Bunker (A Post-Apocalyptic Techno Thriller Book 2)

by Jay J. Falconer

  When Albert finished, he carried the box through the door and stood near the burning flame with pinched eyebrows. “You coming, or what?”

  Dustin wrapped his hands around the bottom of his box and picked it up, finding it heavier than expected. The abundance of heavy duty glassware clanked together as he moved.

  Albert began his walk to the classroom door. Dustin followed, letting the storage room door close on its own behind him. He heard the heavy click of the self-locking mechanism when it engaged.

  He was halfway through the classroom when a horizontal light appeared outside. It cut through the moonlit shadows like a knife through butter, its powerful beam dancing around in a familiar up and down pattern. A flashlight—getting closer.

  Albert whirled around and whispered sharply, “Get down!”

  Dustin followed Albert’s lead, dropping to his knees behind the closest lab station. He put the box down and leaned up to take a peek over the counter.

  The ceiling lit up as the flashlight went into search mode. Whoever had been outside was now inside and checking out the lab.

  Albert turned and spoke in an even softer whisper than before. “We stand up on three. Let me do all the talking. Okay?”

  Dustin hesitated, letting the words sink in. They were busted. No doubt about it. He hated the idea of his permanent record being marred with a conviction for breaking and entering. And theft. A stab of pain slammed into his chest when he considered his future—a life behind bars.

  Albert tugged on Dustin’s arm, snapping him out of his guilt-ridden trance. Dustin locked eyes with his fellow thief, bringing his attention to bear.

  “Trust me,” Albert whispered. “Just follow my lead. Can you do that? Otherwise, we’re both gonna get jacked.”

  Dustin gulped down a fleshy bulge of mucus, then nodded.

  Albert stood up and so did Dustin, though his skinny legs wanted to make a run for it. The door wasn’t far away. Albert’s abundant size meant Dustin would easily get to the door first—a huge advantage if the flashlight wielder decided to give chase.

  Dustin waited for his feet to begin their sprint, but they never moved. A second later, the flashlight beam hit him in the face from somewhere near the entrance door, blinding him.

  “Identify yourself!” a male voice called out from behind the light.

  “Deputy Sheriff Mortenson,” Albert said, his voice terse and to the point. He pointed a finger at Dustin. “And this is Deputy Brown.”

  “What are you doing in here?”

  Albert’s voice slowed and turned deeper. “My partner and I were on patrol when we noticed the door to the lab was open. We came inside to investigate.”

  “Who was in here?” the man asked, his tone gruff. Possibly the night security guard.

  “A couple of teenagers. But they took off as soon as we showed up.”

  “You just let them go?”

  “Look at me,” Albert said, rubbing his massive belly. He tilted his head as a grin took over. “Do I look like the kind of man who runs?”

  “No. I suppose not. What about your partner? He looks capable.”

  “He’s new on the job. I didn’t want him chasing the perps down on his own. Besides, they dropped the boxes before they split, so nothing was actually taken. They’re right here, behind the tables. I can show you, if you like.”

  “Okay, but no sudden moves.”

  Albert picked up his box and put it on the table. “There’s another container here, if you’d like to see it.”

  The man lowered the flashlight, then swung it to Dustin’s right, landing it on the active Bunsen burner.

  Albert continued the ruse. “We figure the kids lit the gas so they could see what they were doing. Looks like they were here for supplies. My guess is they’re planning to cook some drugs.”

  “Again?” the flashlight man asked.

  “This has happened before?”

  “Yeah, last summer. Never caught the kids who did it, either.”

  “Then it must be the same group. With the power out and everyone scrambling, they must’ve assumed this was the perfect time to come back for more.”

  “Damn it. I told the Principal we needed to put cameras in the storeroom. But nobody ever listens to me,” the man said, moving forward as he brought the light back to Albert. Only this time, the light wasn’t aimed at the fat man’s face. It was angled to the left and down.

  The beam must have been reflecting off something because it was now showering the man’s face with light.

  He was older, in his fifties or sixties, and Caucasian. Pale white, to be exact. Like he hadn’t seen the sun for years. Other than his thin gray hair and handlebar mustache, he looked mostly normal, Dustin decided. No real distinctive traits either, except his albino skin and his gray, weary eyes. They looked pushed too close together, like someone had used a vise on his head.

  At least the man wasn’t wearing a security guard’s uniform. Nor did it appear he was armed. The nametag stenciled on his work shirt said Wade.

  “I know I’m just the night janitor, but I swear, it’s like I’m invisible around here. It gets old. Fast. Just once, I’d like the Principal to listen to me.”

  “Well, the Sheriff’s Department thanks you for your diligence. We can’t be everywhere all the time, so it’s important for citizens to stay alert and report anything they see. Especially now, when we’re in the middle of a crisis. Well done, sir.”

  Wade smiled, looking relieved. “Thank you. Just trying to make a difference. Though after forty-two years, I still get no respect.”

  “Forty-two years? On the night shift?” Dustin asked.

  “Yeah. I prefer the quiet. Not a big fan of people in general. Or the whiny teenagers and their disrespectful ways. I don’t know about you, but I don’t think kids should be calling me Dennis. It’s Mr. Wade to them.”

  Dustin had his answer. The pale skin was from decades of working the nightshift.

  “Well, Mr. Wade, your dedication to this school is commendable,” Albert said, picking up the box from the counter.

  “I think that should remain here. That’s school property,” Wade said. “I don’t want to get blamed for it going missing.”

  “You won’t. I’ll make sure the Principal knows we have it and how helpful you were tonight. We’ll return it as soon as we have the glassware analyzed for fingerprints. These kids might be in the system.”

  “Oh yeah. Right. Do you guys need any help? With the power out, I’m not going to get my weekly cleaning done tonight.”

  Albert shook his head. “Nah, we got it. But thanks. If you could light the way, we’ll follow you out.”

  “Don’t you fellas have flashlights? They’re standard issue, right?”

  Albert answered without missing a beat. “You’d think so, but with the budget cuts and all, gear and batteries are kinda scarce. That’s why we’re usually assigned to the day shift.”

  “But with the power out—” Wade started to say.

  Albert finished his sentence, “—they called everyone in. It’s all hands on deck until this crisis is over.”

  Wade took a few seconds, his eyes darting back and forth. Then he looked up and nodded. “I’ll lead you out.”

  CHAPTER TWELVE

  Franklin Atwater ran through the front door of his equestrian store and grabbed a flashlight from inside the solid metal cabinet on the left. He turned the beam on, using it to illuminate the rows between shelving units as he searched for the intruder. He came up empty in all seven aisles, then checked behind the lengthy checkout counter. No sign of anyone.

  He didn’t understand it. The door was open but nothing had been disturbed. In fact, everything was exactly how he’d left it, both behind the counter and on the shopping floor. All of his inventory was still neatly organized and pulled forward to the front edge of each shelf, making them look full even though they weren’t.

  It was time to check the office in the back. When he arrived, he found the door ope
n. A knot formed in his gut, thinking about his sales receipts. He’d left them in the safe. A week’s worth.

  He went inside and was met with a frightening scene. It looked like a tornado had rolled through. Paper was everywhere, covering his desk and the floor in a blanket of indiscriminate white.

  Franklin pushed his boots through the layers of agonizing mess, then sat in the roller chair behind his six-foot oak desk. He exhaled, then spun around and removed a strategically placed montage of equestrian photos on the credenza to reveal a hidden wall safe.

  The safe’s door was still locked, even though the rest of his workspace looked like someone had invited a herd of angry buffalo inside.

  He spun the dial to enter the left-right-left combination before turning the handle. The door opened on the first try, revealing stacks of cash inside. Each had been wrapped with a rubber band and a paper receipt showing the bundle amount in his own handwriting. He ran a quick count—seven stacks—all there.

  The drawers to his desk weren’t closed all the way, and neither were those of the mini-filing cabinet standing nearby. He checked the contents of both—someone had rifled through them, but he didn’t think anything was missing. However, he couldn’t be sure unless he spent hours putting everything back where it belonged.

  Every item in his office had a specific spot assigned to it, something his daughter often complained about after Franklin scolded her about misplacing items. He always felt terrible about the reprimands but couldn’t control his unwavering desire for tidiness. It was who and what he was, courtesy of his years spent in the US Army.

  If Franklin closed his eyes and slipped into his memories, he could still feel the raw power of his drill instructor’s baritone voice vibrating the layers of his skin. The man’s daily regimen of preachings had become etched in his soul, none of them more important than maintain order and discipline at all times.

  Organization was his stress reliever. It wasn’t easy keeping a horse business turning a profit, all while raising a young girl as a widower.

  When he first purchased the operation from an old-timer who wanted to retire, he had no idea what he’d gotten himself into. At first, the clientele seemed taken aback when an outsider took over. But not just any outsider—a black man from the East Coast with no equestrian experience. It took a solid year of second-guessing and endless mistakes, but eventually he made it work. All was running smoothly. At least until now.

  If the intruder was after something specific, he didn’t think it was cash or supplies. The safe wasn’t touched and the store hadn’t been looted. In fact, the inventory on hand appeared to have been completely ignored, indicating the burglar went straight to his office after breaching the entrance.

  Since none of the walls were spray-painted and nothing appeared to be maliciously damaged, he was certain this wasn’t the work of tweakers looking for something they could pawn. Nor was it bored teenagers, out for a late-night thrill.

  Then he remembered it. His vintage 1911. The stunning stainless steel pistol his late wife, Michele, had bought for him as a gift on their tenth wedding anniversary. The same day she told him she was pregnant with their second child.

  The .45 caliber firearm was his most prized possession, not only because of its age and model, but because it was the only memento he still had of Michele after their pull-behind trailer caught fire and claimed her life, and the life of their unborn child.

  The fast-moving inferno consumed the camper in minutes, destroying everything they owned in the process. Well, almost everything. Everything except the clothes on his back and those Megan was wearing when they went out for a stroll while Michele stayed behind to take an overdue nap. If he hadn’t tucked the pistol inside the back of his waistband before their nature walk, it would’ve been consumed by the blaze as well.

  Whenever he thought about his love for her, the unmistakable scent of burnt metal and scorched flesh would invade his senses. The tragedy happened while they were traveling West, shortly after he retired from his stint as a master welder with the Army Corp of Engineers.

  Focus, Franklin, focus, he told himself, needing to get a grip on the moment. The painful memory cleared a few moments later, allowing him to focus on the present.

  He stood up and pushed the roller chair away. He dropped to his knees, then leaned under the right side of the desk, putting his hand under the oak surface. His fingers went for the Colt, but it wasn’t there. The Velcro strap was hanging open. He checked again, feeling around in desperation, but the holster was still empty. His heart sank.

  That’s what the thief was after—his prized handgun and last memento from the love of his life.

  Right then, a new idea came unbidden into his mind. He scrambled to his feet and ran out of his office, then took a sharp right and cruised along the back wall until he made it to the far end of the checkout counter.

  He flipped the barrier arm up and made a quick turn before scampering twenty more feet to the cash register. He put his hand under the counter and instantly found what he was looking for—the shotgun nestled in its spot.

  Franklin yanked it out, needing to feel the power of the double barrel 28-inch Benelli in his hands. He ran the tips of his fingers over the engraved nickel-plated receiver, its smoothness running from end to end.

  He cherished the scatter gun almost as much as his Colt .45, but for a completely different reason. While the Colt was an irreplaceable gift from Michele, the shotgun represented something more recent—the first month his newly-purchased business turned a profit.

  Megan helped him pick out the Benelli from the abundant inventory at the High Country Guns store in Denver. She thought it was the prettiest gun on the rack, so he went with her decision. Luckily, he’d brought enough cash along to cover the cost.

  He stared at the weapon and couldn’t believe it. The thief never bothered to check the most likely place for a shotgun—and a $2,700 monster at that.

  Its satin walnut stock was still in pristine condition, something a burglar would never pass up. At least not anyone who appreciated the fine craftsmanship that went into a firearm like this.

  His mind churned through the facts, leading him to only one conclusion: the bandit was only after his Colt 1911. Nobody left a killing machine like this behind. Nobody. Or the stacks of cash in the safe.

  But what about the store’s ammunition supply?

  Franklin whirled around and took out a key ring from his pocket. He found the one he needed in seconds, using it to unlock the storage cabinet’s sliding steel door.

  When he pulled the compartment open, his eyes found rows of ammo boxes on the shelves, all neatly arranged by caliber, from small to large.

  Handgun shells were assigned to the top shelf. Long gun rounds to the middle. Powder and reloading supplies were relegated to the third. Even his stockpile of the popular binary explosive, Tannerite, was still where he’d left it, on shelf number four—all seven hundred pounds of it.

  He grabbed two boxes of Hornady 12-gauge shells, opened them, and then stuffed the Critical Defense cartridges into his pockets. He knew the shotgun was already loaded with the same ammo, having cleaned and reloaded the beast only a few days before. He finished by taking primer fuse and several sticks of mining explosives, each filled with ammonium nitrate instead of dynamite.

  Franklin locked the cabinet and spun around with the shotgun in his hands. He held it up in front of his chest and pumped the weapon. The distinctive ratcheting sound brought a rush of blood into his system. The Benelli was now chambered and ready, and so was he, pushing his jaw out with teeth clenched. If the thief was still on his property, he was going to pay for what he’d done. “Nobody steals from me and gets away with it. Nobody.”

  He snatched the flashlight from the counter and quickly retraced his steps into the retail area, then broke into a sprint as he headed for the front door of the store.

  The heartbeat in his chest was at full tilt and so were his feet when they landed on the dirt path o
utside. He ran to the spot where he’d left Stephanie and the kids, but they weren’t there.

  “Stephanie?” he yelled, calling out into the lingering darkness. “Jeffrey? Megan? Where are you?”

  He waited, but a response never came. He called out again, but like before, heard only silence in reply.

  The hairs on the back of his neck began to tingle, tightening the knot in the pit of his stomach. He brought the flashlight down, focusing its beam on the dirt around him.

  Franklin took a few seconds to study a concentration of impressions about ten feet ahead. The tracks from his boots were easy to identify due to their size and distinctive shape, and so, too, were the tiny patterns from the kids’ sneakers. Stephanie’s tracks were thirty percent smaller than his and directly behind the children, just as he expected.

  However, there was another set of prints—larger than his, with a heavy tread. The size and shape of the waffle pattern told him who and what had made it—a man and his hunting boots.

  Franklin sold a similar boot in his store, though the tread pattern was more in the shape of parallel waves, rather than the intersecting waffle design he was looking at now. But the differing tread didn’t change what he knew to be true: someone had come up behind his daughter and friends. And now they were missing.

  The knot in his stomach doubled in size as a series of new thoughts boiled in his brain. He didn’t want to admit it, but he let someone take them, and it was probably the same person who stole his Colt .45. All of it occurring on his watch.

  He looked back at his store, realizing he needed to change his outfit. Something a little stealthier was needed. Something that would give him an advantage.

  CHAPTER THIRTEEN

  Jack Bunker followed on his horse as Deputy Clark rode her mount across the wooden slats of the bridge in the burgeoning hours of night. The misty glow of the moon was helping them see—barely—making him glad they’d snatched one of the working flashlights in town before they’d left. He kept the beam trained on Daisy’s horse, shining past the animal’s legs to light the road ahead.