by Dave Lund
“Sure. But what do we need?”
“Antibiotics, IV bags … shit, everything. Find a fire department. Raid the ambulance or the EMS gear in the station if you have to. IV bags—as many as you can find, and all the associated gear; get any of the script meds they have on board too. The insulin will be toast from age and temperature, but some of the other stuff should have survived. You might have to hit a pharmacy to get the antibiotics; I’m not going to suggest you go to the hospital. That place has probably already been picked clean if it isn’t fucking overrun …. Oh! Fucking vets! Find an animal hospital, get anything labeled with these names.” Chivo wrote a half-dozen medication names on his notepad, ripped out the page, and gave it to Bexar.
“Mag check—how are you topped off?”
“Nearly down two.”
“Trade me. Take these.” Chivo handed Bexar three full M4 magazines from his own carrier. “You’ve got about seven hours until sunrise, but you really need to be back in under two. Cliff is going to be iffy. Normally, this would be nothing—run a bag, a broad spectrum antibiotic, fever reducer, and keep him comfy ... a few days later and he would be mostly normal, except for trying to walk.”
Bexar nodded, noticing the book bag on the floor. He picked it up and dumped the contents onto the bed. The spotting scope and the spare magazines were first to be noticed, but Bexar saw the folded map and pulled it open. It was a civilian map, but it gave him an idea of where things were in the town; he stuffed it behind his carrier to take with him. Bexar looked at his new watch from the storage lager at the SSC. “Be back in two hours.”
“Good luck. Watch your six, and it would be better for you to ditch the truck somewhere and have to sneak back through yards and shit rather than drive back with a tail following, so pay attention out there.”
Bexar nodded, press-checked his AR, and walked out of the room, down the stairs, and out the garage to the truck. He was surprised that he wasn’t nervous; he didn’t have any fear about driving into enemy territory. The strongest emotion Bexar had was anger. How dare those motherfuckers fire a rocket at me?
Groom Lake, NV
Bill wasn’t sure if the adjusted HF antenna would work better or not. It should work better, but the only way he could tell would be to DX someone. That contact would require the other person to have the ability to respond in the HF band as well. The HAM community as a whole might be seen as odd, but they are a resourceful bunch. Bill was sure that if there were any other HAM survivors in the country, he would DX one at some point. It was the ultimate Field Day, and he even had hot coffee ... no donuts, though.
SSC
“What do you think his chances are of contacting others with the modified equipment?”
“Quite good, babe. With SATCOMs down until further notice, HF is the only method we really have to reach over the horizon. It still doesn’t solve our subfleet communications question, unless they surface close and start responding. But if any of the surface fleet has survived, that would give us a chance to contact them. My best guess is that they all started a mad dash back to CONUS, San Diego, and Norfolk when everything went to shit. We just don’t know yet.”
“What about the Chinese; what about North Korea?”
“We’re going to be in the dark unless someone can figure out how to bring our birds back online. We don’t even know why they went off-line as of right now, we’re just guessing that the Chinese took them down. The last mission brief I had on the technology was almost two years ago, although those who study such things didn’t believe that the Chinese had the assets in orbit that could hard-kill our birds; the tracks make that look to be wrong.”
“So we sit, we wait, and we do nothing. I’m a President with nothing to do.”
“You’re not the first.”
Amanda snorted and laughed at the remark.
Cortez, CO
Bexar crept through the shadows to the truck hidden in the trees. He checked, and the tail lights were already broken. His NODs had been trashed and thrown away at the bus, so he was truly in the dark. Even still, he wouldn’t turn on the headlights unless something bad happened and he had to drive fast. After backing out and driving a few blocks south and east, he stopped and looked at the map. Originally, he had thought that the map wasn’t marked up, but now he could see small pen marks on a few places around the town, including the middle school, some other school, and what was probably a church, guessing by the notation in the map legend. The fire department closest to him was on North Ash; the others were spread on the edges of the city, which made sense to Bexar, as a previous first-responder himself. Seven slowly driven blocks later, Bexar parked the truck in a driveway off an alleyway, across the street to the north of the fire station. He backed in so he could pull out in a hurry if he needed to; he also left the windows down and the keys in the ignition. He wasn’t that far from Cliff’s house, so if the truck turned up missing, he could walk back without any problems. He ran across the street and into the parking lot behind the small fire station. Bexar guessed there couldn’t be more than a handful of apparatus in the small fire station.
The overhead doors were closed tight, and a tattered American flag hung from the front of the building. The side door was locked as well. Looking up, he saw a small fire escape to a second-story door. Bexar climbed the ladder and found it unlocked. Quietly, Bexar opened the door and held it with his foot. Surefire flashlight in his left hand, and his heavy CM Forge knife in his right, he stepped in, closed the door, and whistled into the darkened building. A handful of moans came from the interior.
Great. I hope they don’t have their bunker gear on, or this might get sporty.
Bexar waited, hoping they would make their way to him instead of having to feel them out in a dark building he wasn’t familiar with. He didn’t have to wait long for his first customer of the evening, who had been fairly overweight in life and wore typical EMT pants and a t-shirt. Bexar pushed hard on the paramedic’s shoulder before plunging the heavy blade of his knife into its temple. As the fat body fell to the floor, the knife jerked out of Bexar’s hand, still stuck in the skull. Another younger and thinner corpse turned the corner and started towards the light. Bexar took two steps back and drew his pistol; the second undead fell over the body of the first, making for an easy single-shot kill with his pistol. The sound was deafening in the small hallway. Bexar wiggled his knife out of the oozing skull, wiped the blade off on the corpse’s t-shirt, and stepped over the bodies. He continued into the building, banging the butt of his knife on door frames as he went.
No other moans came and no other undead were found in the building. Bexar made his way downstairs; there was no brass pole, to his disappointment. There he found the bunker gear laid out and ready to jump into, as is typical in most firehouses. An engine, two brush trucks, and a small ladder truck were shoved into the concrete bays. Behind them sat a lone ambulance; that was Bexar’s first stop. Inside, he found the EMT bags, which included most everything on Chivo’s list, except for the antibiotics. He zipped the bags up and shouldered both, which were much heavier than he would have thought.
Bexar walked around the ladder truck, unlocked the downstairs side door, and slowly opened it, peering into the night. No threats visible, he walked around the back of the station and across the street to his truck, placing the bags in the bed. Sitting in hiding, he consulted the tourism map once again. Veterinarians weren’t marked on the map, and long gone were the days of being able to search the internet for an answer. A rare moment of clarity struck; Bexar looked at the home behind him. It looked like an old lady had lived there, judging by the clothesline and vintage lawn furniture. Old ladies love phone books ... phone books have addresses.
Bexar climbed out and kicked in the back door to the house. Inside there was no response to the noise, so knife and flashlight in hand, he walked through the home until he found the kitchen. A phone was mounted on the wall next to the cabinets. He checked the drawer closest to the phone and smiled when he saw last year’s
phone book and Yellow Pages for the surrounding area. The phone book went with him back to the truck.
Looks like the closest clinic is north on Alamosa; that doesn’t look too far. Bexar folded the map to show the spot and marked it with his pen, then circled the fire department building. Some quick planning, and the truck was started, in gear, and Bexar was on his way. Driving faster this time, he turned north on Mildred and sped towards Alamosa, passing the local hospital along the way. The hospital was a mess, a complete disaster, as far as Bexar could tell in the darkness. Chivo was right; it looked bad enough that he wanted nothing to do with stopping and checking it out. A few moments later, the truck was parked around the back of the animal clinic and the back door was kicked in.
In the kennels lay the bodies of cats and dogs, rotting where they’d died, left trapped in their cages by the end of society. The sight of the animals that had starved to death in their cages, clawing desperately to get free, affected Bexar more than killing the undead firefighters had, and it took him a few moments to clear his head to look for the medicine stores.
The list of supplies needed in hand, Bexar took a plastic trash bag and dropped in every pill bottle and every vial he found that matched, or looked close to, what Chivo had written. He noticed the syringes and realized he wasn’t sure if there were any in the EMT bags, so he grabbed a handful and dropped them in with the medications. In less than ten minutes Bexar was back in the truck and driving towards the house. All told, it took him ninety minutes to make his rounds, only to be greeted by a pistol in his face when he parked and rolled up the garage door.
“I guess next time we should work out some sort of code—a secret knock or something.”
“Yeah. It sucks getting a pistol pointed at your head when you arrive home. Here are the bags; I hope I was able to get everything. How’s Cliff?”
“Weak.” Digging through the EMT bags and the trash bag full of medications from the animal clinic, Chivo nodded. “This will do, or at least it will get us started. Come upstairs and I’ll teach you how to start an IV.”
Bexar nodded and followed Chivo, happy to take the role of student for a skill set that he’d never had the opportunity to learn.
CHAPTER 31
March 10, Year 1
The FJ, Campsite
The three women woke with the rising sun. Erin, having last watch, had fallen asleep on the job, but it turned out OK, even if she was embarrassed for it. All three of them lay in the cool air of the tent, knowing that it was colder outside. Jessie stood and peeked through the front flap; nothing was moving near their campsite. They listened quietly and could hear only birds in the trees around them. Jessie untied the canvas strips that tied the flaps together and rolled the tent flaps up, tying them to the frame. The crisp morning air was dry but refreshing. A hawk flew lazily overhead in search of breakfast, and if not for each of them holding a rifle, this could have been a normal girls’ weekend camping trip.
“God, I feel exhausted.” Sarah stepped out into the morning sun, stretching. She was sure she smelled horrible; it had been a month since either she or Erin had showered or washed clothes. Jessie pulled another case down from the roof rack of the FJ, and after relieving herself by squatting against the back tire of the SUV, returned with an old Coleman stove and blue enamel percolating coffee pot. They didn’t have any real coffee, but the MREs had instant coffee packs in them, and that was better than nothing. Jessie had refrained from coffee ever since she figured out she was pregnant, but she knew a little wouldn’t hurt. Everything in moderation.
Ten minutes later the girls sat on the ground in front of the tent and sipped their coffee, steam rising out of their blue enamel camping mugs.
“Let’s stay one more night.”
Jessie and Sarah looked at Erin, Sarah speaking up first. “Why? Don’t you want to get to the facility? They’re supposed to have showers and hot food.”
“Sure, they’re supposed to, but what if they don’t? This is nice, and it’s the first time we’ve had a chance to relax ... to have some feeling of normalcy.”
Sarah shrugged and looked at Jessie, who said, “If that’s what you and your mom want to do, then we can stay another night. But Erin, we’re going to need you to go about fifty feet over there and dig a slit trench, about twelve inches wide, twelve inches deep, and three feet long, I’ll get my camp shovel.”
“What’s that for?”
“For us to shit in. I don’t have any lye, but we’ll just have to cover with dirt as needed.”
Jessie stood and dug around in the back of the FJ, produced a three-piece collapsible military surplus shovel, and handed it to Erin, who took the shovel without a word and walked towards the spot Jessie had pointed to.
“If we’re going to stay, we should make a quick patrol of the area to make sure there aren’t any surprises. If we’re lucky, maybe we’ll find something we can cook for dinner tonight.” Jessie nodded at Sarah’s suggestion.
Sarah finished her coffee and stood, holding her AR. After telling Erin their plan, they walked north through the trees then turned east to begin their lap of the surrounding area.
CHAPTER 32
March 10, Year 1
California
While the patrol was out, checking in at regular intervals via their PRC-152 radios, Aymond had another member of his team working the VRC-104 mounted in the third M-ATV. The trucks were loaded and configured strangely, as they weren’t a part of their original mission workup, but had been found at the MWTC after the attack. Normally, the equipment would have been standardized throughout each of the M-ATVs that his team operated for redundancy. Those checks and balances, always being prepared for the worst, were long gone now that the worst had happened. I guess there could have been worse scenarios; all out nuclear war would have probably been worse, but this is definitely towards the top of my ‘things are fucked’ list.
Happy was the backup communications guy. He was not as on-point with the radios as Garcia was, but Garcia played with radios as a hobby; he knew more about the radios, antennas, and all sorts of random things than some of the communications specialists. Regardless, Happy was in the truck with the HF capable radio trying to make contact with someone, anyone.
“Chief, get up here!”
Aymond climbed down from the roof of his M-ATV and stowed his binoculars before walking to where Happy had a handset pressed against his ear. He punched a couple of buttons and the external speaker crackled, fading in and out. “… Groom Lake, any surviving military personnel or civilians, return transmissions on …” The transmission faded out and was garbled. “… safe and secure facility, on site contact via the speaker box located at ...” the transmission drowned in static and faded out.
“Who was that, and why did we lose the transmission?”
Happy pushed buttons on the digital display trying to bring the transmission back to life, but every channel was filled with static, the squelch turned low.
“That was on one of the civilian HF bands; I was trying to DX but couldn’t get the frequency right and wasn’t getting the right bounce.”
“What is DX?”
“Make contact—it’s HAM jargon. When you DX someone, you make contact with them, typically used for long distance communications in the HF bands, at least what Garcia says.”
“What’s bounce?”
“Bounce off the ionosphere ... HF transmissions are affected positively and negatively by everything from solar flares to atmospheric conditions. That’s why we use SATCOM for the majority of our over-the-horizon transmissions.”
“Good work, Gunny. Keep working on it. At least we know someone is out there … Groom Lake ... do you think he meant the Groom Lake?”
“Yeah, Chief, I do. Or it’s a prank, but if someone went to the trouble of rebuilding an HF rig, why would they use it to prank like that? Unless it is some sort of trap. Even then, a trap would be odd; society collapses, most of the population are now Zeds, why would someone fuck around l
ike that? Seems unlikely. I think it’s a legitimate thing.”
The handheld radio on Aymond’s armor carrier squawked to life. “Car Ramrod to Chief.”
“Ramrod? You knuckleheads are using the call sign of Ramrod? Over.”
“Chief, the town is dead, most of it destroyed, and it is overrun with Zeds. No friendlies found at all. Request permission for another day and to push to get aboard Camp Pendleton. Over.”
“Request denied. Secure a new OP and the rest of the team will come to your location.”
“Happy, spread the word. Wheels up in thirty mikes.”
“Will do, Chief.”
Happy left to walk around their small hillside, kicking loose the security teams and the other teammates on rest. Simmons and Jones were found under one of the M-ATVs, elbow deep in grease.
“Can you two be ready to roll in thirty?”
Both of them slid out from under the old truck. Simmons stood and spoke first. “Yes Gunny, but this truck is smoked; one of the coils is broken and we're surprised the motor hasn't imploded yet. It will, and soon.”
“How soon?”
“Roll the dice, but it's not going to make it through the day.”
“Shit. Start unloading the gear, ammo, and anything else useful. Spread it around the other trucks.”
Simmons looked at Jones, who shrugged with the kind of indifference only the intermediate-ranked enlisted Marine could achieve, typically reserved for those times during a deployment when nothing seems to go right.
The FJ
Sunrise brought another perfect morning. Jessie sat on the ground outside the tent warming coffee for the other two, who were still sleeping. Erin had just gone back to sleep when Jessie relieved her from the security watch earlier than expected. This would be a great family camping trip; perfect morning to sit and drink coffee with Bexar while Keeley played, running around the trees, finding interesting leaves and flowers.
