their cause. Or inflame the situation. Could go either way. But he had to try. “Why is not important, gentlemen. What is important is the means of travel. It provides you with a speed advantage, if you were to go after Lipton sooner rather than later. I’ll cover things here for you.”
Fletcher adjusted the aim of his pistol, pointing it at Zimmer’s chest, his thumb pulling the hammer back and into firing position.
“Hold on, Fletch. We’re all on the same side.”
“Not anymore,” Fletcher said, his finger pulling the trigger.
Zimmer felt the force of an impact hit his chest, sending him backwards and against the wall.
Then everything went black.
CHAPTER 29
Kyle Bishop carried an unconscious Liz Blackwell through the neon green corridor connecting the missile bay to the control complex, praying he could make it to the end before someone spotted them.
He knew making a run for it was beyond a huge gamble, but he had no choice with the carnage taking place across the complex.
This jaunt with a hundred-plus pounds of physician in his arms had to be done, even if he wouldn’t be able to react fast enough to draw his weapon if one of the insurgents appeared.
His hope was that the sound of distant gunshots meant the bandits were busy elsewhere, working their way down from one level to another.
Sweep and clear was a common tactic and given the limited access points, he figured they might have been a bit overconfident in their threat assessment, leaving only minimal guards behind in the segway access tunnels. Even so, it was likely they would station troops near the silo’s main entrance doors, protecting the single most important access point of their rear flank.
His heart wanted to get his attention and have his mind flash visuals of the blood and guts being spilled across the complex. Innocents were being gunned down. Men. Women. Children. People who needed his help.
But his logic swept those ideas away, keeping him focused on the task at hand. Saving someone. Someone important. Precious. One of a kind. Liz. The head doc. One of the leaders. His responsibility.
Anything else would be tactical suicide against what he knew was an overwhelming invasion. His comrades would have to help the others. The civilians. The innocents. He couldn’t.
Bishop took a few extra gulps of air as he passed what appeared to be the midpoint of the corridor—so far, no sign of anyone ahead. He repositioned the dead weight in his arms, then glanced back to check his six. Again, nothing.
He brought his eyes around to the front once again, feeling a stir from the doc. It was only her hips, but it meant she’d awaken soon from her nap.
If she snapped back to consciousness before he ferried her someplace quiet, she might scream for help, giving away their position. He needed to control her return to reality and do so out of harm’s way.
Bishop increased his pace, despite the burn in his legs, making it to the far end of the connecting tunnel in less than a minute.
He made a left and then a right, trekking another ten yards or so until he found a bulkhead, ducking into its shadows to catch his breath.
The entrance behind him led into the Launch Control Room, an area he’d been inside before. He ran the layout through his mind, remembering the previous visit.
There were a couple of decent places to hide and only one way in or out, meaning it would be a defensible position, even if it had no secondary egress option. Not the perfect choice. Possibly even a bad choice, but he had to try after pushing his luck this far. Luck always runs out, especially in combat, but that doesn’t mean you ever stop pushing ahead.
He turned sideways and slipped into the control room, zipping past the aging computer equipment on the right as he trekked farther into the darkened room.
The electronics were from the 60s and encased in a wall of metal cabinets—lime-green in color and sporting an endless sea of lights and switches, each of which had gone extinct.
Just beyond the end of the equipment was another wall of support equipment running ninety degrees perpendicular.
This bank included more electronics, plus a set of six-drawer file cabinets, an extra operator’s chair, a red-colored rotary dial wall phone, two cork bulletin boards covered with abandoned push pins, an all-metal speaker hanging vertically that he took to be a squawk box, and some other stuff he didn’t recognize.
He carried Liz a few steps farther, then swung around behind the cabinets and turned sideways to squeeze the two of them into a recessed crawlspace underneath an angled steel beam that seemed to go nowhere.
Bishop lowered Liz onto the concrete, taking extra care with her head as he nestled her onto her back and tucked in her legs.
Her body remained passive and her breathing continued its regular pace, but he knew it wouldn’t be long before her eyes would snap open and peer back at him.
Bishop pulled his handgun and checked it, making sure it was ready to fire. Even though he couldn’t see the entrance from his position, they couldn’t see him either.
That provided a small chance of success, depending on how this incursion played out. This hiding spot was tucked away and out of sight, not something they might know about or come back to search.
Sometimes superior numbers and firepower lead to overconfidence, and that brings about the wrong assumptions. Its’s how sectors become unguarded or unchecked after the initial sweep, leading to a body count nobody expects.
It’s also why double-backs happen, as well as flanking maneuvers by the opposition.
All of it designed to probe for weakness or mistakes.
The cement floor and the limited approach vector would have to serve as his eyes and ears. At least he would have some advance notice if things went sideways, mostly in the form of boots hitting the deck or the appearance of a shadow, thanks to the only light in the area—the corridor outside.
If nothing else, he planned to go down fighting like any true warrior would do, trying to protect his one and only rescue. If it happened, then his death would mean something. He could live with that, so to speak.
Then it happened—the sound of boots. Outside. Pounding at the cement and growing louder.
He held his breath, needing to deaden all sounds and focus on the approaching threat.
Whoever it was stopped a few seconds later. Maybe outside the door. Maybe not. But too close either way.
Shit. He needed them to keep moving. Not check inside. Not search the crawl space behind the cabinets.
Just then he felt something rub against his thigh from the side.
He turned to see Liz moving her hands up to her head, rubbing her forehead as if she had a headache.
Dammit.
She was awake.
Bad timing.
Bad luck.
Bad decision to hide here.
Bad everything.
Fuck.
He wrapped his hand over her mouth and clamped down just as her eyes opened.
Her eyebrows went up and her eyes shot wide, her chest now pumping air against the skin of
his palm.
He leaned close to her ear and whispered, “Shhh, Doc. You’re safe. It’s me, Bishop. We gotta be quiet. Understand?”
She held her same facial pose and continued her rapid breathing, not giving him any indication that she did.
“Please, Doc. You gotta stay quiet. They’re right outside.”
It must have taken a few seconds for his second round of words to register, because she didn’t nod right away. But eventually she did, giving him a twin set of nods.
“Good. I’m going to remove my hand now. Don’t scream or say a word. They’ll kill us.”
She nodded again, her eyes still holding their alert status.
Bishop wasn’t sure if her expression meant she was onboard with the ‘don’t make a sound plan,’ or if she was responding in a ruse, planning to go nuts and give away their position.
He took a second to consider the answer.
She was a smart lady.
A trained physician.
More brainpower than he would ever have in his lifetime.
Hell, maybe two lifetimes.
She had to be onboard.
She had to be.
Or they were both fucked and this would be their last minute on Earth.
He paused for another moment, then decided to bet on her and her ability to reason, even under the duress of a sudden fright of consciousness.
Bishop relaxed the pressure around her mouth and took his hand away.
Her lips remained closed as he raised an index finger to his mouth and held it there, giving her his friendliest expression.
She nodded at him one more time, and he at her, watching her breathing slow a bit.
Smart woman.
Thank God.
Bishop spun forward, returning his focus to the activity outside.
He checked but didn’t see a shadow leaking into view from beyond the end of the cabinets.
Good news so far, but that didn’t mean the threat wasn’t still there. He needed to reacquire the target. Reassess the proximity threat level. Prepare to attack if approached.
Bishop steadied his chest and turned his head at an angle, listening for clues, all the while praying he wouldn’t hear a foot plant, an extended breath, or a rustle of clothing.
Silo Page 15
