The Plan

by Shawn Chesser

  “Trade you for your iPhone.”

  Nodding, she handed over the smartphone and earbuds for it.

  ***

  In a little less than two hours, Riker had driven the Shelby forward five times.

  Over the course of those two hours, the trio had learned nothing new from the radio and eaten all of the junk food Tara had picked up at the Gas Fast.

  “I’m hungry for real food,” declared Steve-O.

  “So am I,” Riker said.

  “I have to pee again,” added Steve-O.

  Grimacing, Riker said, “Me too.”

  “I can wait to eat and I can wait to pee,” announced Tara. “So clamp it off, guys. I don’t care how you do it. Just make it happen.” As she spoke, she had been facing her window. And though it was just south of seventy degrees outside the truck, and pushing eighty inside, her window remained up and her door locked.

  Sounding rather sure of himself, Riker said, “They’re not going to escape, Sis.”

  Without taking her eyes from what she knew to be another zombie-choked enclosure—the third one set up beside the road in less than a mile—Tara said, “So tell me, then, exactly why do you have that pistol of yours in your other hand.”

  Riker said nothing.

  She said, “That’s what I thought.”

  “At least it keeps the smell out,” noted Steve-O.

  “Keeps the smell in, too,” Tara replied as she handed the mint tin to her brother.

  ***

  Now and again while they waited in line, Riker had employed the Steiners to watch the K-9 handlers as they made continuous laps around the front third of the line. Now, from the cab of the Shelby, parked three vehicles back from what he guessed was the demarking line of the front third of the queue, he spotted a squat, muscular soldier coming straight for him from across the grassy median.

  On the end of a short lead was a similarly proportioned dog. It looked to be either a Bulldog or Pitbull terrier.

  Letting the dog choose the route, the soldier stepped between a pair of barriers next to the Shelby and issued a command to the dog.

  At once, the dog sat on its haunches. As the handler waited for backup, the dark brindle pooch’s purposeful gaze never strayed from the Shelby.

  The entire time Riker had been on the outside looking in, the handlers hadn’t removed anything from any of the vehicles they had inspected. Not weapons. Not parcels. Nothing. They were only interested in removing people. And there seemed to be no rhyme or reason to it until Riker saw a man who had been pulled from a minivan turn and lunge for a handler.

  The consequences had occurred instantaneously and without warning.

  Somewhere to their left an unseen long rifle roared and the man went down. Just crashed vertically to the road and lay there still as a cadaver.

  The handler had barely flinched. This was obviously not the first time the sniper overwatch had been forced to intervene on his behalf.

  As the echo from the single gunshot toured the woods around the roadblock, the pink mist that had haloed the man’s head drifted slowly to the road, landing away from the handler and his disinterested four-legged partner.

  In the backseat of the Shelby, plugged into the iPhone and singing along softly to what sounded like a Keith Urban ditty, Steve-O had remained head down and oblivious to the entire event.

  Hearing the shot as it happened, Tara had dropped the atlas to her lap, clasped her hands atop her head, and uttered a prayer for the fallen man.

  Now, ten minutes removed from that event, Riker was being stared down by the same handler. Attached with Velcro to the handler’s MultiCam fatigues were a number of patches. The stacked chevrons told Riker the soldier was a Staff Sergeant. The name tape on his blouse read Hawkins. The white band encircling one arm bore the letters MP. And unlike the Johnnys and contractors Riker had crossed paths with over the course of a week, this soldier’s uniform featured both the American Flag and a unit patch. On the unit patch was a golden gauntlet clutching what looked to be a man. Rendered with all the detail of a stick figure, the man was being held upside down above the ground. Stitched in black on a scroll at the bottom of the patch were the words ORDERLY REGULATION.

  Turning to Tara, Riker shielded his mouth and whispered, “This is probably the precursor to Martial Law, Sis. The Sergeant here is Army from some MP unit likely operating out of Fort Hood.” Shaking his head, he said solemnly, “The Big Green Machine has entered the ball game. Stuff’s about to hit the fan.”

  When Riker turned back, Sergeant Hawkins was standing just outside his window and motioning for him to open the door.

  A blast of wind carrying the stench of spoiled flesh infiltrated the truck’s cab as Riker complied.

  “What can I do for you, Sergeant?”

  Speaking with a heavy Boston accent, the sergeant said, “I need to have you open all your doors and remain seated.”

  Chapter 51

  While Sergeant Hawkins was issuing his orders, Tara had been leaning across the center console.

  Fixing the sergeant with her best perturbed look—a half-squint with one brow cocked— she asked, icily, “What’s going on here?”

  “Just open your door,” Riker growled. “The sergeant has a job to do.”

  Once all four doors were hanging open, Hawkins released the dog to do its thing.

  The dog’s thing was to jump into the backseat with Steve-O and nose around, stepping all over the man as if he wasn’t even there. Finished, the dog leaped down to the road on Tara’s side, stood in front of her door on its hind legs and, its wide head bobbing and lolling about, gave her and everything around her a thorough sniffing.

  Riker was last. For some reason the dog keyed in on his bionic.

  Noticing the titanium-and-carbon-fiber prosthetic, the sergeant asked Riker where he’d lost his leg.

  Hoping to pull the former-Army card and probe Sergeant Hawkins for information, Riker told him about the day the IED planted on Route Irish sent him home from the war early.

  Seeing vehicles down the line receiving the same K-9 treatment, Riker said, “Can you share any intel?”

  “Just that you’re in the last group we’re allowing into the Green Zone.”

  Green Zone. That’s original.

  From the backseat, Steve-O asked, “What’s his name?”

  Hawkins seemed to soften. He said, “Her name is Ruby.”

  “Can I pet her?”

  Shaking his head, Hawkins said, “No. Sorry. She’s a working dog.”

  “What’s her job?”

  “She sniffs out dead bodies.”

  “A cadaver dog,” Riker said. “All of our dead bodies are in the load bed.”

  Posture firming up, Hawkins said, “Is the tonneau cover locked?”

  Wishing he hadn’t uttered the smart-ass remark in the first place, Riker nodded. “Want me to unlock it?”

  Glancing at the exposed prosthesis, Hawkins shook his head. “Give me the key. I’ll lock it once Ruby’s done her thing.”

  “I know you’re just crossing Ts and all that,” Riker said, “but I figure you ought to know that I’m transporting a few rifles and pistols back there. They’re unloaded and secured in a Pelican case.” Hooking a thumb at Steve-O, he added, “We’re careful to keep them out of my brother’s reach.”

  Hawkins didn’t seem at all interested.

  Riker handed over the keys. As he did so, out of the corner of one eye he spotted a female soldier standing on the road two vehicles ahead of the Elantra. Strangely, the soldier wasn’t wearing an MP band. On her shoulder was a different patch, one that Riker had never seen before.

  The female soldier wore a pistol on one hip and carried in her dominant hand what looked to be a TASER.

  As Hawkins looped around back of the Shelby, with Ruby stretching out her lead, Riker nudged Tara and pointed at the female soldier.

  Together they watched as the soldier leaned into the vehicle and walked the device over the driver’s face and
neck. Saw her hold a brief conversation, then move on.

  After witnessing the female soldier employ the device on a trio of people crammed into the cab of a small pickup, it was clear the item was intended for something other than incapacitating a person. In fact, it didn’t seem to be doing anything at all to them.

  When Hawkins returned with the keys, declaring the Shelby’s bed “cadaver free,” Riker nodded toward the female soldier approaching the Elantra.

  Beating Riker to the punch, Hawkins said, “When Captain Long gets to you, she’s going to read everyone’s temperature with a no-touch body scanner.” Regarding Steve-O, he added, “Don’t worry … no one is going to get poked or prodded. We just need to be certain the infection does not cross over into Texas. If the captain’s device says you’re all below 100.4, you are good to go when the block opens up.”

  Since the sergeant had broached the subject, Riker said, “Romeo Victor was mil-speak for Romero Virus, not the name of the op, am I right? And I’m guessing branding that unnamed op as just a training event was cover for the initial thrust at containment. Am I still hitting the nail on the head?”

  Sergeant Hawkins said nothing. He just stood there watching Captain Long wave her device over the Elantra driver’s face.

  As it turned out, Captain Long’s work would entail more than just checking the Elantra driver’s temperature. Finished with the business at hand, she stepped back and ordered the man from the car.

  When the middle-aged man stepped from the car, he jammed a misshapen Panama hat atop a shock of unruly black hair and unloaded with a barrage of verbal insults.

  Standing her ground, the captain pocketed the thermal scanner and, in an authoritarian voice full of Southern twang, ordered him to his knees.

  Instantly Riker noted that the man was way too big for the Elantra. Dressed like he’d just boarded a cruise ship—floral-print shirt, khaki walking shorts, and white boat shoes—the man looked wildly out of place standing on the road beside the beat-up compact car. And though the interaction was taking place a handful of yards away, Riker noticed that the man’s boat shoes were stippled with what looked to be blood.

  Captain Long repeated her order.

  The man balked. Just stood there looking down on her. And though the man had a good half a head on the captain, she showed no signs she was intimidated by him.

  When the man didn’t immediately comply, Hawkins called out, “Captain Long?”

  Long answered Hawkins with an open hand.

  The Elantra driver followed the captain’s empty hand with his eyes.

  Bad move.

  Like a magician’s sleight-of-hand trick, with the other hand the captain slipped a slim black device from a case on her belt, brought it around in a slow left to right arc toward the driver’s exposed neck, and thumbed it on.

  By the time the driver realized what was happening, blue/white bolts of electricity had bridged the short distance from device to skin and he was dropping to the road as if the rug had been pulled out from under him.

  The captain left the incapacitated man to twitch on the road as she pulled a pair of zip cuffs from her pants pocket. She bound the man’s wrists and ankles together with the thick nylon ties, then rolled him over and quickly inspected his neck and extremities.

  Looking in Hawkins’ direction, she said, “He’s got a fresh bite wound … upper thigh. Temp’s spiking pretty big.”

  Sergeant Hawkins craned and spoke into a radio handset riding atop his left shoulder.

  A beat later two soldiers showed up and whisked the driver away.

  “What not to say to a lady with juice,” Tara declared ahead of a soft chuckle.

  As the captain approached the Shelby, another soldier who had shown up with the security detail hopped in the Elantra and drove it to the breakdown lane.

  Pissed he didn’t think to start the Shelby and run its air conditioning prior to what appeared to be a test that held the metaphorical key to them getting across the border and away from the noose rapidly tightening around them, Riker resorted to urging Tara and Steve-O to imagine they were enjoying a cold glass of sweet tea … in Antarctica.

  Tara said, “Have you gone crazy, Lee?”

  Riker adjusted his Texans cap. Then, wearing a sheepish look, he said, “Best I could come up with. If any of us are running a temperature, we’ll be separated. Probably for good.”

  Steve-O said, “It’ll be OK, Lee Riker. I’m sure of it.”

  The captain was at Riker’s door and staring in at him. Riker whispered, “Obviously, Steve-O, your glass of sweet tea is half-full,” then turned toward the captain, wearing a fake smile and thinking of all things cold.

  Chapter 52

  Riker, Tara, and Steve-O sat there, through the last of the afternoon sun, while Captain Long did her thing.

  She started with Riker. Made him remove his hat and ran the thermal scanner over his forehead. Remaining tight-lipped, she glanced at a screen on the instrument. Clearly not satisfied, she repeated the procedure.

  Tara called out, “Better go easy on my brother. I can assure you he is not infected.”

  The captain paused for a tick and fixed Tara with a glare that could only be interpreted as a silent order for her to stand down.

  Hoping to head off any response from Tara, Riker asked, “How far north does the Green Zone stretch?”

  The captain paused, shot him an I’ll pretend I didn’t hear that look, then moved on to Steve-O, who preempted her test by saying, “Mom always told me I run hot. Just thought you should know.”

  “Hat,” said the captain, all business.

  Steve-O removed his Stetson, then remained still as he was subjected to the same test as Riker.

  For Steve-O, there was no second pass with the medical instrument.

  Coming up to Tara’s side, Captain Long said, “I like your spunk.”

  Glare softening, Tara said, “I’m sorry for being such a bitch.”

  Running the scanner over Tara’s face, the captain said, “If I were in your shoes, I would have likely pulled that Glock you have trapped underneath your left thigh and shot my way out of here.”

  Brows dropping half an inch, Tara said, “Really?”

  “No,” replied Long. “That would have been a suicide mission. However, know that you three are the luckiest folks in Louisiana today. Best advice I can give is you should scoot across Texas as fast as you can. Go somewhere remote and—”

  The rumble of an eastbound military convoy drowned out the captain’s words as she turned and motioned to Hawkins.

  Tara asked the captain if she’d passed the test. Getting no response, she looked askance at her brother.

  Riker leaned in and said, “No doubt you did. That gesture Long just gave Hawkins. Spinning her finger in the air. It means get the show on the road … sort of. Or, in mil-speak, we’re going to be Oscar Mike any minute now.”

  As if confirming Riker’s hypothesis, the lights atop the portable standards began to flicker on.

  Seconds later, the pickup beyond the patch of road vacated by the Elantra fired its engine. Then, like a thing alive, the entire line of vehicles stretching west toward the setting sun began to inch forward.

  They were Oscar Mike, indeed.

  The forward surge was slow at first, then picked up, the lead vehicles shooting through the chain-link tunnel like water penetrating a fissure in a dam.

  When the lane opened up from one to two, the drivers out front accelerated. Not to be outdone, several vehicles in the middle of the queue made their move, sprinting to get to the front of the pack.

  When the Shelby exited the chute, Riker couldn’t help but think of the one start to an Indianapolis 500 he had ever watched. Not wanting to get caught up in anything resembling the pileup he had witnessed that day at the races with his dad, he eased off the pedal and stayed in the right lane.

  In the backseat, Steve-O launched into a pretty damn good rendition of Willie’s On The Road Again. Riker was still blo
wn away at how good the man was at mimicking country crooners—especially Willie Nelson.

  This got him to thinking about where the old guy was holed up. Probably in a compound somewhere in Texas, strumming a guitar and surrounded by a nice supply of medicinal marijuana.

  Tara pointed off to the left.

  Across the median, Riker picked up the large convoy of tan military vehicles coming at them from the west. Headlights ablaze, they were moving slowly, two abreast, and maybe twenty deep. Save for an M1 Abrams main battle tank, seemingly every piece of armor in the United States’ inventory was represented. And like the earlier convoy, the red and yellow flags of the 1st Calvary Division flew from some of the vehicles’ antenna.

  “That’s not a good sign,” Tara said.

  Failing to imagine the number of infected that would warrant the better part of a combined arms division to move into the Red Zone, Riker stated the obvious: “Then it’s a good thing we’re going in the opposite direction.”

  With the main body of the eighty or so vehicles released when the roadblock was opened up clipping along I-20 well above the posted seventy-five-mile-per-hour limit, Riker kicked his speed up to eighty. A beat later a sign emblazoned with the red, white, and blue state flag of Texas and the words Welcome To Texas flitted by. Strangely, considering the circumstances, it was the only indicator a border was being crossed. And it was also the only thing welcoming about a surrounding landscape quickly being swallowed up by a fast-moving shroud of darkness.

  Steve-O suddenly stopped singing. He said, “When night falls around here, it really falls.”

  Tara agreed. “With all the clouds and a waning moon, it’s going to be impenetrable before long.”

  Taking a cue from them both, Riker flicked on the Shelby’s headlights. For good measure, he also toggled on the bank of LED driving lights housed in the Shelby’s massive front bumper.

  The gray strip of two-lane being sucked under the fast-moving Shelby was instantly lit up like a perp under interrogation.