“We’ll need weapons,” said Manuse. “Men. Vehicles. Tech. Whatever you can give us.”
The colonel pushed back the chair behind his desk and made a show of putting away the bottle in the drawer. It was as if he’d suddenly acquired the flourish of a tequilier.
He sat in the chair, rolling it away from the desk and rested his hands on his chest, fingers laced. The colonel rolled his tongue in his mouth, perhaps relishing the drink or considering the request. He smacked his lips.
“The weapons you’ll get on your own,” Whittenburg said. “I can supply some sidearms, but requisition is virtually impossible right now because of the premium on ammunition. We do have some intelligence about caches of shotguns.”
“Shotguns?” Logan asked. “That’s absurd. I don’t think we can mount an army to take over Texas with shotguns. Tactically that’s—”
Whittenburg waved a dismissive hand. “I don’t care what you think. You’ll make do with what I give you.”
Logan’s shoulders slumped and he stepped back from the desk, dipping his chin like a scolded dog. Buck suppressed a smile.
“I’ll get you some men,” the colonel said. “They’re grunts with nothing to do. No families, no attachments. They’ll get you started until you start proselytizing the locals.”
“We’ll give the shotguns to the grunts,” said Buck. “We’ll make them get up close and do the dirty work. Shotguns are fine for handling situations in tight quarters.”
Manuse grinned. “I like the way you think, Buck.”
Logan sneered. He nervously rubbed the top of his head. Beads of perspiration populated on his scalp. His shot glass wasn’t empty.
“I’ve got some vehicles,” said the colonel. “Not many. Most of your travel will be on horses. That seems to be what’s developing as primary transport in Texas, Oklahoma and eastern Louisiana. Up through Wyoming and the Dakotas too. At least that’s the intelligence we’re receiving.”
Logan held his shot glass, rubbing a thumb along its edges. “Gasoline?”
“We’ve got some. Diesel will last longer than the regular stuff. Again, the refineries are a priority for us. We’ll work on a pipeline to keep it flowing once the wall goes up. Tech wise, I can have you set up with a satellite communication system we’ve got working. It’s video conference. Secure lines. You’ll each get one.”
“I like horses,” said Buck. “They get good mileage if you treat them right.”
The colonel rubbed his chin and nodded. A smile spread across his face and his eyes brightened. “I like what I’m hearing. I think we’re good for now, gentlemen. I’ve got rooms for you. Spend the night. Meet up with some of my subordinates, Major Bailey and First Lieutenant Lowe. They’ll show you to your quarters, point you to the mess, where you can grab some food and get you requisitioned with some starter kits. I think the three of you have a lot to discuss.”
The colonel faced his computer and typed on the keyboard. A few seconds later, there was a knock at his door. “Come in, Major, Lieutenant.”
Two men entered the room and stood at attention. They saluted the colonel, who ignored their adherence to protocol. Instead, he dismissed the lot of them.
“That’ll be all. I’ve got other things to do.”
Buck left the room without saying anything else to the colonel. He didn’t thank him, didn’t wish him well or tell him he’d see him soon. He walked out, scratching the itch from the curling tendrils of hair on his neck and followed the two officers along a brightly lit corridor. He wondered how his luck had changed. Was this as good as advertised, or was there more to it? Rufus Buck suspected it was a little bit of both.
CHAPTER 15
MARCH 13, 2033
SCOURGE +163 DAYS
COCOA, FLORIDA
The Cocoa Riverfront Park was a tent city. More than a dozen of them, most actual tents, were clustered in the formerly grassy circle east of the modest amphitheater.
McQuarry stood south of the park on Church Street. The Indian River was to his right, the city’s civic center to his left. Beyond the tents was Harrison Street, a compact shopping center and the eastbound lanes of 520.
“We could have stayed on Delannoy,” said Cooper. “We could have skipped the homeless camp.”
McQuarry rubbed the back of his neck with his right hand. He carried tension in his neck and shoulders and he was sore.
He winced and faced Cooper. “These people are no more homeless than we are. And I wanted to walk this way because it gives us a better look at what we’ll face on the bridge.”
With the Mossberg, he motioned to the Hubert Humphrey Bridge, which spanned the water between Cocoa and Merritt Island. The bridge, also called the West Merritt Island Causeway, was split on the Cocoa end and then merged into a single span at the Intracoastal Waterway Park.
The three of them stood on the sandy dirt and looked northeast at the bridge. It struck McQuarry there was virtually no traffic in the water or on the bridge. He was also surprised at the lack of a checkpoint on the eastbound side. It appeared from where he stood that barricades only blocked the westbound side into Cocoa.
McQuarry snapped his fingers at Dickie. “You got them binoculars?”
Dickie fished them from his pack. Before he could extend his arm, McQuarry snatched them from his hand. He exchanged the binoculars for his Mossberg.
“Thanks,” McQuarry said and put them to his eyes.
The binoculars were old. They’d found them in the garage of the commandeered house in which they now lived. They were hard molded plastic, but the lenses were good. He used his thumb and forefinger to adjust the thumbscrew focus. The bridge came into view and he swept his view east. At the far edge of the bridge, not far from Merritt Island but still over water, there was a checkpoint leading onto the island. He squinted, trying to maintain a solid look at the far side of the river. It was a jittery view, but he held it still enough that he could see there was a checkpoint on the westbound side. He blinked, clearing his vision for a split second and lowered the binoculars.
McQuarry stared into the distance without the magnification. “That’s strange. They got barricades on both sides of the bridge over there. But only one on the inbound side over here.”
He pointed at the foot of the bridge closest to them. The others craned their necks to see.
Cooper took two steps toward the eastern edge of the park. He put a hand over his eyes and squinted. “That is weird. At least it would be. Except I don’t think that’s true. There was a barricade on this side heading east. It’s just abandoned. There’s nobody there.”
McQuarry moved alongside Cooper. He lifted the binoculars again and inspected the bridge on his side of the Indian River. “I’ll be. You’re right, Cooper. There are barricades there, but nobody’s manning them. Wonder what that’s about.”
Cooper eyed McQuarry over his shoulder with a raised eyebrow. “Would you want to be standing guard at some random checkpoint on a bridge? Or would you be worried about taking care of number one? I know straight up what I’d be doing.”
The kid had a point. If the world seemed like it was ending, some people would forget their jobs in favor of their personal lives.
Dickie stepped up next to McQuarry. He was breathing hard through his mouth. And he stank. At first McQuarry wasn’t sure if it was Dickie’s breath or his body. It was probably both.
McQuarry sucked in a breath and held it. He rubbed his crinkled nose with the back of his hand. “You stink, Dickie. We run into any trouble on that bridge and I’m gonna sic you on whoever’s in our way.”
Dickie frowned and his cheeks flushed. He tucked his chin to his chest and dropped his eyes to the ground.
McQuarry felt the unfamiliar sting of guilt. Cooper was the one to keep at arm’s length. He needed Dickie on his side. He nudged Dickie with his shoulder. “I’m just kidding,” he said. “I mean, you stink. We all do. Don’t worry about it.”
Dickie kept his chin tucked but looked up at McQuarry.
“I know I need a shower. Or whatever.”
McQuarry nudged him again. “Let’s go. We got a long way to walk, stink or not. You can lead. You’ve earned that. Do me a favor though. Turn around.”
Dickie wrinkled his brow in confusion but did as McQuarry asked. McQuarry unzipped the pack on Dickie’s back and stuffed in the binoculars. Then he zipped it back up and pointed toward the tents.
“Let’s go.”
Dickie adjusted the pack with a tug on its straps and moved north. The circular park was sandy, the remnants of grass hinting at what the public asset used to be. As they neared the tents, which stretched from the center of the circle to the front of the amphitheater, Dickie slowed.
He checked over his shoulder at McQuarry. “Just keep walking?”
McQuarry nodded toward the tents. “Keep walking. Anyone says anything, I’ll handle it.”
Cooper appeared lost in his own thoughts as they reached the first of the tents. It was an eight-person dwelling. Tan in color, McQuarry recognized it as a model sold at Walmart. Cheap in price but decent quality. It was zipped shut. A woman sat cross-legged on a collapsible camping chair. She held a plastic cup in her hands and eyed the visitors suspiciously.
They walked past the woman. She drew the cup to her lips and sipped, her eyes tracking them as they moved.
Beyond the first tent were four more, smaller and in worse condition. One of them used duct tape to keep closed the flap. The tape curled at the ends and didn’t hold fast.
A large man in a soiled white tank top stood between two of the four tents. He had an unlit cigarette pinched between his fingers, holding it like a blunt. His bloodshot eyes were rimmed with the dark circles of stress and sleep deprivation. They peeked out from between tendrils of long, curly hair that shone with grease or oil. His upper lip twitched as if he was about to speak and revealed a missing tooth.
The wood-grained grip of a pistol stuck out of the drawstring waistband of his gray sweatpants. His bare feet were black with dirt.
To his credit, Dickie didn’t slow. He chose the unguarded path between the adjacent tents and kept walking with purpose. Secretly pleased that his underling didn’t show weakness, McQuarry was equally surprised. Then Cooper opened his mouth and soiled their unmolested passage.
“What are you lookin’ at?”
McQuarry stopped and turned. Cooper stood three feet from the man in the tank top. He held his weapon in both hands. He wasn’t aiming, but his body language was clearly threatening, intended to induce confrontation.
Tank Top lifted the stub to his lips and held it in front of his face. He rolled it in his fingers and studied Cooper, the look on his face dispassionate but intense. McQuarry moved back a step and aimed his Mossberg at the ground, tucking it under his arm, raising his free hand as a show of peace.
“He didn’t mean nothin’ by that,” said McQuarry. “We’re passin’ through.”
From his peripheral vision, he saw others. There were too many people here for a fracas. No need to incite anything when the goal was getting to the bridge and crossing it.
Tank Top let go of the cigarette and it stuck to his lower lip, perched there in mid-drop. He blinked. A slow, deliberate blink. Almost a double wink. He wiped his hand on his shirt, which McQuarry now saw was ribbed.
“Got a light?” asked Tank Top.
His gravelly voice was more of a purr than anything else. There was a surprising resonance to it that took McQuarry off guard.
Tank Top glanced to his right. McQuarry followed the gaze and saw three men approaching fast. They marched with purpose between two rows of tents along a well-worn path. Two of them carried baseball bats. One held a golf club in both hands as if he were approaching a tee box. The head of the club, a large driver, was out in front of him and led the group like a mechanical rabbit leading dogs in a race. All three were filthy and made Tank Top look spit polished.
McQuarry reached into his pocket and pulled out a box of waterproof matches. “Here you go. Take the lot of ’em. Consider it a toll for safe passage.”
He held out the box. Tank Top looked at it for a moment and then took it. He turned the box over in his hand, studying it.
McQuarry pointed to the box. “Slides open.”
Tank Top looked up from the box. “I know how matches work.”
“Hey,” called the golfer. “Who are you? What are you doing here?”
His men could take them. They had guns and knives; the locals didn’t. At least not that he could see. The best they had was sporting equipment. And Tank Top didn’t have his hand anywhere near the pistol in his waistband. There was no need for bloodshed. It would create more problems than solutions.
He started walking away from Tank Top and lifted the Mossberg. He held it in both hands and dipped his head toward the bridge, motioning for Dickie and Cooper to keep moving.
“Just passing through,” he answered the golfer. “Don’t want any trouble. Already told your friend here. Even offered him some matches as a thank-you for safe passage.”
One of the men with a bat, the shortest of the three, held it out and pointed at McQuarry. “You gonna have to give us something too, you wanna keep walking without a limp,” he sneered.
McQuarry smiled broadly. He checked behind him and saw Dickie and Cooper were a good thirty yards north. Then he focused his attention on Tank Top, the woman sitting in the chair and each of the three sportsmen. He addressed Short Bat first and then all of them with a disbelieving chuckle.
“You serious? You’re not serious. He’s not serious. There is no way he’s serious.”
None of the sportsmen laughed. Tank Top slid open the box and plucked out a match. He slid it across the side of the box. The scrape and sizzle preceded a spark of light.
With the cigarette lit, Tank Top sucked in a deep pull and exhaled through his nose. Streams of smoke billowed and then dissipated. Tank Top spoke with the butt hanging on his lower lip. It was remarkable how it just stayed put. “I think he’s serious.”
The sportsmen moved closer, all three holding their weapons at the ready.
The short one grinned. “He’s right. I’m serious. I don’t think what I said sounded like a joke.”
McQuarry secretly cursed. Not because he found himself in a pickle—there was nothing new there. He’d scrapped in the prison yard too many times to count. This was nothing. He was angry because Cooper James was right. They shouldn’t have cut through the park. They should have stuck to the road.
Golfer leaned on his club. “What are you gonna give us?”
McQuarry pushed his tongue against the inside of his cheek. He rolled it around, considering his answer. Then he leveled the Mossberg at Tank Top. The douchebag hadn’t pulled his weapon. McQuarry wondered if it even worked. “I’m not giving you anything. Unless, of course, you want me to put a .308 in his gut. Happy to do that. I’d get to keep the rest of the matches.”
“You might get him,” said the short one with the bat, “but we’ll get you. That bolt action isn’t fast enough. You gotta cycle that sucker after every shot. We’d be on you in a—”
A percussive boom thundered from behind the short man and he dropped the bat. His face pinched in confusion and his mouth gaped. His arm twitched and he dropped to the ground, revealing Cooper James standing behind him. Thin wisps of white smoke drifted from the barrel of his shotgun.
Time slowed and McQuarry saw the bewildered expressions on the other two sportsmen as Cooper James fired another blast. Pellets tore through the other batsman’s chest and neck. He dropped the bat and clutched his throat.
Golfer dropped the club and raised his hands. McQuarry stepped to Tank Top and slapped him across the face with the butt of his rifle. The cigarette flew from his lips. Tank Top stumbled back and fell into the wall of a blue tent.
Cooper stepped to the golfer. “I think we gave you all you’re gonna get.”
A dark wetness spread across the front of the golfer’s pants. His hands trembled above hi
s head. He nodded wide-eyed, silent.
The batsmen were dead; Tank Top was unconscious. The woman sat in her chair, legs crossed and unmoved.
“I think we should go,” said Cooper.
McQuarry picked up the box of matches from the ground, stuffed them into his pocket and strode off toward Dickie waiting at the far northern end of the circular park. Neither he nor Cooper said anything until they stepped from the field and onto the street one block south of the bridge.
They looked back at the trouble they’d caused. A woman’s cry carried in the slight but now constant breeze that came from the south. It might have been more than one woman. It might have been a man. There was no telling, but they weren’t going to stick around to find out. For all they knew, others in the encampment were more heavily armed.
The street sign read Harrison Street. To their right was Riveredge Boulevard, which connected with 520.
“This way,” said McQuarry.
The trio moved quickly, Dickie huffing and taking comically long strides to keep pace. It wasn’t until they’d rounded the corner and put a shuttered pizza joint behind them that Cooper spoke.
“You’re welcome.”
McQuarry’s jaw clenched. He tightened his grip on the rifle but reminded himself of the need to get along. He slowed his pace and made eye contact with Cooper.
“Thank you. But you didn’t need to kill them. I mean, don’t get me wrong. I’m all for necessary violence. But that wasn’t necessary.”
Cooper snorted, derision in his tone. “Wasn’t it though? I told you we should steer clear of the park. You ignored me. Thinking you’re smarter than everyone is stupid, as I see it. You’re gonna get us killed. They had you, man. If I hadn’t taken them out, you’d be dead and I’d be having to explain it to your woman.”
Cooper was right, although McQuarry wasn’t about to admit it.
“Don’t bring Winter into this. She’s got nothing to do with the choices I make.”
Cooper snorted again then produced a toothy grin. “Old man, you’re ridiculous,” he said with a shake of his head. “You don’t piss without permission from her. You know it, I know it, my brothers know. Both the Rusk girls know it.”
The Scourge (Book 2): Adrift Page 16
