by Alex Gunwick
He found an old, faded green button-down and a matching cap in one of the boxes and put them on. He considered his hazy reflection in one of the blank monitors. He felt like a real military man, like his dad or Derek. The shirt was too big, but he liked it. He rolled the sleeves up like he’d seen his dad do when he was working in the yard. He pulled the hat low over his eyes and tested out a serious, intimidating expression. He looked pretty tough.
He wandered into the gym and picked up two big dumbbells. He watched himself in the mirror as he strained to lift the heavy weights. His arms shook with the effort, but he finally managed to raise the dumbbells all the way to his shoulders. When he let his hands fall back down to his sides, one of them clattered to the floor, missing his foot by a few inches. He decided that was enough of a workout and went to check out one of the main storage rooms.
The huge room was full of survival supplies. Boxes of bandages and disposable gloves, bottles of alcohol, and other antiseptics lined the shelves. There were several lockers full of handguns, rifles, and ammunition that he wanted to check out. But they were locked tight. Derek probably had the keys.
Kyle figured he could convince his dad to teach him how to use one of the gleaming black pistols. Then he could carry it in a holster on his thigh just like his dad and Derek did.
He scanned the shelves that held radios, batteries, and other miscellaneous supplies. He stopped when he came across a thin, black fabric case. He unzipped it and spread it open, revealing a dozen or so thin metal objects with strange curved and jagged tips. He held one up curiously, contemplating its purpose. Then he noticed a slim paper pamphlet that read “Guide to Lockpicking.”
“Cool.”
He leafed through the guide. It contained several diagrams depicting a variety of methods for opening locks. He considered using the set on one of the gun lockers but thought better of it. It would probably be more trouble than it was worth. If he asked nicely, his dad would be happy to show him how to use one of the pistols. But if his dad caught him messing around with one on his own, Kyle would never hear the end of it. His dad would probably take away his rifle as punishment. His parents didn’t mess around when it came to gun safety. He’d had to endure several very long speeches about it before they let him shoot his first target with his .22.
Kyle decided to try the suspicious, solitary door at the end of one of the hallways first, figuring something interesting must be behind it. He zipped up the lockpick set and pocketed the paper guide before heading back down the hall.
He made his way across the central room toward the hall. He caught his mom’s voice echoing from the food storage room where she and the others were taking stock of their supplies. He stopped and frowned.
“Yeah, great,” he grumbled to himself. “Go on counting cans of beans while those bastards are still out there.”
He shook his head as he walked down the hall leading to the locked door.
When he reached the large, metal door, he spread the case open on the floor. He examined the locks on the door. There were two, one on the knob and one deadbolt above it. He flipped the guide to the section on deadbolts and spread it out on the floor next to his set.
He inserted the tension wrench into the bottom of the lock, twisting it counterclockwise as the pamphlet instructed. He looked down at the instructions, then inserted the pick into the top of the lock, feeling for the pins that he was supposed to push up and out of the barrel.
As his pick touched the first pin, he heard a click. Excitement rushed through him as he jimmied the pick around inside the lock. The pin moved in response. He managed to work the pin up, and his heart leaped as it gave way. But in his eagerness, he forgot to maintain tension on his wrench. The first pin slipped back down as he nudged the pick deeper into the lock.
“Shoot.” He blew out a long breath while shaking out his hands. He cracked his knuckles before slipping the tension wrench and the pick back into the lock.
He worked the first pin up again, this time keeping the tension on the wrench and holding it in place as he moved on to the next pin. He levered the next pin up with his pick, again keeping it in place by maintaining tension on the wrench with his left hand as he slid the pick farther into the lock to work on the next pin. He worked the third pin with his pick, but this one provided significantly more resistance than the first two. His tongue worked against his lips as he concentrated intensely on wiggling the pin into position. It started to give way, sliding up and out of the barrel, just as a voice sounded from behind him.
“What are you doing?” His mother’s voice surprised him.
He flinched and lost the tension on the wrench, allowing all of the pins to fall back into place.
“Ah, dang it, Mom. I was picking this lock. I almost had it.” He threw his head back in frustration, growling at the ceiling.
“Picking locks? You’re not considering a life of crime, are you, honey?” His mom frowned.
“No. I just thought I’d try to see if I could open one of these locked doors since apparently I’m not allowed to do anything useful,” Kyle said.
“What do you mean? If you want to help us inventory the food supplies, then we’d be happy to have you with us. I thought it would be too boring for you.” She gave him a perplexed look.
“No, I don’t want to inventory the stupid food, Mom. I mean, like taking out the cult members. Why are we in here while they’re still out there? They need to pay for what they did to Sierra.” He looked away, scowling, not wanting her to see the grief in his eyes.
“Oh, baby.”
“I’m not a baby. I can handle myself.” He glared at her with narrowed eyes.
“I know, honey. I know. That’s what I came to talk to you about. Are you doing okay? I know it’s hard, losing Sierra. It’s hard for me, too.”
“I’m fine, Mom.”
“Are you, though? You killed a man. You may not realize it yet, but that kind of thing takes a toll on you. Just ask your father. You don’t know how many times we’ve stayed up late talking about the things he did while on duty. Your dad and I wanted to protect you from that kind of stuff. But now, it doesn’t seem like we have a choice. Violence is the way of the world now. It’s a damn shame.” She shook her head.
“It’s not a big deal. I’m fine. They’re bad guys. They’ve done bad stuff, and they have to be stopped. Seems simple enough to me.”
“Killing someone is a big deal. I don’t think you understand what it can do to you yet. The guilt it can bring.” She looked at him sadly. She reached out to put a hand on his shoulder, but he shrugged it off.
“I do understand, Mom. What I don’t understand is why I’m the only one who isn’t afraid to do something about it.” His voice grew louder until he was shouting. “Everyone else is worried about supplies while the people who killed Sierra are still out there.”
“I know you want revenge, but we need to talk about this.”
“No. Enough talking. I’m tired of talking. Just leave me alone.”
He scowled and grabbed his lock-picking kit. As he brushed past his mom, she sighed. He didn’t stop walking. If he stayed, he’d say something he’d regret. He had absolutely no doubt about that.
After dropping the Wrights off at the bunker, Luke decided to take a quick trip back to his cabin. He’d left Derek with the Wrights so he could give them the grand tour of their new home. In the meantime, Luke picked a trail through the woods. He stayed alert for any unexpected sounds.
Coming out under cover of darkness would work to his advantage because it would make it harder for the enemy to see him. But it also worked against him because he wouldn’t see them until it was too late. He hoped he’d be able to hear them before they heard him.
When he reached the edge of the woods, he studied the cabin. It was dark. No lights shined from inside. Nothing moved. He gripped his rifle with both hands. His right forefinger rested across the trigger guard, ready for the first sign of a threat.
He needed to
grab some things from the shed, items he couldn’t afford to leave unattended. He didn’t want the cult members to find anything useful, especially not his other guns.
As far as he could tell, he was alone. He crept out of the trees, moving quickly but quietly toward the shed behind the cabin. He unlocked it and slipped inside, latching the door behind him. He glanced out the small, dirty window, but the night remained still.
He pried up a loose floorboard near the back of the shed and tossed it aside. He pulled out a large, black duffel bag and unzipped it to check the contents. Inside were four AR-15’s, four Kevlar vests, boxes of ammunition, and a case that housed four not-quite-legal frag grenades.
He closed the bag and set it aside before pulling a long, flat case from under the floor. He unclasped the latches and flipped it open, revealing his disassembled, camouflaged .300 Winchester Magnum rifle with suppressor, folding stock, and high-powered Nightforce scope. It was a gun he’d used during a few of his tours, and it had saved his ass more than once. Seeing it brought on a strange mix of nostalgia and regret, but he managed to shut out the emotions and remain focused on his task.
He re-latched the case and set it on the floor.
After replacing the floorboard, he grabbed the duffle bag and gun case and headed toward the cabin. Once inside, he placed his bags near the front door. He locked it before hurrying over to the couch in the den. He ripped off the cushions and lifted the false bottom. Four large, sheathed knives and a crossbow were stored in the hiding place, along with a few dozen arrows.
He strapped two of the knives to his utility belt and was carrying the other two over to the bags by the door when a flash of light outside caught his eye. The hair on the back of his neck stood on end, but he forced himself to walk toward the bags as if he hadn’t seen anything. If anyone were out there in the woods, he didn’t want them to know he’d seen them. If they’d wanted to kill him, they would have shot him already. Or maybe he’d just imagined the quick flash of light.
He moved out of view and dropped to the floor. He crawled toward his gun case. After flipping it open, he grabbed the rifle and attached the scope. He stood and placed his back to the wall. He slid along it toward the small window next to the door.
He quickly glanced out the window. He spotted two hostiles in the tree line. Another one moved along the south side of the cabin. There were at least three, maybe more. They were probably armed if they were bold enough to come this close.
He adjusted his scope and positioned his rifle toward the man to the south. He’d be easier to pick off first, and with him gone, Luke could focus his attention on the other two men.
Luke took a few slow breaths to steady himself. He braced the stock against his shoulder and squinting through the scope. Adjusting his position until the man was centered in the crosshairs, he blew out a breath and squeezed the trigger.
The shot shattered the window. Luke watched through the scope as the man fell forward, faceplanting in the snow. One down, two to go.
He swung the scope back toward the other men.
Glass shattered.
The second he realized the sound came from behind him, he spun toward the rear windows. Two men busted through the broken glass.
16
A naked, clear glass bulb buzzed over Liz’s head as she stood in one of the shelter’s storage rooms. Among the various Cold War relics, they discovered clerical and office supplies, including the clipboard and pen she held.
She counted the water barrels stacked on top of each other at the back of the concrete chamber. Each barrel held fifty gallons, which seemed like a lot.
But then she crunched the numbers. She knew from her days as a fitness buff that the average human needed at least a half-gallon of water each day to remain healthy. If she divided the amount by seven—counting her family, as well as the Wrights and Derek—it came out to roughly two weeks per barrel.
She clucked her tongue as she examined the water supply. With four barrels, they could last for two months, a pitifully short time. And that didn’t include bathing or cleaning their clothes.
“Think, Liz, think,” she muttered.
There had to be a solution. On the mountain, there were various sources of fresh water, including a large lake. There was also a purification system which, while currently nonfunctional, could probably be repaired.
Still, providing enough food and fresh water for seven people had proven to be a tough prospect. Mentally, she ran through the group.
Kyle was young but ate almost as much as his father, so he should be counted as an adult. Sandy wasn’t a big eater, but her husband Edwin was, so any potential surplus would be accounted for anyway.
Derek ate like a goddamn horse, which was to be expected given his age, size, and activity level. For herself, rationing food wouldn’t hurt, but the thought of listening to Sierra complain made her—
Sierra.
The memory of her daughter’s death crushed Liz’s spirit. She’d been planning for seven mouths to feed, but now there was one less. Sierra’s death meant the supplies would last that much longer. She felt guilty for even thinking it, but it was the truth.
Liz’s vision grew blurry with tears. She shoved a hand against a barrel to hold herself up as sobs wracked her thin frame. Liz had strained to keep her family safe through all the terror of the bomb and the rampant lawlessness that followed. That was why she’d gone up against the Children of the Bomb in the first place, to protect her family. Not out of some gung-ho sense of militarism or revenge like Derek and Luke. But that was then and this was now. She’d failed to neutralize the threat against her family. Now Sierra laid in the cold, hard ground, totally alone.
How in the world was she supposed to carry on? Her heart was broken. If it weren’t for Kyle, she would have given up already, but she had to stay strong for him.
She sank to her knees and thumped her hand against the barrels, sobbing uncontrollably. In her mind, Sierra’s body kept being lowered into the ground, then covered with dirt. Over and over, she replayed the scene, unable to stop the cycle of guilt, misery, and loneliness.
After a time, she cried herself out. She rocked back and forth while hugging her knees. Her nose had clogged up completely. She could only imagine how terrible she looked with a red, swollen face. Struggling to keep it together, she wiped her face with the clean handkerchief she kept in her back pocket. She took several deep breaths until she felt like she was in control again. Almost.
The grief kept hitting her like ocean waves. For a while, she’d be functional. Not happy, not over her pain, but functional. Then another wave of sorrow would hit, inundating her and dragging her under. In those moments, she knew what Hell must be like. Hell was losing your child despite your best efforts to save them. Hell was trying to make your way in this nightmarish world, knowing that you will never hear your daughter’s laugh or see her smile again.
Liz broke down again, muffling her cries with the handkerchief so no one would hear her. The last thing she wanted to deal with was Luke or someone else trying to console her. Sometimes, you just had to be alone with your grief.
Once she’d composed herself again, she heaved a heavy sigh. She wiped her face clean and rose to her feet. She finished her inventory and tucked the clipboard under her arm. Being overwhelmed by grief was a luxury she no longer had. Work had to be done every day to ensure their survival, and she needed to do her part.
Life goes on, she thought bitterly, for everyone but Sierra.
Derek rammed his shoulder into the shelter door again. It still refused to budge. Cursing under his breath, he examined the hinges for rust or signs of breakage but found none. Behind him, Sandy shifted her weight from foot to foot while trying to be patient.
“Do you want me to find Edwin to help you?” she asked.
“No.” Derek shook his head, annoyed that he couldn’t open the door by himself. “I think it’s starting to give way. I’ll break it open in a bit.”
“Or you’
ll break your arm trying.” Derek shot her a glance, and Sandy chuckled. “I’m just saying. There’s nothing wrong with asking for help now and then.”
“Of course not. Ugh!” Derek slammed himself into the door again. This time he did feel it budge a half an inch. “But I don’t—ugh—happen to—ugh—need any help.”
Derek rammed the door until it flew open. He stumbled in a few feet and nearly fell, catching himself on a large console of plain gray metal. Sandy came in behind him with her flashlight in tow.
“Wow.” She swung the yellow beam about the room, slicing out cone-shaped wedges of light. Large consoles as tall as Derek and covered in unmarked buttons lined the walls. Spools of magnetic tape were visible through clear glass near the top of several machines. “I haven’t seen computers like this since I was a little girl.”
Derek flicked on the light switch. The bulbs overhead buzzed and flickered for a moment before putting out a steady stream of light.
“Thank God the power’s still working in here.” Sandy turned off her flashlight.
“Can you figure out how it works? If not, maybe Edwin could take a look. He knows radios.”
“Maybe.” Derek rubbed his stubbled chin before pressing a few buttons. “Bingo!”
One of the consoles beeped several times, and its magnetic tapes whirred. The sound of a printer caught their attention.
After searching for a moment, Sandy located the printer. She carefully tore off a thin sheet of paper and read the faded message.
“Naval blockade to continue until further notice. DEFCON 3.” She looked up at Derek and grinned. “It’s dated October 24, 1962. Do you know what that means?”
Derek arched an eyebrow and scratched the back of his head. “No, I’m afraid I don’t.”
“I forget you’re too young to have lived through the Cuban Missile Crisis. I guess that’s the last time this facility was used,” she said.
