by Dave Lund
Twenty years without seeing the sun. Twenty years … there is already little left, what would be left after twenty years? Nothing. Like a movie, like the book “On The Beach,” everything would be dead; everything would be gone.
Bill shuddered as a chill traveled down his spine. Behind him the airmen worked at a feverish pace, pulling communications satellites from past radar tracks. Bill didn’t quite understand what they were doing, but the airmen said that was what they used to do back at NORAD, so he assumed they knew what they were looking for.
“Holy shit!” one of the airmen half-yelled, startling the bustling communications room. “Look, this is the track from last month; this is the track from last week. The transponder track is here, but the skin track is here. There is another object without a transponder and it’s closing distance.”
Bill walked to the airman’s console; the others huddled around as well. “What does that satellite do?”
“It’s one of the communications birds we have up, one of the latest.”
The screen refreshed. The radar track of the object ran overlaid with the transponder track of the geostationary satellite. The unknown object was closing the distance at what appeared to be a breakneck speed, but what in reality would take a number of days. The time stamp on the corner of the screen showed that these images were recorded two days ago. The transponder track, then the radar track, vanished from the screen.
“That’s about the time we started noticing communication issues.”
Bill looked at the blank screen, the time stamp in the corner continually updating as the track continued to play. “I don’t get it; they both disappeared.”
“Exactly. The unknown object appeared to collide with our bird, which destroyed them both to the point of being too small for this radar system to track.”
“So it was attacked?”
“Either that, or by happenstance, a few weeks after the initial attack on the U.S., some random object in space rammed a communications bird. This one is recorded; I’m checking the tracks on the other birds now.”
SSC
“So we have no idea if there are any naval assets that survived or are still in play or anything?”
“No.”
“How do we find out?”
“Generally the fleet is kept in the loop via SATCOM. Subs are kept in contact using very low frequency radios, similar to whale song, but much lower frequency … out of our hearing range. But there are only two transmission sites in the U.S. for those comms, which are often patched through using SATCOM. We have neither control of those facilities nor SATCOM use right now.”
“So what can we do?”
“Depending on atmospheric conditions and distance, we could establish contact using standard HF communications. Not very reliable for what we’re trying to do, though.”
“OK, so let’s say we make contact with a ship. Let’s say it is a whole carrier group. What then? We’re still here; we’re still stuck.”
“First, we can direct recon missions over the U.S. to find survivors and secure facilities for replacement, rearmament, etc. Then we can send them towards China and ‘Better Korea’ to see if my theory is correct.”
“Fine, Clint. Let’s say that your theory is correct. What then?”
“My advice, babe? Fucking level the country into a pile of nuclear waste then focus on rebuilding ours.”
CHAPTER 25
Cortez, CO
March 7, Year 1
Cliff dropped to the ground and slowly made his way over the fence and towards where he had stashed his second truck. Another night and another recon mission; another twenty-four hours holed up, trying to figure the crazies out.
Heading west, Cliff made a slow and deliberate drive towards the middle school. He would have to figure out where to stash the truck when he got there, and from the survivors back in Groom Lake, it sounded like the school had been overrun by the cult members. I wish they at least had an idea of how many assholes I’ll be dealing with. Right now it’s a total guess. Could be ten, could be a thousand ... probably closer to ten, though.
Diamond Valley Lake, CA
Passing through a few small towns without further incident, the team drove on as night slowly fell across the west coast. Aymond called for a halt, then stood on the roof of the lead M-ATV, scanning the horizon using his binoculars.
“All we have is farmland and random homes.”
All the team members took the opportunity to get out of their lumbering armored vehicles and stretch their legs while pulling security for the convoy stopped in the middle of the road. Aymond climbed down from the roof and circled his finger overhead while climbing back into the passenger’s door of the lead M-ATV. Five minutes later, the four trucks roared to life, driving slowly forward to a dirt road and a locked gate. Quick work with the bolt cutters and the convoy was in the fenced-off farm land. Aymond didn’t know what crop was half-dead in the field, it could have been marijuana for all he knew, but he didn’t care. What he cared about was that he had a fenced-off area free of buildings or other roads. He had the opportunity to create a safe spot for the convoy to bivouac that night.
While the moon rose in the night sky, the first security watch set up on an M-ATV’s roof. The rest of the team, including the two new members, slept on the ground, protected by the circle of their high-tech covered wagons.
If we don’t start making progress, it will take a week for us to reach San Diego … a drive that wouldn’t have taken us longer than a day before the attack. Aymond checked the map and his pocket calendar, checking off another day and making some notes on the notepad. Tomorrow they would fuel up and drive hard.
Albuquerque, NM
Erin slept softly, curled into a ball on a ratty couch. The hood of the FJ propped up, Sarah pointed out what the components were. The belt that turned the accessory drives and the water pump was shredded.
“That was probably the thump you heard, the belt hitting the hood.”
“So now what?”
“Jessie, girl, don’t worry about it. Belts are easy; we can raid a parts store in the morning. All we need to know is the length and width.”
“How are we going to know the length?”
Sarah smiled and routed a piece of 550 cord around the pulley system before tying the end off, making a loop roughly the length of the belt. With the parachute cord and a piece of the old belt, it wouldn’t take long to flip through the rack at a parts store to find a replacement and a backup.
Long into the night, the two of them talked, Sarah now telling Jessie her story. From Tennessee, she and Erin had set off cross-country in an attempt to find Sarah’s father in Northern California after her home near Knoxville was overrun. Sarah’s tale was one of utter sadness and destruction. Along the way, she and Erin had gained and lost three vehicles, including Sarah’s prized CJ Jeep, which explained to Jessie why she knew what was going on with her FJ. The motorcycle was the last vehicle they’d found, just after entering New Mexico on foot. Erin’s dad, Sarah’s ex-husband, had taught her how to hunt, and took her hunting every October. Which further explained to Jessie why that sassy-bitch of a fifteen-year-old could shoot so well. I’m fairly sure I was that bitchy when I was fifteen, and the world hadn’t ended. Jessie made a mental note to give Erin more space. She would figure it out, or Jessie would get used to her. Sarah had just agreed to ride to Groom Lake with her, so she would have to put up with Erin at least for the short term.
“Now, get some sleep if you can. We’ll need to run the raid first thing in the morning, before the sun heats up the deaders too much.”
“Why does that matter?”
“For one, they smell worse in the sun. But also, they seem to move a little slower when they’re cold.”
I hadn’t noticed that. Oh my God; what is summer going to be like?
Fantasy Lounge
Chivo passed the bottle back to Bexar, slapping him in the chest with the square bottom. They sat in the darkness to conserv
e batteries. The NODs were flipped up on their helmets, which now sat on the bench next to each of them. Their feet were propped up on the low table of a VIP room.
Bexar took a long drink, the Tennessee whiskey burning his throat. “No, seriously. At one hundred mph, you are outrunning your siren. It’s safer to split the traffic than go around it. So anyways, I get to the area, and I’m not really sure where the others are because the radio traffic is sporadic yelling, running, and fighting. So with the siren off, I’m rolling slowly through the neighborhood, when a guy matching the description pops out from behind a vehicle, never sees me, and starts running down the middle of the street right in front of me, holding his pants up while he runs. So I drop the clutch and, like a rocket, I’m on the guy. Matched his running speed and was about to kick him over, when he looks over his shoulder at me and cuts right in front of the bike.”
“No shit?”
“No shit. I run him the fuck over, he breaks the mirror off my brand fucking new ride, knocks me over, I go tumbling to the ground, scratching my brand new motor and scuffing my boots. He’s lying on the street, my bike is on the ground, and I’m up fast. I peeled off my helmet and threw it into a yard, and he’s lying there bitching about me running him over. I’m standing over him, cursing him out for damaging my new bike, when the rest of the patrol team chasing him catches up. One of them pulls me aside; they hook him up and drag him to the ER for a release before going to jail. Luckily, my video showed his dumbass move, so I didn’t get in trouble, but he got charged for the damage. Fucking turd.”
Chivo roared in laughter before passing the bottle back to Bexar. And so the night went, finishing the bottle of whiskey, each story more outrageous than the first. Stories Bexar would have never heard outside of a movie, as he wasn’t an elite operator like Chivo, and stories Chivo would never have heard because he wasn’t a cop, nor included in the inner circle behind the thin blue line. Stories that both of them only told their buddies and only after a few stiff drinks.
Cortez, Co
In another cold home, Cliff used his blanket to construct another hide in which to conduct surveillance. If someone with the cult had counter sniper training, they would have noticed the window of the home was now open, but Cliff had to take the chance, believing it was unlikely. It was a less risky gamble than letting the window fog up with the humidity of his breath while hiding.
If this was a real op I would have cameras and listening devices up and a drone overhead. I would be monitoring video and audio from a secure location, far enough away that I wouldn’t be known as a threat until we struck … this is a real op, dumbass. Get in the game.
Cliff closed his eyes and took a deep breath, focusing on a moment of meditation to center his mind. Opening his eyes, Cliff peered through the spotting scope. No movement in the area, no movement from the school; the doors stood open and unguarded.
Six hours later, the dark night sky was beginning to glow faintly. Checking his watch, Cliff saw that it would be sunrise soon. With zero movement the entire night, it was time to gamble. Cliff couldn’t sit behind the scope staring at nothing any longer, no matter what his training was telling him to do.
Gathering his things into the backpack, the blanket poncho over his shoulders, Cliff slowly made his way out of the house and towards the middle school. Creeping from cover to cover, eventually he crouched in the shadow of another shed. He gazed at the vast expanse ahead of him, checking the road in front of the school. It would be a hundred-yard dash. Moving fast or moving slow—it wouldn’t matter. There was no cover, no shelter, nothing but open space between the marginal comfort of the shed and the open doors of the school.
Once more, Cliff scanned the area around him before taking a deep breath and launching out of his crouched spot. Rifle in his hands, blanket flapping like a cape behind him, he sprinted as fast as he could towards the open door, eyes front, eyes focused on the darkened opening ahead. Cliff exploded through the doors into the hallway of the school and slid to a stop. He turned to glance out the door at the path he’d just traveled. Focusing on slowing his breathing, he scanned the outside world, watching for any reaction to his mad dash.
Nothing.
The double set of doors stood open. Leaving the outside set wide, Cliff closed the interior doors and stuck a broom through the crash bars. A little security is a bonus, but he couldn’t risk closing the outer doors; someone would probably notice that.
Turning his focus to the dark interior, Cliff slowly made his way through the hallways of the survivors’ former home. The notepad in his breast pocket contained a layout with labels and information he had gathered from the survivors. Every interior door was standing wide open.
“REPENT” was painted on the wall of a classroom in tall letters. That was the first indication of any activity that he found. The paint didn’t seem right. He approached and scratched at it, then sniffed the flakes under his nails. Something was indeed wrong with the paint; it was blood.
His senses now on high alert, Cliff slowed down his tour of the abandoned middle school and began looking closer for any clues that could help. He assumed that the survivors wouldn’t have written on the wall in their own blood. Danger hung in the air like a heavy fog.
CHAPTER 26
March 8, Year 1
Albuquerque, NM
Jessie woke with Erin gently shaking her shoulders. “We’re headed out for the raid, and you’re in charge of holding down the fort.”
Blinking hard, it took a moment for Jessie to realize what was going on. She didn’t mean for Sarah and Erin to go in search of parts for her FJ without her, but before she could object, the motorcycle roared to life and sped out the open door. Jessie walked to the chain, unhooked it, and lowered the rollup door.
Morning sickness, she thought, more like all the time sickness. She grabbed yet another MRE from the FJ and cut open the green plastic bag. Black letters spelled out the meal of the morning: “RAVIOLI.” Yum.
Scrunching her nose, Jessie started with the cookie and the large crackers. The instant coffee packet fell on the floor; she looked at it, really wishing she could have some coffee. Screw it, if my mom smoked while pregnant I can have some dammed coffee. A few minutes later, the heating packet warmed the small cup of water up a little while the instant coffee dissolved.
Finishing the coffee, Jessie took the M4 rifle apart, wiping down the bolt carrier before pulling the pin and dropping the bolt carrier group apart into pieces and cleaning each piece. A small bottle of Breakfree was all she had to lube the rifle. Gun oil needs to be on my list, and I bet Erin has some.
Done with the rifle, she strained to try to hear the sound of Sarah’s motorcycle, but heard nothing outside the metal walls. Long plastic spoon from the MRE in hand, Jessie tore the top of the ravioli package apart. The smell struck her hyper-sensitive pregnancy nose, causing her to immediately throw up the little breakfast she had already eaten.
“Goddammit!” Jessie threw the vomit-covered MRE pouch across the shop; it landed with a wet thump against the wall.
Fantasy Lounge
Both Chivo and Bexar were a little slow moving around the interior of the strip club. With Bexar’s ear against the metal door, he strained to hear any moans or movement from the undead that had chased them here the afternoon before. Hearing nothing, he turned the latch and slowly cracked the door open.
A long sliver of sunlight pierced the darkness. Blinking the tears out of his eyes from the harsh glare, Bexar peered into the morning sun. A couple of undead shambled by on the street, but the huge mass of undead from the previous day had gone elsewhere. Somewhere far away, hopefully. But Bexar wasn’t sure. The mass that chased them yesterday seemed to have appeared out of nowhere, as if the undead had waited in planned ambush.
Another bottle of Jack Daniels was stuffed inside Bexar’s pack, as was a bottle of tequila in Chivo’s. Bexar laughed at the tequila. “Mexican guy with tequila? Dude, that’s racist.” Chivo answered with a middle finger.
Slowly, Bexar opened the door further before sliding into the sunlight; Chivo’s hand was on his shoulder through the movement, then he broke left to cover his area of responsibility. Bexar took point. He thought that the raised highway might give them some added protection as they made their way back to the ruined Defender. They could look for a replacement vehicle along the way. They cautiously proceeded around disabled vehicles on the highway, giving each a wide berth, as some of the owners still hung around next to their rides, even in death. At each rise, Bexar thought they were at the bridge, but apparently they had run much farther yesterday than he realized. Finally nearing the collapsed bridge, Bexar estimated the distance to have been almost two miles.
Bexar stopped and crouched in place. Chivo crouched in response and made his way to Bexar. On the road below, next to the collapsed bridge, was a bright yellow school bus. A large brush guard was welded across the flat nose of the bus, and steel bars protected each of the windows, including the windshield, which was missing. Blood was smeared along the battered sides, and the stop sign was missing. Two people stood on the roof, facing away from the highway, rifles in hand. Two more appeared from the rubble, carrying gear they’d scavenged from the Defender.
“What the fuck?” Bexar whispered to Chivo. “Drop ‘em or what?”
Chivo scanned the scene, holding his left hand up to signal “stop.” The people on the roof of the bus were women, one young and one older. Behind the wheel was a young boy, probably early teens. The two men, one much older than the other, carried the equipment from the Defender to the waiting open door at the rear of the bus. Black smoke rattled out of the tailpipe and the bus shook a little while idling.
