The Plan

by Shawn Chesser

  “I understand,” said Steve-O. “But we’re going to need three jet skis. One for each of us.” And just like that, he was on the move toward the boat ramp.

  During the brisk walk, Riker counted eight vehicles waiting their turn to cross. Of the eight, two were passenger cars currently in the process of loading. Behind them was a newer Honda Ridgeline pickup and an import minivan. The pickup’s load bed was covered with a blue tarp. Judging by the sharp angles of the items underneath the tarp, Riker guessed it was filled with furniture.

  The minivan contained only humanity. The seats in back were all occupied by kids of indeterminable ages. A man and woman—both in their thirties—sat up front. Their faces turned expectantly toward the short man in the hoodie as he barked orders at the driver of the car he was guiding onto the ferry.

  Lashed to the minivan’s roof was a plethora of camping gear. Riding beside the colorful stuff sacks, Rubbermaid bins, and Coleman cooler was a black Yakima box, its contents a mystery.

  Behind the van full of kids was an SUV with a young couple in the front seats. It was crowded from behind by a tiny import car with a lone elderly driver at the wheel.

  The Harlans’ Chevy and Riker’s Shelby were lined up behind the import. Since Riker had pulled in, additional vehicles had arrived, the long line now curling out of sight behind the greenhouse.

  Riker caught up with Steve-O at the water’s edge. The older man was standing on the algae-slickened ramp, hands on hips, watching a four-door Caprice nosing close to the Ford Taurus wagon already in place on the ferry.

  After walking backward a few feet to get a panoramic side-view of the vessel, Riker breathed a sigh of relief. Thankfully, the “ferry” lived up to its name. It was basically a motorized barge able to accommodate two vehicles lined up grille to bumper. And though it sat low in the water, it looked pretty stable.

  Riker saw no creature comforts to speak of—just a closet-sized pilothouse sitting port-side amidships that looked to have been designed to accommodate the pilot and one other person.

  A plaque on the pilothouse read Miss Abigail.

  A waist-high railing ringed the vessel on three sides. On the bow was a rectangular steel plate that acted as the ramp when deployed. When retracted, the ramp completed the railing.

  All in all, while not a ride worthy of the original fare, let alone many times that amount, Miss Abigail appeared seaworthy.

  The man in the hoodie was standing near the ramp and working some out of sight controls. As the ramp began to motor into the up position, Riker strode over to the ferry and stopped a yard short of the bow. Placing a hand on the port-side railing, he made eye contact with the man who had taken his money. Though he suspected he already knew the answer, he called out loudly, “Where’s Shorty?”

  When the ramp clanged against the port and starboard bulkheads, the man hurriedly battened it down. Finished, he regarded Riker and said, “What do you call a fella with a bass drum strapped to his back, cymbals between his knees, and an accordion in his hands?”

  With a tilt of the head, Riker said, “A one-man band?”

  There was a high-pitched turbofan whine in the sky behind them.

  The man said, “Exactly,” just as a pair of Hornets inbound to Naval Air Station Pensacola flew low and slow overhead.

  Noting the planes were flying “lights out,” Riker stared at the orange glow of the retreating engines until their noise diminished. Finally, he stared up at the man on the ferry and said, “That would make you Shorty.”

  The man smiled, showing off tobacco-stained teeth. He said, “The one and only,” and spit a stream of juice overboard.

  And the shoe fits, thought Riker.

  A window on the Caprice whirred down and a man demanded the ferry get underway. “I paid good money,” he called ahead of a couple of choice swear words.

  Shooting the impatient fare a keep your pants on glare, Shorty said, “And you are?”

  “Lee Riker.”

  “What is it that you want in addition to the ferry ride, Lee Riker?”

  “I saw that thing under the tarp.”

  Shorty stared hard for a second, then said, “And I saw that pistola tucked into your waistband, so fucking what?” He drew his hand out of his pocket and showed off a compact Glock. Gaze swinging from the rear of the bait shop to the motor yacht, he added, “That thing attacked the owner of Liquid Assets there. Came running out of the dark and tackled him. Bit his thumb clean off then came at me with a full head of steam. I had no choice. Hell, everyone here saw me do it. And not a single person said a thing. Nobody called the cops. And not one of those pricks helped me drag the body to where I stashed it.”

  “So you think they don’t know about the virus? Just figured you were acting out of self-defense?”

  “Oh, they know,” conceded Shorty. “It’s just that if they acknowledge the virus—acknowledge that the runners and shamblers exist—then they have to admit that the show on AMC, or that movie at the Cineplex … Twenty-Eight Days whatever … is not just entertainment. That it’s all real as a heart attack.” He reached two fingers into his mouth and removed the plug of tobacco.

  Knowing exactly what Shorty was talking about, having not only seen it on display in others, but having also experienced his own brand of normalcy bias early on, Riker said nothing.

  “You know why I do this?” Shorty said, wiping his fingers on his wet-weather pants. Without allowing Riker time to answer, he pulled out a can of Copenhagen and went on talking. “I have a daughter in college at NYU. You know how much that costs per year? It’s a lot of bait and tackle and fuel, that’s how much.”

  Riker shook his head. “I have no idea the dollar amount.” He paused for a beat and watched Shorty dive his fingers into the packed tobacco and stuff an insane amount between his lip and gum. Suddenly the events of a long day landed on his shoulders. From seeing Shorty reload his pick-me-up of choice, Riker craved something to give him a jolt. A big steaming cup of black coffee. Maybe a Red Bull. Hell, even one of those nasty Rip Its Halliburton had flown in to Iraq sounded kind of refreshing right about now. Finally, he said, “Have you heard from your daughter?”

  Eyes wet with tears, Shorty shook his head. “Not since Monday of last week.”

  “I know something about what happened in New York. And it was far more than the terrorist attack story they’re still trying to prop up. I also know what I saw while driving from Miami to here.” He fixed his gaze on the vast blackness beyond the light’s reach.

  Steve-O had been listening in on the conversation, his head panning back and forth as each man spoke.

  Meeting Shorty’s glassy-eyed stare, Riker said, “I have a proposition for you.”

  Shorty wiped his eyes and then looked a question at Riker.

  “Steve-O,” said Riker. “Why don’t you go back to the truck and check in on Tara.”

  Happy to have a job to do, Steve-O threw a salute and trundled up the ramp, the first very prescient words of a well-sung rendition of Cash’s God’s Gonna Cut You Down hanging on the humid night air.

  Raven Rock Mountain Complex

  Sitting in a black leather chair emblazoned with the Presidential seal, President Tillman leaned forward, planted his elbows on the table whose identical counterpart sat in the White House situation room seventy miles away, and steepled his fingers.

  Three fingers of Knob Creek in a crystal highball sat on the table before the President. It had been ignored since DHS Secretary Ashe placed it there ten minutes prior.

  After enduring a full ten minutes of deep, brooding silence, sixty-one-year-old Chairman of the Joint Chiefs of Staff, Marine Corps General Gerald F. Dunlap, cleared his throat and said, “Mr. President—”

  Interrupting, Tillman said, “Jerry, we’re going to be in here together for awhile, so let’s stick to first names.

  Bowing his head, the general said, “Alright, Hank. First names it is. The bombing campaign is failing. We’re seeing little attrition. All we’
re accomplishing is the destruction of infrastructure while suffering unfortunate instances of collateral damage. With all due respect, I think you need to ground the assets. I also think it’s time to call for a National Emergency. While we’re going down this road, you need to consider sending out a nationwide Presidential Alert. With Aleksei Volkov rattling his rubber sword, the American people need your assurance that we are able to at once take steps necessary to quell Romero’s spread and stand up to any aggression the Russians may take.”

  Tillman had been nodding the entire time. He said, “Recall the bombers. Call the alert. First time using the alert, am I right?”

  The Chairman nodded.

  “Then bring me the draft. I’ll need ten minutes to look it over and make necessary revisions.”

  Addressing the head of DHS, Dunlap said, “Maria, get up to Communications and have them take Town Crier through a dry run. I want this to get out to as many citizens as possible.”

  Nodding, the petite brunette said, “You got it, Gerald. On my way.”

  Regarding his SecDef, Tillman asked, “Any word from Executive Foxtrot Two?”

  “They picked up your family from Weather, Hank. Last I heard they were diverting to exfil Maria’s husband.”

  The President said nothing.

  Understanding the silence for what it was, a need for more intel, Marigold said, “He’s a lobbyist with Higgin and Hart. He made it by car to Arlington Memorial, found some high ground, and is in contact with Executive Foxtrot Two.”

  Downing the bourbon in his glass, Tillman said, “Alert me when they’re on final approach. I want to be there to greet them.”

  “Will do, Hank.”

  With that, the room cleared, leaving the President alone with his thoughts and the lion’s share of Knob Creek left in the bottle.

  Chapter 33

  Riker said his piece to Shorty, then untied the ferry from the dock and tossed the line over to the man. He didn’t bother to watch as Miss Abigail reversed away into the dark.

  The throbbing of Miss Abigail’s engines passing behind Liquid Assets confirmed what Shorty had said.

  A short ways south of here, but on the east side of the air base.

  As he passed the minivan full of kids, an outburst of laughter drifting over from the direction of the house piqued Riker’s curiosity. Slowing his gait, he craned and saw a small group of people sitting on camp chairs arranged in a rough circle underneath the magnolia tree. A lantern placed on a cooler doubling as a card table sputtered away as people hoisted beers and consulted some kind of playing cards.

  And the Titanic’s band played on.

  Tobias Harlan and his nephew, Jessie, were waiting for Riker when he neared their Chevy.

  Jessie stepped into Riker’s path and stared up at him. “Only dicks eavesdrop,” he sneered.

  Riker stopped and stared down at the kid. Planting both hands on his hips, he said, “I’m not a dick. However, I’m guilty as charged. Desperate times called for desperate measures.”

  Harlan put a hand on the teen’s shoulder. “Stand down, boy.”

  Shrugging, Riker said, “Hey, you beat us here. No blood, no foul.”

  Harlan said, “Jessie’s just mad at himself for displaying poor OPSEC.”

  Playing dumb, Riker asked, “What’s OPSEC?”

  “Operational security,” answered Jessie, his tone softened. “Uncle Tobias just likes to keep his cards close to his vest, that’s all.”

  Riker looked the length of the Caveman camper. He saw Steve-O standing beside the Shelby and refilling its tank with gas from one of the plastic jugs. Tara was out of the truck, too. She was standing with her back to Steve-O, the Shockwave clutched in a two-handed grip.

  God job, Sis.

  A trio of young men standing next to the SUV behind the Shelby seemed to be staring her down.

  Keeping one eye on the guys ogling his sister, Riker said, “I’m with Tobias. I tend to keep my business, my business.”

  “Listen,” Tobias said, extending his hand, “I would have done the same damn thing if I were in your shoes. Since we’re going to be sharing space on Miss Abigail for a spell, no sense on us bringing bad blood aboard.”

  As Riker agreed and reached out to shake Harlan’s hand, the phone in the case on the man’s hip emitted a klaxon-like tone. Simultaneously, the same annoying sound belched from every phone within earshot, Jessie’s included.

  Surprised to hear the foreign tone, Harlan yanked the phone from its holder and stared at the illuminated screen.

  “Uncle Tobias, did you just get a Presidential Alert?”

  Harlan’s mouth was moving, but no words were coming out. Finally, finished reading the lengthy message, he nodded. “Yes, I did. And judging by the sounds of things”—he looked around at the other people staring into their devices—“I think everyone here got the same message we did.”

  Sidling over to Riker, Jessie said, “What’s your phone say?”

  Wearing a sheepish look, Riker explained how he’d accidentally left his old phone in Miami and that his new smartphone was still in the box and not activated.

  Harlan said, “I’ve never even heard of a text message that has its own unique ring tone. Because that sound that just came out of my phone is not one of the ones that came preloaded.” He looked to Jessie.

  “Mine neither. Aunt Maria,” called Jessie. “Did your phone get a message?”

  A window high up on the camper shell slid open. The woman’s narrow face appeared between parted curtains. “It’s in the cab,” she said. “Go ahead and check it.”

  Jessie located the phone and confirmed it had also received the Presidential Alert.

  Cold ball forming in his gut, Riker up and left without saying a word to the Harlan clan.

  The thuggish-looking twenty-somethings were still standing by their SUV when Riker made it back to the Shelby. And same as Tara, they were all staring down at their phones.

  Seeing Riker, Steve-O smiled and gestured at the cans assembled in a neat line beside the pickup’s rear tire. “All gassed up,” he said, beaming.

  “Thank you, Steve-O. You’ve been a big help this trip. I’d say you’re worth more than your weight in gold.”

  “Do you have a hundred eighty pounds of gold, Lee Riker?”

  Not that much, thought Riker. He said, “Figure of speech, Steve-O.”

  Still holding the Shockwave one handed, Tara looked up from her phone.

  Riker asked, “These guys bugging you?”

  Tara lifted her gaze and turned her head. Incidentally, the shotgun’s lethal end followed.

  Stopping the muzzle sweep with his right hand, Riker took the pump gun from her and concealed it behind his leg.

  “To answer your question, Lee. No they did not. One look at the shotgun and things got cordial real quick. Pretty much kept to themselves after that.”

  Riker patted Steve-O on the back. “You can leave those out,” he said, indicating the empty gas cans. He nodded at the phone in Tara’s hand. “You got the Presidential Alert thing, too?”

  She nodded. “Never seen one of these before. Amber alerts, sure. Those are usually localized. Or sent out to a few adjoining states. This one says it went out nationwide.”

  From the front of the line came the sound of engines starting. Soon, the line was rolling forward, including the Harlans’ Chevy.

  “What did it say?”

  “A whole lot of stuff we already know. Plus, in my opinion, a bunch of bad advice.”

  “Spill,” said Riker.

  “President Tillman says the hospitals are filled to capacity. He wants everyone to shelter in place and wait for authorities to come and take them to one of the nearest regional FEMA facilities currently being set up around the country.”

  Riker held up a hand. “I want to read it for myself.” He traded Tara the shotgun and the keys to the Shelby for her iPhone. “Need to watch the deadly end of that thing.”

  Tara said, “My finger was nowher
e near the trigger.”

  “Good job. Still, watch the muzzle sweep.”

  Steve-O opened his door, leaned in, and came out with the identical Nerf guns.

  Examining the iPhone, Riker said, “What’s your code? Or does it just read your fingerprint?”

  “Here,” she said, leaning over and tapping in the code for him.

  “Ah,” said Riker. “I recognize those numbers.”

  “Shhh, Lee. Let’s keep it our little secret.”

  Riker read the lengthy text. Finished, he looked at Tara, one brow raised. “It’s getting real.”

  Nodding, she said, “Real scary.”

  Looking to Steve-O, Riker said, “Why are you gunnin’ up?”

  “Sickos,” he replied as he tried to hand Riker one of the toy guns.

  Shaking his head, Riker lifted his shirt and showed Steve-O the Sig in the paddle holster. “I’m good,” he said. Dropping the shirt over the semiauto pistol, he leaned over and scooped three of the gas cans off the ground. “Grab one, Steve-O. I prepaid Shorty for twenty gallons.”

  Wearing a skeptical look, Tara said, “I don’t want to know how much Shorty charges per gallon, do I?”

  That’s not the half of it, thought Riker. Looking to Tara, he said, “Ignorance is bliss, little Sis. Ignorance. Is. Bliss.”

  Chapter 34

  Steve-O stood between the pumps, Nerf carbine held at a low-ready, and guarded Riker while he worked the key Shorty had given him into the padlock on the pump handle.

  “How much did he charge you, Lee?”

  “Considering the circumstances,” Riker admitted, “not nearly as much as he could have.”

  By the time Riker had filled all four cans and lugged them, two to a hand, back to the Shelby, he heard the first distant engine sounds signaling Miss Abigail’s imminent return.

  A couple of minutes passed before the empty ferry materialized from the dark, nosed into the boat ramp, and Shorty shut down her dual outboards.

  In no time, the next two vehicles in line were loaded and Shorty was backing her away from the ramp.