“Whitcomb, what are you doing? We’re under attack,” Remy exclaimed.
“I gathered,” he replied, not taking the time to look away from his notes.
“And…”
“And what? I’m busy and I couldn’t be bothered,” he countered, in his nonchalant British accent.
“I need your help at the hospital…all security have been pulled from their positions around the campus and stationed on the perimeter. I can’t handle the hospital on my own.”
“Right you are,” he finally acknowledged. “Give me five and I’ll be right along. If I’m correct, and I think I am, this information could mean the beginning of a whole new life for all of us. Remy, we could be normal. We could…”
“We could be dead,” the doctor interjected, before Godfrey could complete his thought.
“Well, yes…there is certainly that possibility, but perhaps we could offer the information as a bartering point. You know, end the battle with a parley of ideas.”
“Godfrey, after all these years, you still have the strangest notions of life beyond these walls. These savages, battling their way into the heart of our community, are not here for tea and a trade of ideas…they are here to kill us and take The Normals.”
“Indeed…I suppose you are spot on there, but it was a thought. Give me a moment to finalize my theory and I’ll be right there,” he concluded.
“Fine, but make it quick…and bring your gun.”
“Of course,” Whitcomb agreed, turning his attention back to the pencil and paper, which at the moment seemed more important than life or death.
Finally satisfied with the information he’d compiled, he closed the lab book, stuffed it into his pants at the waist, and looped his holster, containing a revolver, around his hips. He cinched the buckle tight, catching an image of himself in a nearby window. Have lab coat, will travel, he mused silently. It had been years since he’d shot at anyone and he was more likely to shoot himself than any Harvester, but the weapon did provide some degree of comfort for the awkward chemist.
A minute later he burst through the doors of the infirmary, looking for Remy. Candles burned in most of the rooms, while panicked whispers were speculating what was happening beyond the perimeter. “Remy, where are you?” Godfrey called, trying to find his way from room to room. In a blackened cubicle, where one of the more senior members of The Ward had been recovering from pneumonia, he found Dr. Reynolds kneeling at her side. “What can I do? Who needs our help?” the scientist asked.
“Not her…at least, not any more.”
“She’s gone?” Whitcomb asked.
“Yeah, but I knew it was coming…and so did she. Maybe it’s better she didn’t see the end of this day.”
“Exactly…but what of the rest?”
“Clark grabbed me on the way back from the lab. He wants anyone that can fire a weapon to take up a position in Old Main. Those that will die if they’re moved, are to stay here, which is where I’ll be,” Dr. Reynolds said, stoically.
“And I’ll be here as well,” Godfrey replied.
“Well, we’ll see how the day plays out, but for now I need you to take charge of getting those, able and willing to fight, over to Old Main. Start with Lena and her group. They aren’t ill, just tired. Clark said they’ve plenty of weapons and to get them there asap.”
“I can do that.”
“Thanks, Whitcomb. The noise coming from the north doesn’t sound good. We could be in for a long day.”
“Yeah, but they don’t know what they’re up against,” Godfrey sneered, tapping the weapon slung tight against his thigh.
“Is that supposed to bring me solace?” the doctor inquired smugly.
“Nope, it was to make you smile…and I can see I’ve accomplished that. I’ll be back shortly.”
Whitcomb pulled a small flashlight from his pocket and moved about the hospital, explaining the situation and rounding up those who were ready to fight. Lena helped with her band, saving her daughter for last.
“Brandi, come dear, we’ve instructions to move across the way and help, if needed, with the fight,” Lena said, standing at her daughter’s side. “Do you think you’re well enough to move?”
“Sure…I’m tired but feeling stronger. I think the drugs are wearing off.”
“Good…I’ll help you get dressed. I believe the other Normals are there as well,” her mother noted.
Whitcomb stuck his head between a hanging blanket and the door’s frame to offer some encouraging words, “Come ladies, let’s move along…no time to dilly dally. Clark is expecting our help.”
“Yes, coming,” Lena assured, doing her best to hustle Brandi into a proper pair of pants and a shirt. A minute later, they were hobbling across The Quad, accompanied by many others who would rather die with a gun in their hand than lying in a hospital bed. Most limped up the steep stairs of the north entrance, where they were greeted by Clark and two middle-aged security personnel.
“So many?” Clark said, removing his ball cap to graciously welcome the volunteers. “Men, see to it they are properly equipped and positioned. I want those who can shoot on upper levels and The Normals holding positions at either end of this structure. I want them to block any intruders from catching us by surprise.”
“Yes, Sir!” the sentries shouted and began the work of getting everyone ready for battle.
“Do we know what we’re up against?” Godfrey asked Clark.
“Not yet. Gunfire started a bit ago, as I’m sure you’re well aware. Reports of a gun battle taking place in the cemetery are muddled at best, but I have my suspicions.”
“And what are those?”
“Well, I don’t believe our traitor is through with his work, and I suspect C&C were thinking the same thing,” Clark said, scratching the top of his head before he replaced the ball cap.
“They’re out there?”
“I don’t know. I’ve sent some runners but we know as much as they do. A fairly sizable force is moving from the north, through the cemetery, and somebody is slowing them down – thank goodness. If it’s those two, I’m gonna kiss ’em when they get back. Whoever it is, has certainly given us some valuable time.”
“I feel I’d best be of service at Remy’s side. Do you have any concerns with me returning to assist there?”
“Not a one. Get back and do what you can…and try not to shoot yourself with that thing,” Clark said, nodding at Godfrey’s pistol, before scooting toward the building’s entrance.
“I shant…” the Englishman replied, and with his usual long, lanky strides he leapt down the steps and bolted for the hospital.
Chapter 43
On the old highway connecting Logan to Smithfield, six Ward members, four men and two women, hunkered down in their defensive positions. Two of the men manned a three-story tower, which had been erected to provide the greatest possible view. However, on an early, dark morning, such as this, the distance their lights shown was the extent of their visible domain. An obvious firefight raged a few miles away, keeping their thoughts with friends and loved ones.
Thus far, things had been quiet for the six anxious observers. They had radioed Clark some time ago, but communications had since gone silent. In the tower, Derek, the more senior of the two sentries, cleared the breach on an old 30-caliber machine gun and fed it a loaded belt. Ammo was scarce, but the weapon had proven itself invaluable when pitted against attacking marauders and thieves. It served more as a deterrent than a killing machine, discouraging troublesome offenders with its loud, rattling torrent of shells. Derek ratcheted back the bolt a couple of times, making sure a live round was threaded into the chamber.
“Well, she’s ready to go,” he said to his cohort, Slim, a fellow who actually had a real name but nobody knew it. The two had worked this detail many times and had killed when they had to, but were just as happy to spare a life when they could.
A large, jagged scar ran from Slim’s left temple, around his ear, to the angle of his jaw. He
liked to tell a tale of an heroic battle that had won him the disfigurement, but truth be told, he stumbled into a piece of farm equipment as a boy and nearly had his ear ripped from his head. As a result, he constantly had to swivel his head to improve his chances of hearing anything at all.
“What’s that?” Slim asked, fully aware he’d heard Derek’s comment. Still, out of habit, he often made everyone repeat themselves…at least twice.
“She’s loaded and…”
“Yeah, right…she’s ready to go,” he acknowledged. “How many belts we got?”
“Not enough…if you ask me. You should’ve held back a bit the last time we used her. I thought you were gonna melt the barrel down,” Derek replied, keeping the volume of his voice in check.
“Melt it down, you say? What good would she be then?” Slim replied, not really paying much attention to Derek, as he looked to the east. “What do you reckon is goin’ on up there?”
“Your guess is as good as mine, but it doesn’t sound good. That’s a lot of ammo being expended.”
“That’s for sure. You thinkin’ they’ll hit us too?” Slim asked.
“Wouldn’t surprise me, but we’ll hold our own…like we always do.”
“Yup, we will, my friend…we surely will. Ain’t no Harvesters getting through us today,” Slim muttered, tapping his well-used, but pampered, 7.62 assault rifle. Years before, and shortly after joining The Ward, he’d converted the black-stocked FAL rifle to full auto, a task he’d often praised. Yet, prior to his involvement with Derek and the rest, Slim had named the rifle after his mother; a woman of remarkable pioneer stock who could out-ride, out-shoot, and out-spit any man alive. The gun, or Ver, as he affectionately called it, was long, accurate, and just as deadly as its namesake.
“Slim, do me a favor and check on the others. Make sure they’ve got plenty of mags in reserve. If we run into a fight of our own, there won’t be time to be running to the trucks for more,” Derek said, enunciating each word precisely.
“Derek, you know I don’t got no ammo to give them. They’re shooting 9mm and 5.56 I believe…”
“Slim, hey Slim, look at me,” Derek called. “Just make sure they got plenty of what they need – alright?”
“Oh, sure…no problem.”
Slim slipped his rifle’s sling over his back and descended the stairs. He made his way across the street to a man and woman, a survivalist couple, who had been Ward members for years. They had arrived shortly after the Bear River people, forming friendships, settling down, and making themselves useful. They assured Slim they were well stocked with ammo, each laden with a dozen mags for their matching AR-15’s. The pair was nestled behind an arc-shaped, concrete pillbox, reinforced with sandbags and barbwire. Shooting ports had been fashioned into the defensive structure, something Boyd had insisted on and Rod designed.
“Look’s like you’re set,” Slim observed.
“Sure enough. Holler down if you see anything from above,” the woman replied, elevating her voice to keep Slim from making her repeat the comment.
“What’s that…oh, holler if we see anything. You bet we will.”
On the other side of the street, a slightly older pair of sentries sat with their backs against a row of sandbags, which sheltered a mechanism that raised and lowered a heavy, iron beam across the roadway. The dense, fortified arm was dented and scratched, but had done its job in keeping ramrodding vehicles out. At their position, the guards could lock the lever in place, thus creating a stationary barrier that would slow down virtually anything on wheels. They also manned an electrical panel connected to a series of automobile batteries. When triggered, a current of electricity ignited half a dozen drums of fertilizer lining the roadway. It was a little surprise they’d carried over from Farrell’s days as security chief – modern day claymores on a much larger scale.
Slim confirmed with the man and woman that they were also ready for battle, and quickly climbed back to his position above the checkpoint. “They’re good…nervous…but good.”
“Alright…I guess we just sit and wait. I don’t suspect we’ll hear from The Ward until they get the generators going,” Derek noted.
“I’d sure like to get my hands on that lowlife traitor,” Slim grumbled. “I’d tear him a new…”
“Hold it, Slim. Do you hear that?”
“Hear what?” Slim replied, turning his head to angle his good ear to the north.
“That…right there…did you hear that?” He knew the question was rhetorical, at best, but wanted confirmation that they were not alone, even if it was from Slim.
The two men strained to hear beyond the distant din of the battle taking place near The Alamo – and there it was – the recognizable churning of at least one engine headed their way.
“Ladies and gentlemen, we’ve got inbound to the north,” Derek yelled, to those below. “Johnny, get ready on the switches in case we need to blow the mines.”
A confirming shout proved he had heard the command, “Ready here!”
Chapter 44
A lone pickup raced through the deserted streets of Logan, the tires squealing to keep pace with the engine’s roar. Niel had navigated the distance between The Alamo and the first checkpoint in record time, and they were on their way to the second. The brothers were silent, each contemplating what may lie ahead. They had found the previous station quiet, but the sentries anxious and on edge. Scotty mindlessly thumbed the safety of his assault rifle, clicking it on and then off again, as his eyes tracked the truck’s narrow headlights.
“Must you do that?” Niel finally asked, the incessant noise starting to rattle his nerves.
“What?” Scotty replied.
“The clicking…must you do it?”
“Oh, no…didn’t even realize I was. Sorry.”
The younger of the two men flicked the safety a final time, leaving it on. He released the rifle’s magazine with his thumb and inspected the rounds. It was full. A second later he slammed the 30-round clip back into place and laid the weapon across his lap.
“Eerie tonight,” Scotty noted, the passing streets and buildings almost too obscured to see.
“Yeah,” Niel replied, in a hushed whisper. His mind was far away, thinking well beyond the headlamp’s reach or the checkpoint that lay ahead. Never one to shy from duty, Niel remembered promises made, and lives lost, in the wake of their journey to Northern Utah. Long before the war, which left so many separated from loved ones, both by distance and death, the older Michelson had promised his parents to look after his brother. He had done that…and more.
For an instant, Niel’s mind flashed to their stubborn father who had served in two wars of his own. He bore the scars of one saved by modern medicine but changed from the man he had been in his youth. A metal plate had replaced cranial bone, much the same as an agitated personality had taken the place of his caring, good-humored persona of yesteryear.
“Do you remember them?” Niel asked, his voice suddenly filled with emotion.
“Who? Who are you talking about?” Scotty asked, momentarily taking his eyes from the road.
“Mom and Dad…do you think of them?”
“Sometimes, but it’s hard…brings back too many memories.”
“I know,” Niel answered. “She was a good woman – put up with a lot for a long time.”
“That she did, and sacrificed everything…”
“I think of her often. Some days I can’t get the image of her standing in the kitchen with that old, worn-out apron wrapped around her hips,” Niel said, smiling.
“Allison kind of reminds me of her,” Scotty suggested, also grinning.
“Yeah…maybe, but how about Bubley…didn’t he remind you of dad? Ol’ blood and guts and full steam ahead right up until his last breath.”
Scotty chuckled and nodded his head. “Yup, they were two peas in a pod, that’s for sure.”
Niel agreed and returned his attention to their mission, storing the precious images of his parents
away for another time.
“Looks like we’re here” he said, flashing his lights in a predetermined sequence to alert the guards of their arrival.
“Seems quiet enough,” Scotty observed.
Moments later, and after making a quick inspection of the western outpost, they returned to the truck and gunned it for the last of their three stops. It was the furthest out, a good fifteen minutes from where they were. Niel dropped the hammer on the accelerator, fishtailing the truck’s empty bed before the rear tires gripped the pavement and the truck shot ahead.
They drove due east for a few blocks, looking directly up the canyon and the mountains that surrounded Utah State’s campus. Their view was black beyond the truck’s lights, the firmament providing just enough light to outline a landscaped silhouette.
Niel pumped the brakes and swerved to take a quick left but was corrected by his brother. “It’s the next one…it’ll take us straight through, with less obstacles.”
“Oh yeah…right.” Niel cranked the steering wheel and was again looking eastward when sparks began to dance in the foothills. “Scotty, you see that?”
“Yup. What do you think it is?”
Grabbing at the lever on the steering column, Niel shifted the truck’s transmission into neutral and killed the engine. They coasted with the windows down and their heads tilted into a rushing breeze.
Pop…Pop Pop Pop…Pop Pop Pop Pop…
The distant echo of rifles, being fired in quick succession, finally reached their ears as the lightshow continued before them.
“The Ward’s under attack,” Scotty groaned. “We’ve got to get back.”
“Not before we check the northern outpost. We’ve got a job to finish. Who’s up there?” Niel asked, cranking the engine and dropping the pickup back into gear.
The Lasting Hunger Page 27
