When she finally finished her morning things and called Hershey to come to the truck so they could go to work, he was trembling. They barely drove out of Clare’s block of houses when she noticed the Badness. She parked the car and stared, dumbfounded, at the mailman Hershey liked to bark at. He lay face down on the sidewalk, and he was dead, his canvas bag and the white papers scattered next to him. Hershey knew he was dead before his human knew it, of course. She stopped the truck and jumped out, and Hershey heard her heart racing, and smelled the fear of adrenaline pouring from her. She went to the mailman and touched his neck. Hershey didn’t bark at him this time. He knew the mailman would be no fun to bark at since he was dead – he wouldn’t jump or flinch, not even if Hershey growled and showed snarly teeth.
Hershey waited patiently while his human breathed hard and tried to use the small box thing she carried everywhere. It didn’t work the way she wanted, so she ran quickly up to the nearest house and began pounding on the door. Hershey wished she would stop. He already knew the people inside were dead, just like the mailman.
At the fourth house his human went to, she picked up a brick from the flowerbed beside the front door and broke out the window. Hershey’s ears lay back flat when she reached inside and opened the door. A Pomeranian and two schnauzers lived here, and the Pomeranian was cranky. Still, he slunk in carefully after his human, and moved into the strange house. He sniffed the air, and he knew the human female had been at home, and she was dead. So was the Pomeranian and the male schnauzer. The female schnauzer looked up at him when he and his human walked into the den, but she didn’t even growl. She laid her head back down on her own human’s arm, pressing her body even more tightly against the male schnauzer.
That’s when Hershey’s human started to cry and say “hailmary” over and over again. He didn’t know who hailmary was, but he understood the part about the “hour of our death.” He knew things would never be the same again. The female schnauzer didn’t come to Hershey’s human, but she didn’t bite her, either. To Hershey’s annoyance, his human carried the schnauzer out and set her on the floorboard of his truck!
January 2.
Mike
Mike was surprised to hear Jennifer’s laughter when he stepped back into the house after burying his grandfather in the snow. She and Gran were in the kitchen, chatting as though nothing were wrong in the world and … baking brownies? Had they both lost their minds? Mike put the snow shovel against the wall in the mud room and stomped the snow off his boots before taking off his outerwear and stepping into the kitchen. The scent of baking brownies filled the small room and, despite his grim thoughts, Mike’s belly growled. Gran put on a skillet of chicken to fry, and she filled the kitchen sink with as many packages of frozen meat as it could hold, thawing it more quickly in the cool water. Jenn happily mixed mashed potatoes and chatted about her bestie Susan Eismann, and how her mother let her get her ear cartilage pierced, not just once, but three times! Gran listened, clucking disapprovingly, and keeping the conversation moving with an occasional question or two. She met Mike’s eyes and nodded slightly. Mike nodded back, not quite sure what Gran meant by the gesture.
“He’s back in the house,” Jenn announced to her gran, turning off the mixer and reaching for Mom’s Tweety Bird key ring. “I’ll go get my Barbies now.”
“No!” The word snapped from Mike like a whip crack, and Jennifer turned to look at him. For once, she wasn’t glaring at him in defiance but was looking at him in round-eyed shock, a twinge of surprised fear in her eyes. Mike hated himself immediately. He had heard gunshots while he buried Poppa, though. Gran and Jenn didn’t know that, but Mike did.
“I don’t want you going outside alone, Jenn, it’s almost dark,” he said, working to keep his voice reasonable and pleasant. “I’ll go with you, and we can bring in your clothes, and mine, too.”
Jennifer’s face lightened back into her familiar, put-upon scowl. “Fine,” she said, tossing Mike his wet Cardinals jacket from the mudroom and grabbing her own Wildcats coat. While Jennifer was putting her coat on, Mike slid his hunting knife back into the sheath on his belt and picked up the shotgun. He glanced at Gran as he followed Jenn out the side door. She smiled at him with approval … and for some reason, that scared him more than anything else.
It didn’t take long. Jennifer draped her Justin Bieber backpack over one shoulder and grabbed her Barbie case, while Mike looked carefully up the long driveway leading to Gran’s, the fenced grazing meadow to the west and the woods to the east. The gunfire he heard was distant, seeming to come from the valley below the hill, and sounds carried in the crisp country air. He considered pulling in all of their gear, but the porch light made them an easy target, if anyone came this close. Gran’s driveway was long, with two winding curves before the house and barbed wire fencing to discourage even the stupidest cow from leaving the pasture. He didn’t feel that “being watched” tickle at the back of his neck so he decided the supplies should be safe in the SUV until morning. Mike would bring them in with first light. He grabbed the big suitcase, and then locked the SUV, listening for the beep to indicate the car alarm was set, and followed Jennifer back inside.
The rest of the evening passed in companionable, albeit strange, activity. Mike listened hopefully for Dad’s Jetta while he stockpiled Poppa’s hunting rifles and handguns and began to strip and clean the lot of them at the kitchen table. Jenn and Gran cooked. In fact, Jenn and Gran cooked as though for a Sunday church social where they were solely responsible for providing pot luck dishes for the entire congregation. It puzzled Mike. Even though the fried chicken was ready first, and he was starving, Gran slapped his hand away, making him wait for the pot roast with potatoes and carrots. She put the fried chicken into the refrigerator, using her good Tupperware. He finally figured it out when she encouraged both children to put away as much as they could hold since good food didn’t keep; Gran was worried they were going to lose power! He frowned, even as he stuffed another forkful of roast in and chewed. Poppa’s generator and the extra barrel of fuel he got every year would keep them for up to a week before he’d need more fuel.
Mike put his plate in the sink and continued cleaning Poppa’s guns, contemplating the situation from different angles. Cold fried chicken was a lot better than cold pot roast, for sure. To his mind, though, it wasn’t a big deal as far as the food was concerned. The snowdrifts outside and the almost-certainty of more snow until March at least, made refrigeration a low priority. Gran’s stove was gas, so it wouldn’t pull from the generator. But the alarming thing, if power did go out, was that Poppa’s backup generator wasn’t designed for long-term survival. It would keep the house comfortable for four or five days, a week at most, while they waited for the electric company and Department of Transportation to do their jobs. Mike could extend that if he could find the fuel when the generators ran low, but that wasn't looking to be an easy task, not with the gunshots in Shepherdsville. Gran already suspected power would go out in the next few days, and, by the way she and Jenn were cooking, she didn’t think it would be coming back on. Mike should have thought about that, too. He was beginning to realize there was more to post-apocalyptic suburban survival than he’d thought. In some ways, it was easier to pitch a tent and strike a fire starter than to prepare for a siege.
They ate and all three of them helped wash the dishes, with some friendly laughter and intentional butt-bumping. Gran’s kitchen, of course, was modified to be accessible for her. Jenn loved all the lowered fixtures and handicapped-accessible appliances, but they drove Mike crazy. By habit, he wanted to stack plates in the higher cabinet, where his mom put them since Jenn was a baby. Mike endured Jenn and Gran’s good-natured ribbing with mock scowls and growls, deeply relieved. Jenn seemed to be herself again. After her withdrawal from watching Mom die, Mike really wasn't sure if she’d recover. He was glad to have the brat back – although he would never admit that, of course.
It was after midnight by the time the dishes were done
and the kitchen was immaculate, save the last shotgun on the table that Mike was still cleaning. Jenn got her Barbie case and started to put it on the kitchen table, but Gran stopped her with a shake of her head. “Jennifer, baby, it’s bedtime. Ryan and I need to have a talk.”
Jenn’s face fell. “I want to listen,” she said, the barest hint of a defiant whine in her tone. “This is about me, too.”
“Jennifer Grace, mind your gran,” Mike said, taking a soft rag and wiping down the barrel of the shotgun. He deliberately kept his voice quiet, but even he was aware of the steel beneath it. He had borrowed the tone from his father.
With a scowl and angry body language to spare, Jenn grabbed her Barbie case and huffed out of the room. She slammed her bedroom door behind her, firmly enough that the entire house shook slightly.
Mike sighed and looked over at Gran. “Was my mom this big a pain in the butt?” he asked ruefully.
Gran laughed, pushing the lever to move her wheelchair into the spot at the table where she normally sat. She took both of Mike’s hands in her own, her eyes twinkling. “Your mother was every bit as much of a pain, Ryan. Of course, back then, four stripes of a willow switch would straighten her right back up.”
Mike nodded, but didn’t comment. He had heard about the willow switch before and, even though he was the one who raised the topic, he didn’t want to talk about old times. “Gran, people are shooting,” he said quietly. “Not distant shooting, like the gun range, or Fort Knox. They’re shooting down in the valley. In Shepherdsville.”
The old woman nodded. “I know, boy. I’ve heard them most of the afternoon.” She backed her wheelchair up and turned it, taking a small box from the kitchen counter and bringing it back to the table with her. She set it beside her, and then returned her eyes to her grandson’s face. The square, determined set of his jaw reminded her of her husband when he was a young man.
“What are we going to do?” Mike asked.
It was the opening she’d been waiting for. She opened the small box, taking out two cards and a folded piece of paper, passing them over to her grandson. Mike picked up the first card, smiling a bit. “Poppa had hair,” he grinned, looking at the old I.D. card.
“Poppa was a very handsome man,” Gran said with a smile. “Better than that, though, he was a good and gentle man, Ryan. Such a sweet lover, you can’t even -“
“Gran! That’s TMI!” Mike exclaimed quickly. His ears were bright red, and he felt the flush on his face as well.
Gran chuckled at his reaction to her moment of bawdiness. Still a boy, in so many ways. It was far too soon for him to become a man … but there was nothing to be done for it.
“That’s Poppa’s first military I.D. card, Ryan, and this one is his most recent, the one we use to get on post for the commissary and pharmacy. That paper is his DD-214 – it shows he was discharged honorably.”
Mike nodded, pushing the documents aside, careful to do so respectfully. “Gran, I miss him, too,” he said, his voice soft. “But we don’t have time –“
“Listen to me, Ryan,” Gran said sharply. The intensity in her bright blue eyes – his own eyes, Mike realized with a start – bored into him steadily. “Your grandfather was in the Army for twenty-two years. He was in the 1st Air Cavalry Division, Company E, 52nd Infantry. Remember that, exactly as I said it. 1st Air Cavalry Division, Company E, 52nd Infantry. I know it doesn’t mean much to you, Ryan, but it will mean something to the soldiers on Fort Knox.”
Mike nodded slowly, knowing now where Gran was headed. She was a military dependent, but he and Jenn were not. It made more sense for them to find one of the FEMA shelters the emergency broadcasts kept promising were being set up. Mike frowned, not sure how to argue his point with his grandmother.
“You have to tell them, Mike,” Gran continued, her voice quiet and intense. “You tell them your grandfather spent twenty-two years in the Army serving this country, and he was –“
“One of the first Army Rangers. I know, Gran,” Mike worked hard to keep his voice gentle. “I know all the wonderful things Poppa did for America, but … things are kind of messed up now, Gran, and those soldiers … well, I just don’t think they’ll care what Poppa did, you know? Maybe I should drive through Shepherdsville and see if any of the schools have been set up as shelters yet?”
Gran shook her head firmly, her mouth drawn into a thin, determined line. She looked at him levelly, then handed him the small box. “If there is any hope at all, son, they’ll care about this. If they don’t, then it really is the end of days, and nothing to be done for it.”
Mike bit back his frustration, running his fingers through his hair and tugging the ponytail tighter. Then he opened the box. He gasped. Even he recognized it. “Medal of Honor?” he asked, his voice appropriately reverent.
Gran nodded. “Use it, Ryan. Use that, and everything else you have to use to get your sister onto that base and behind that line of soldiers. Promise me.”
“Gran, are you sure we shouldn’t stay here, where it’s safer?”
“It won’t be safe here for long, Ryan. The shooting’s already started. By tonight, the panic will set in, and the people who are left in town will start spreading out. The looting and violence will only get worse. In a few days, when they get out this far, they will have worked themselves up into a frenzy of believin' they are entitled to any of the spoils of war they can find or steal.” She held his gaze for a long moment. “Your nine year old sister will not be safe, Ryan. You get her behind a line of soldiers, do you hear me?”
Mike paled, the blood draining from his face. It wasn't from what Gran said, but from what she had left unsaid. He nodded slowly, his eyes darkening to cold blue ice. “Yes, ma’am.” His tone was grim. “I swear it on my life, I’ll protect her. Tomorrow morning, I’ll make room in the back for your wheelchair, and we’ll get moving.”
Gran started to shake her head, but she saw the determined set of his jaw. Instead, she took his hands, squeezing them gently. Pride shimmered in her eyes. “You are a fine young man, Ryan Michael.”
Kasoniak
Col. Kasoniak sighed, rubbing his eyes in exhaustion as he watched the night sky from General Fowler’s window. He had not yet taken his position behind the commanding officer’s desk, instead using the long conference table as his work station. At this point, it was probably moot. He didn’t hold much hope of finding any officer senior to him alive and well, not after the reports of Major General Fowler and Garrison Commander Ryson’s deaths.
Colonel Mark Dunnegan, the provost marshal, was alive and already heavily engaged. Colonel Miller was alive, but apparently in bad shape, and he was junior to Kasoniak. He was a good man with combat experience and a sharp, tactical mind. Kasoniak needed him. He hoped the few remaining surgeons at Ireland Army Hospital could keep that sharp, tactical mind alive – even if the man had lost both of his legs when the munitions supply on the training range exploded. He didn't have to walk to plan battle strategies.
Apparently, a pimple-faced recruit just coming in to IET saved the colonel's life. The kid actually used his head, taking his own belt and the belt of a fallen trainee to make tourniquets for the colonel’s legs, then driving a jeep onto the field, and getting the unconscious man to what remained of Ireland. Kasoniak had no idea what happened then, but commending that young recruit was definitely on his to-do list. It was buried under a legion of more pressing items, but he wouldn't forget. He hoped.
The situation was so much worse than he ever imagined it could be. In the eight hours since his retirement ceremony went to hell, Kasoniak learned, as he expected, the hostiles hadn’t just hit Fort Knox. The attacks were practically simultaneous nationwide, and the major offensive weapon was unlike anything the U.S. military had ever encountered. The sonic booms seemed ancillary; whatever technology they used emitted some kind of personnel-targeting EMP which meant instant death for an overwhelming majority of humans and, apparently, land mammals. There was no rhyme or reason to who lived
or died; entire battalions of healthy soldiers dropped like stones, while eight percent of the geriatric patients in a Louisville nursing home facility survived. So far, there were no reports of marine life impact, but entire herds of cattle were decimated.
The statements passed down from Walter Reed were grim, and there had been no updates for more than three hours, which was a concern in itself. The cause of death in each human they had autopsied thus far had been instant, massive brain hemorrhage. Most of the victims died immediately; a few unlucky ones lived two to three minutes, most likely in exquisite pain. The death tolls were staggering, the numbers almost impossible to comprehend, and reports were still being compiled to update those preliminary figures. The weapon hadn’t killed hundreds of thousands of Americans … but hundreds of millions.
The earlier estimates said the weapon was effective on 80% of the population, human and mammal, but that percentage climbed steadily throughout the day. As of the last report, shortly after 2030, the numbers were somewhere between 90 and 96%. Kasoniak’s most recent update from his staff put the Fort Knox fatality or missing, presumed dead, rate at 98.2%. Those numbers would continue to climb if secondary attacks were suffered and if anarchy and attrition were allowed to take their toll. It was the extinction of the United States of America. They were fucked.
Kasoniak had no hard data on what was happening outside U.S. borders, but he strongly suspected other nations were dealing with much the same situation. He did know with certainty that no nation on Earth, not China, not North Korea, not even the Soviet Fucking Union, could have implemented even a single strike on such an all-encompassing scale as had occurred this afternoon. Col. Kasoniak was not inclined to share this news with the troops, and he interrupted the radio chatter from Fort Campbell the moment the question was raised. It was demoralizing enough to have to bury their friends and comrades; it would be worse if the soldiers knew there was no viable plan of retribution. The invasion was something not of this Earth, and it was far beyond their current capability to counter.
Iron Mike Page 4
