Silo

by Jay J Falconer

  “Except the gasifiers will be a lot slower. Not sure it will take long, which means we move quickly when it’s time. Don’t want to run the risk of getting caught inside, if Fletcher decides to double back before we’re done.”

  “That seems prudent, sir.”

  CHAPTER 32

  “Look out,” Destiny said to her driver, pointing at a coyote in the road.

  Sawtooth whipped the steering wheel to the left, just missing the scrawny carnivore, whose head was down and digging at something underneath an overturned fifth wheel on the shoulder. He looked back at the animal and laughed. “Damn, someone had themselves a really bad day.”

  “That was years ago,” Shotgun said from the backseat.

  Destiny swung her eyes to Sawtooth. “Keep your eyes forward, please. I’d like us to get there in one piece.”

  Sawtooth did as he was told, pressing down on the accelerator a moment later, then angled the truck to miss another one of the seemingly endless potholes that had invaded State Highway 89. At least what was left of it.

  Sawtooth turned the wheel again, this time left, taking the vehicle into the oncoming lane. “You know, just once I’d like to see someone else out here with us, taking a drive to no place in particular.”

  “Orderville is not no place in particular,” Destiny replied.

  “Well, I beg to differ. Look around. This whole area is a ghost town.”

  “Sort of like everywhere else.”

  “Good point.”

  “You just want to play a game of chicken, you adrenalin junkie,” Flipside said, his gray hair flapping in the wind.

  “Hey, at least I still have adrenaline.”

  “Maybe you should slow down. Would be easier to avoid all the holes,” Shotgun said from the rear seat.

  “I second that idea,” Flipside said from his spot next to Shotgun. “You’re not doing my back any good.”

  Sawtooth laughed. “Yeah. Yeah. Yeah. You people are just jealous that I get to drive. Deformed foot and all.”

  “I wasn’t saying that at all,” Shotgun said.

  “Sure you were. You are just too big a pussy to say it to my face.”

  “All right, people. That’s enough. We’ve got to work together. There’s a lot of road ahead and I need everyone focused,” Destiny said, unfolding a paper map and spreading it out across her lap.

  “What’s the next turn?” Sawtooth asked.

  Destiny traced her finger over the map. “A right, I think. But not for a couple of hours.”

  “A couple, as in two?”

  “Yeah. Thereabouts. I’m sure there will be a sign.”

  “Of course there will be. This is Utah. Mormon country,” Flipside said.

  Sawtooth snorted a laugh. “What does that have to do with anything?”

  Flipside held for a few beats before answering. “It doesn’t. Just saying.”

  “Hopefully the pavement holds out,” Destiny said, gripping onto the armrest when the truck swerved to miss another defect in the asphalt.

  “Otherwise, we going to have to four-wheel it,” Sawtooth answered. “But don’t worry, I can handle it.”

  “Maybe we should stop so we can take a quick pee break?” Flipside asked as the truck dipped and swayed after hitting another rut in the road. “You know, before it gets really rough.”

  “Again? Seriously?” Sawtooth asked. “That’s what, the fourth time this hour?”

  “It’s his prostate,” Shotgun said. “He can’t help it.”

  Sawtooth huffed, his twenty-eight-year-old eyes glancing in the rearview mirror before he spoke. “I know what it is, but he really needs to hold it. We’ll never get there at this rate.”

  “You’ll get old too, someday,” Flipside said.

  “Me? Never? I’m going to go out in a blaze of glory. You watch. None of that getting old shit for me. Not in this godforsaken world.”

  Destiny folded the map in half, laying it in her lap. “Looks to me like we’ll be there in plenty of time.”

  “Only because I’m driving.”

  “Yeah, like a madman,” Flipside said.

  “At least nobody’s going to mistake me for Miss Daisy.”

  “What does that even mean?” Shotgun asked.

  “It means you two don’t have near the skills I have behind the wheel.”

  Destiny turned and looked at the two in the backseat. “Now I need everyone to remember—we don’t share any confidential information with the new people until we know more about them—”

  “—and make sure they have what we need,” Shotgun added.

  “Trust but verify,” Sawtooth said in a terse tone, as if he knew ahead of time what she was going to say.

  “We know the drill,” Flipside said to Sawtooth, leaning forward in his seat as if he was doing so to make a point. “Just ‘cause I’m old does not mean my memory is gone.”

  Sawtooth didn’t hesitate with his retort. “Yeah, well, that’s not exactly true, now is it?”

  Destiny continued, “Let me do most of the talking. I’ll introduce you one at a time and you can all say hello and shake hands and whatnot.”

  “Quick meet-and-greet. Got it,” Shotgun said. “Then what?”

  “Then I’ll take it from there.”

  “What she really means is she’ll make it up as she goes along,” Sawtooth quipped. “So everyone mind their Ps and Qs and don’t screw this all up by becoming Chatty Kathys.”

  Destiny couldn’t argue with him. He was correct but she chose not to acknowledge his comment. “We just need to be careful until we know what’s what.”

  “What if this is some kind of trap?” Flipside asked.

  “Then we’re fucked,” Sawtooth said. “In reality, we’re fucked either way. Isn’t that right, Destiny?”

  “It’ll work out,” she replied, letting out a sigh. “It has to.”

  “Nothing like relying on blind faith when everyone’s life is on the line,” Sawtooth said after a roll of his eyes, working the wheel faster than before.

  * * *

  Wilma scanned the area to the right of the barn with the binoculars, while her boss finished his business behind a bush a few yards away.

  She could hear Craven’s moans of relief as his stream splatted on the ground against what she assumed was a layer of crusty leaves or other crinkly debris.

  Men were fortunate, being able to empty themselves anywhere they needed to, all without having to worry what might be crawling underneath their parts when they sat on a makeshift toilet seat.

  It was just one of the many unfair things she’d realized in her life, much like the fact that she hadn’t been with a woman in years. Not that she couldn’t go without; it just added a certain kind of pressure to an already impossible situation.

  “Anything?” Craven asked when he returned.

  “No, looks all clear to me. I think we’re safe.”

  “All right then, let’s head—”

  “Hold on a minute,” Wilma said, interrupting his response. There was a dust trail leaking into the sky to the right—at least a couple of miles away. Damn, she’d almost missed it. “Someone’s coming. Fast.”

  “Let me see,” Craven said, holding his hand out.

  Wilma gave him the binoculars and stood behind as she watched the dust cloud grow thicker and wider.

  Several minutes later, a vehicle came into view, screaming around a stand of trees, hitting ruts and dips as if the driver was on fire. “I wonder who this is?”

  “Fletcher?”

  “No, wrong direction.”

  “Unless they circled around.”

  “That would mean they knew someone was watching them or possibly waiting for them. I highly doubt that either way.”

  “Looks just like one of his transports, though. And they’re in a damn big hurry.”

  “Yes, but I don’t think this is him. Plus, why only one? That doesn’t fit his overwhelming force mantra.”

  “True.”

  “Tho
ugh I gotta say, the truck does seem to be riding lower than I expected.”

  “Probably loaded down, sir. Might be from his camp, bringing in supplies.”

  “If they are, they’re late for the party. Big time.”

  When the truck made it to the front of the barn, its driver turned the vehicle hard until its tailgate was aimed at the double doors, then backed up.

  “Looks like you’re right. A delivery.”

  “Just a lucky guess, sir.”

  The driver’s door opened and someone slid out, plopping two feet on the ground.

  “Who the hell is that?” Craven asked, his voice energized.

  Even without the binoculars, Wilma could see what had just surprised Craven. “There’s only one guy we know who goes around with a mask on.”

  “Nomad?”

  “Maybe.”

  “Okay then, let me ask you this: Where are his swords and that leather coat? He doesn’t carry a gun, let alone two of them,” Craven said as two additional men got out on the passenger side and walked to the rear of the truck.

  “Well, maybe it’s not him. But if it is—”

  “Then I’d want to know why he’s delivering cargo for Fletcher.”

  Wilma saw the masked guy shove one of the other two toward the tailgate, then raise his twin pistols and point them at the men. “Whoever it is, he’s obviously calling the shots down there.”

  “No doubt there.”

  “So what do you think this all means, boss?”

  “It means there’s a new dynamic at play.”

  “Then I’m guessing we need to wait here until we know what that new dynamic is.”

  “Exactly, Rice. If this is Nomad, and I highly doubt that it is, then he is not a person to be trifled with. Not after what we’ve heard he can do with everyday weapons.”

  “Let alone guns.”

  “Exactly.”

  Just then a new idea stormed into Wilma’s mind. She wasn’t sure where the theory came from, but it was there nonetheless. “Ah, sir, I think I might know what might be happening. But I warn you, it’s a bit on the sketchy side. And it assumes that guy down there is him.”

  “Out with it already, Rice. It’s just a theory, so fire away.”

  “What if he’s here for the escapees?”

  “Our females?”

  “Yes. What if he took them in? Gave them food and shelter,” she said after seeing all three men climb up and disappear into the back of the truck.

  “Nomad? The man who keeps to himself? He just changes his M.O. and decides to take in our females? Out of the blue, for no apparent reason?”

  “I know it’s a stretch, sir, but it would explain a few things.”

  Craven took a good ten seconds before he answered. “Like why he was in such a hurry just now to arrive?”

  “Edison’s camp would make a better home for them, assuming Edison could have convinced his troops to let them in.”

  Craven nodded, though he didn’t look convinced. “So let me get this straight. Our females escape, then run into Nomad somewhere out in the wasteland. Not only does he not kill them, but he takes them in and then brings them here and gives them to the Professor?”

  “Or trades them for something? Like you said, Edison would have considered them valuable.”

  “And now Fletcher has taken them and Nomad wants them back?”

  “Something like that, sir.”

  “That’s a long list of assumptions, Rice. Not your usual way of thinking.”

  “Well, this is not a usual situation. Something is obviously going on here. Something neither of us expected.”

  “That much is true,” Craven said as the men hauled a crate out of the truck and put it on the ground.

  “Then again, it’s just a theory. And most likely not a good one.”

  “Until we know for sure, we wait this out. See what happens. I’m sure the answers will present themselves.”

  CHAPTER 33

  “Where the hell are they?” Nomad asked Watson in a rhetorical tone before shoving Watson forward. The former cook stumbled to keep his balance, his hands hitting the back of the truck driver, Allison, who was traveling a step ahead of him.

  Everywhere Nomad looked there were bodies, some of them in pieces, strewn about like wrapping paper castoffs from some twisted Christmas celebration. It was all he could do to keep his reaction hidden, not wanting these men to know what he was really feeling inside.

  Allison turned his head away in a recoil and pointed to three chunks of skin and a finger lying to the left. “Jesus, I don’t need to be seeing this right now.”

  Watson didn’t react quite as much, though he was obviously affected by the gruesomeness as well. Butchering meat as a chef might have had something to do with his better control. “There’s only one thing that can do this kind of damage.”

  Nomad couldn’t bring himself to agree with Watson, even though he knew there was a chance the man might be right. “It wasn’t the women I brought here, if that’s where you’re going with this.”

  “He’s right. They were locked in the brig when we left,” Allison said.

  “Unless they escaped,” Watson said, stopping in front of a pile of four bodies, each one lying in an alternating head-to-toe fashion.

  Allison brought his feet to a halt as well, again turning his head away for a few moments to collect himself.

  Nomad stood behind the two of them, running the evidence through his head, then directed Watson’s attention to the pile. “Your assumption doesn’t explain that.”

  “Can’t argue with you there,” Watson said. “Someone obviously stacked these up with purpose.”

  “Or just wanted them out of the way,” Allison replied.

  Nomad grabbed Watson by the arm. “You recognize any of these?”

  He shook his head. “Not any of our guys. Just citizens, I think.”

  “I wonder if they were cataloging and counting, piling as they went?” Allison asked.

  “Like they were looking for someone specific,” Watson replied in a matter-of-fact tone.

  “I’ve seen this before. Back when I was on active duty. Long before The Event.”

  “As in the military?” Watson asked.

  “Yes, but it wasn’t us. It was a warlord we were tracking. Killed everything that moved when he was Oscar Mike.”

  “Oscar Mike?”

  “On the move,” Nomad answered. “It was a signature of sorts. That’s how we knew which villages he’d wiped out. To send us a message.”

  Nomad turned and pointed behind them. “Plus, those parts back there weren’t torn free in the classic sense.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “Seems pretty clear to me someone wanted to make it appear that way. Almost too much so. Like it had all been staged.”

  Watson nodded. “Well, you have more experience when it comes to what the Scabs do and don’t do, and how they do it.”

  “I really hate that term.”

  “Sorry, don’t know what else to call them.”

  “Call them The Women. That’ll suffice.”

  “Sure, whatever you say, boss.”

  “Excuse me for saying so,” Allison said, “but if this wasn’t your women, why don’t we see other kinds of wounds? Like bullet holes or from a knife, maybe?”

  Allison had a point.

  Nomad didn’t see any bruising or other evidence of strangulation, so he bent down and slid the child’s body to the side, exposing the corpse underneath.

  It belonged to a woman in her twenties with dark hair, though her cheek had a gaping hole in it from a gunshot. “I think that confirms it.”

  “Must have policed their brass,” Allison said, his eyes darting left and right, scanning the floor around them.

  “I’m sure if I uncovered the rest, we’d see the same thing,” Nomad added, his heart wanting him to stay and mourn the dead, especially the child, but his mind had other priorities.

  Someone might still be aliv
e or hiding somewhere in the facility. Possibly one or more of his women. Maybe even Seven. Regardless of who it might be, he had to find them.

  Nomad lifted the shirt of the dead child, keeping his mind focused on the task at hand, not on who he was looking at. Underneath was a massive contusion in the center of the child’s chest.

  “Oh my God,” Allison said. “Someone beat that child to death.”

  “Looks like one massive blow,” Nomad said.

  Silence hung in the air for a short minute until Watson spoke up next.

  “You said earlier that you sent Fletcher and his men to a different silo. With explosives, right?”

  Nomad nodded. “What’s your point?”

  “What if he did this?”

  “Fletcher? No chance in hell.”

  “But what if he did? I’m just saying. It was one massive blow. He’s a big, powerful man.”

  “Then he survived one hell of an explosion.”

  “We should head to the brig,” Allison said from his lead position. “See if, ah, your women are still there.”

  “He’s right,” Watson said. “If they are, then it explains a lot of what happened. Or what didn’t happen, to be more accurate.”

  Nomad pointed one of his guns ahead and said, “We go where I say we go, and not a minute before. I want each room, each nook, each cranny checked one at a time. But quickly. We’ve got a lot of areas to clear. Someone might still be alive.”

  “You know this is just a waste of time,” Allison said. “If this was Fletcher, and I think there’s a good chance it was, then he left no witnesses.”

  “You’re assuming he found everyone. My women are better at hiding than you know.”

  “I get what you’re saying and you’re the boss, but I gotta say, your women would have been the first ones he gunned down. I mean, look around. They killed the kids, too.”

  “I’m not blind,” Nomad said.

  Allison continued, “It seems pretty obvious. They were here to exterminate everyone. And your women would have been the biggest threats—after our security personnel, of course.”

  Nomad backhanded Allison with the butt of his weapon, not wanting to engage the man’s theories any longer. “All right, get moving. Now. And I’d suggest that both of you keep your comments to yourself.”