Scientist-Farmer frowned, shuffling back through his last dozen thoughts. He still needed a translation for “Big Mac.” And … since when had he given Human-Male a unique designation?
Kari
The sun was moving toward the western part of the sky when Mike stepped out of the woods. Kari had started to go after him three times, but each time Stephen put a hand on her arm, encouraging her to wait. She didn’t know when she started taking advice from ten-year-olds, but when she saw Mike’s face, she was glad she waited.
The screams had stopped almost an hour ago, and the waiting afterward was absolute hell. She couldn’t – didn’t want to – imagine what Mike had been through.
Kari hoped desperately to see him carrying a sobbing Nathan in his arms, even though a part of her knew that would be too much of a miracle to expect. Instead, she saw him step out from the trees empty-handed, pale and drawn. For the first time, she saw defeat in his eyes. There was a dark, wet stain covering most of the left arm and chest of his red Louisville Cardinals jacket.
Kari stepped toward him and he shook his head. “No,” he said. He didn’t raise his voice, but the tone was as clear as a slap. Kari stepped back inadvertently and Mike’s voice softened. She could tell it took a deliberate effort. “No, please, Kari. Let’s just get moving as long as daylight holds.”
She nodded and picked up her backpack, unable to swallow past the lump in her throat. The children gathered around and picked up their loads, everyone strangely silent. Mike settled Kayli on his shoulders, blanching with pain, and Kari looked away from him quickly.
“Remember everyone, stay only on the road,” Kari reminded the children quietly. There were nods and quiet murmurs, but no one spoke up. They started out, as grim as if they were walking the Trail of Tears.
Even with Mike pushing the pace, they didn’t make it before full dark. They were less than halfway up Muldraugh Hill, which put them about six miles from the gate. The children were dead on their feet, stumbling as they walked. Finally, when there was no light left, Mike called a halt. He set Kayli down with a groan of relief and shrugged out of his backpack.
“Keep everyone moving, please, Kari,” he asked. “Just walking in circles is good. I’ll be right back.”
Kari nodded reluctantly. She didn’t like the idea of Mike being away from the group at all, much less after dark. She swallowed her fear and put on a cheerful voice to encourage the children to walk on the blacktop. The snow was melted from the roadway, at least. Kari walked beside Stephen, and impulsively took his hand. He looked at her in surprise, then smiled, and took Jenn’s hand.
When Mike came back fifteen minutes later, he saw a chain of moving children snaking in figure-eights on the blacktop, a long conga line of follow-the-leader. Mike smiled tiredly. Kari managed to make it a game, to keep the children up and moving so the sweat on their clothes wouldn’t turn to ice.
“Okay, guys, this way,” he called. The children came to him, and he led them to the minivan, its front end accordianed into the tree it hit when the driver died.
Kari looked, but saw no evidence of a body or bodies. Mike had dragged them into the woods! She swallowed the terror that thought gave her; the boy was an idiot! A competent – and lucky – idiot, but an idiot nonetheless.
The children stumbled into the minivan, several of them simply dropping onto the floorboard and falling asleep. Anthony didn’t move when Jenn changed him, and Ariel’s cries were half-hearted. Kari got food out, having to shake several of the children awake to get them to eat. Mike pulled out the sleeping bags, unzipping them and using them as blankets for the kids, and he pushed the children closer together so they would share body heat. Most of the kids slept in a pile between the second seat and the driver’s seat. Stephen stretched out on the middle seat and Jenn moved in beside him, dragging her sleeping bag over them. Mike noticed, but at the moment he was too tired to intimidate a ten-year-old for hitting on his nine-year-old sister. He’d take care of that tomorrow.
“Share body heat?” he asked Kari as he moved to the bench seat in the back of the van. He was also too tired and too sick to flirt. The wound in his arm throbbed with every beat of his pulse, and he was also in pain from an ugly headache.
“Will you eat first?” she asked.
Mike shook his head tiredly. “I won’t keep it down,” he mumbled. “Ibuprofen?”
“Of course,” Kari said quickly, reaching for the first-aid kit. She started to hand Mike two pills, and he looked at her levelly.
“Four,” he said softly. “And Gatorade.”
Kari gave him the extra pills and the bottle of red Gatorade, which he seemed to prefer to the green. She touched his forehead while he drank, ignoring his scowl. He was burning up … and shivering.
“Please hang on, Mike,” she whispered as she carefully adjusted herself on the bench seat, lying against him. His legs were bent to give him enough room, so she entwined her legs with his, surprised he didn’t comment. Mike’s breathing leveled out within minutes, but Kari stayed awake for a long time, her eyes open and watching.
Kasoniak
Dick Kasoniak walked over to the officers’ mess hall – he was too goddamned old to call it a “dining facility” – to eat lunch. He was the one to implement the resource conservation efforts, and there was no reason in the world for him not to follow them as well. Besides, if he sat on his ass much longer, he would get bedsores.
Kasoniak used to believe there was no job more sedentary than adjutant commander of the cavalry brigade on Fort Knox, but he had been very wrong. He exercised his head-of-line privilege and carried his tray over to a window table where Mark Dunnegan sat with a major he didn’t know. “At ease,” he said preemptively, adjusting his seat. He pulled the two-way off his belt, lowering the volume slightly as he set it on the table beside his lasagna and salad.
“Afternoon, Colonel,” Dunnegan said, keeping with formalities for the major’s benefit. “Rumor has it we’re breaking into the Mint?”
Kasoniak scowled without heat. “Rumors fly around this place faster than a sorority house panty raid,” he grumbled. “But yes, if we can. So far, we haven’t had much luck breaching it.”
Dunnegan grinned. “I’m sure I have a DVD of Goldfinger I can lend you, sir, if the going gets tough.”
“Well, thank you, Mark. If I weren’t an officer and a gentleman, I’d shove my gold finger right up your ass.”
The men laughed, and for just a moment, Kasoniak’s shoulders loosened. He looked at the major.
“Major Tom Fields, sir,” the man said with a smile. “Up from Fort Benning, just in time for all the fun.”
“Welcome to our little paradise,” Kasoniak said dryly as he started into the institutional lasagna. He would have to chew a handful of Tums when he got back to the office.
He was about to ask for an informal situation report when the radio caught his attention. It wasn’t the voice from the radio that penetrated Kasoniak’s consciousness – the damned thing had been squawking incessantly since soldiers lost their cell phones – but rather, the tone of voice. There was barely-controlled panic in the young woman’s distress call.
“Mayday, mayday, sector 12 requesting immediate medical assistance. Man down, request immediate medical assistance. Repeat, man down.”
Kasoniak turned the volume up so he and the two officers at the table could hear. The dispatcher clarified the soldier’s position and asked the nature of the emergency.
“It’s – I don’t know, it’s fucking weird,” she replied, breaking radio protocol. “Private Williams is down – he’s being sucked into the ground, and we can’t get him out. We need chainsaws, jaws of life, extraction equipment – hell, I don’t know, just get here!”
Kasoniak, Dunnegan, and Fields were out the door, running to Dunnegan’s jeep before the woman’s voice left the airwaves.
The soldier, PFC Daniel Williams, died in the attempted rescue.
Otter Creek Gun Range
S
ergeant Diane Kershaw felt the sweat bead on the back of her neck even though it was thirty degrees outside. The early afternoon was crisp and clear, a light snow falling even while the sun shone. The 5-ton rolled along with surprising speed, given the condition of the gravel drive-off. She saw the iron bar in front of the truck and the driver looked over at her questioningly. Her first command decision – run through the bar and risk damaging a military vehicle or stop to raise it and leave her soldiers potentially exposed?
“Run it,” she said, her voice sounding calm and professional. She liked that. Her voice didn’t sound like it came from the mouth of a chicken-shit farm girl from North Carolina. It sounded like it came from the mouth of a soldier.
The private grinned and gave it some gas. There was a solid “thump” of impact and a screech of grinding metal as the 5-ton went through the gate like a hot knife through Crisco. Kershaw worked hard to keep the grin off her face. That was kind of fun!
They drove the half mile to the gun range and parked the 5-ton outside of the big warehouse that housed enough ordnance and hardware to equip a small Army. Sergeant O’Shea’s truck pulled up next to them and Sergeant Ferguson’s beside his. The three squads of soldiers piled out, their weapons ready. Kershaw had gone to the range the year before during a machine-gun shoot, and she had navigated the aisles of the gun shop and vendors, weaving in between the thousands of people who came to see the show and buy weapons or ammunition. It was eerily empty now and silent.
Sergeant Richard O’Shea – Ricochet, to everyone – faced the building and gave the “move out” signal. Kershaw nodded acknowledgement and gave the signal to move her own squad into position. They moved into the building quickly, tension thick in the air.
Kershaw honestly expected the building to be empty so she hesitated for just an instant when she heard the man’s voice, ugly and threatening. “Drop it, motherfuckers!” he sneered, turning only then. His eyes widened as he saw three squads of battle-geared soldiers facing him, but instead of lowering his weapon, he raised it into firing position. Maybe he was too surprised. Maybe he was too stupid. Either way, five seconds later, he was dead.
Kershaw’s ears rang, and the sharp smell of cordite and blood and bowel matter made her eyes water. She didn’t even remember pulling the trigger, but she could still feel the vibration of the M4 carbine in her hands. She stared at the dead man, realizing only then she wasn’t the only person who had opened fire. At least half the soldiers in the warehouse fired their weapons when the man raised his rifle. Kershaw felt an absurd sense of relief at that; she wasn’t solely responsible for a man’s death.
“Oh, Jesus! Oh, Jesus, Hank!” A man’s voice, almost hysterical, came from the row of semi-automatics set out in a display case behind Kershaw. She whirled, her weapon ready, and barely stopped herself from firing. A red-haired, grimy man stood, his hands raised high in the air, his eyes wide and panicked. “Don’t shoot!” he begged. Kershaw kept her weapon aimed on him, noting with pride that every soldier in the room was equally locked and loaded.
“Two fingers only. Remove your weapon, place it on the ground and kick it over,” Kershaw said, her voice stern and professional. The man nodded quickly and complied, one hand still raised high while he removed his pistol with exaggerated care and put it on the ground, kicking it away from him. Ricochet scooped the pistol up quickly and looked at Private Sanchez. Sanchez moved up to the looter and quickly frisked him, removing a hunting knife from inside the man’s jacket, and then stepping back with a nod.
“What exactly are you doing here?” Kershaw asked coldly.
“I wasn’t gonna steal nothing!” the man said quickly, his voice almost a sob. “I got money, I swear. I was gonna pay!” He looked at Kershaw pleadingly and then, moving with care, reached into an inner pocket of his jacket. Every soldier in the room tensed, fingers twitching. The man withdrew a ridiculously thick stack of bills and held it up for Kershaw and the other soldiers to see. Kershaw stared and fought back the urge to laugh at the paper currency the man held up. It was still useful … as kindling.
“Zip tie him, and put him in the back of the truck,” Kershaw said, looking at Private Jenovic.
“Yes, Sergeant,” Jenovic said, moving quickly to comply.
“Search the premises,” Ferguson instructed the squads. “They may not be the only assholes in here so look sharp.”
There were several “Hooahs” and the soldiers fanned out, quickly spreading through the warehouse. Kershaw took in the dozens of display cases and the thousands of weapons and weapon accessories. Jesus, there was a lot of stock here! It would take hours to load everything into the trucks. She grinned, suddenly feeling pretty good about the mission in spite of the man they killed. They would achieve their objective. The Old Bear would be satisfied.
Keeping her weapon ready, she began walking through the aisles, checking each carefully as she went, doubling over some of the territory already covered by her squad. She was more relaxed now; she knew there were no other looters in the building. They would still canvass it thoroughly, of course, but the excitement was over and the hard work was about to begin.
“Kershaw!”
She turned toward Ricochet and Ferguson, who were standing at the eastern end of the warehouse, looking grim. A small group of soldiers stood around them. Kershaw walked over to the group, her gut tightening.
There were four of them, three men and a woman. The men wore Otter Creek Gun Range polo shirts and the woman a pink OCGR t-shirt. They were all dead from gunshot wounds. The woman was maybe twenty, if that. She had been raped.
Ricochet knelt down and touched the side of the woman’s neck. Kershaw would have to give him props for that, later, over a beer and pretzels.
“She’s still warm,” Ricochet said, his voice oddly strained.
Private Miller turned away, his face bloodless. Everyone pretended not to notice him puking in the next aisle, but Kershaw felt her own gorge rise in sympathy and she swallowed hard. “We need to take the bodies back to Knox,” she said, her voice sounding small and not at all soldierly. “And the asshole, too. Looks like we’ve arrested our first looter … and maybe murderer.”
It was cold comfort that the red-haired scumbag went absolutely ape-shit when the five bodies – Hank’s and the gun shop employees’ – were piled into the truck next to where he was securely zip-tied. Kershaw couldn’t find an ounce of sympathy for him.
The moon was rising when the soldiers finally climbed back into the heavily-laden trucks, squeezing together tightly. They were tired, sweaty, and less inclined to banter than they had been earlier in the day, but the huge warehouse was picked absolutely clean. They still had to check the smaller gun shop on S.R. 44, but that would take no time at all. Kershaw looked down at the stack of pink rifles and handguns that were stacked on the floorboard of the truck where she was sitting. She was so going to kick Ricochet’s ass for that.
January 5
Mike
About seven in the morning, Kari handed out the last of the pork chops and granola bars while the children took turns going to the bathroom in the slight shelter of the minivan. Mike was moving slowly, pain etched across his face. He had lost a pound or two, Kari noticed with surprise. The boyishness was gone from his face, replaced by a fatigued leanness that worried her. While he walked up the road a few paces, she lightened the load from his backpack, transferring several of the heavier items to her pack. Stephen saw her and met her eyes, taking several items from her and packing them away into his own pack. When Mike returned, Stephen picked up Kayli and set her on his own shoulders, leaving Mike to take Ariel. Mike didn’t even notice. Kari pressed four Ibuprofen and the last of the Gatorade into his hand, and they set off.
It was Kari who called the halt at noon. They had reached the street sign for the Brandenburg Station Road gate, and they would be hiking down this exit ramp. They would have to walk less than an hour to reach the gate to Fort Knox, and Kari was anxious to get there and get Mike medi
cal attention. He was walking with dogged determination, his eyes fixed on the blacktop in front of them. He was burning up again, and he flinched when he reached up to remove Ariel from his shoulders. His eyes were slightly unfocussed when he removed his pack and sat down heavily where Kari stopped the group. She was relieved the snow was melted, leaving the blacktop mostly dry.
Lunch was cold spaghetti-o’s and cookies. Mike refused food again, not even bothering to shake his head. Kari had packed four plastic Gatorade bottles of snow close to her body, melting them into water as they walked. She gave each child a few sips and handed Mike four more ibuprofen with the last of the water. He took them wordlessly while she moved over to the side of the road and repacked the bottles as tightly as she could. Four bottles of snow, melted, made less than one bottle of water.
“We’re almost there,” Kari promised quietly when she returned to him. “Maybe another hour, Mike. You can hold on, okay?” She kept talking to him, not sure if he could even hear her. She watched as Stephen walked several yards back the way they had come, and saw his stream of urine arc out from the blacktop onto the snow. She turned back to Mike, touching his forehead again.
Stephen considered making his initials in the snow, but he knew he didn’t have enough water in him so he didn’t. He zipped and tried to move back to the group. His shoes were stuck. Stephen looked down in surprise, and saw the blacktop beneath his sneakers was gelatinous.
“Oh, shit!” he whispered, his heart rate spiking in terror. He called out, his voice strained but calm. “Hey, Mike? I gotta problem here!”
The stress in Stephen’s tone cut through the haze of pain. Mike’s eyes snapped up, looking for the boy. Kari was already running toward him when Mike struggled to his feet.
Stephen’s feet were caught in the viscous fluid, but the boy had not disobeyed. He hadn’t stepped one foot off the blacktop. The camouflage matched the road perfectly, down to the dotted white lines.
Iron Mike Page 10
