Spore Series (Book 1): Spore

by Soward, Kenny

  “I’ve got some Salisbury steaks in the oven.” Smith poured the second can of lima beans in with the corn, grabbed a spoon, and held it out. “If one of you can monitor this, the other two can gather the trays and utensils.”

  “I’ll stir,” Jenny said, snatching the spoon and diving in.

  “I’m going to leave you to it,” the sheriff said, backing away. “Let me know when you’re ready, and we’ll escort you out onto the floor.”

  “No problem, Sheriff,” Smith said. Then he turned and gestured for Randy to follow him to the back. “Let’s get the trays and utensils.”

  The officer led Randy back into the dishwashing area, past a sink full of dirty plates and trays.

  Randy glanced at the mess as they passed. “I can work on this pile of dirty dishes when we’re done.”

  “That would be great,” Smith said, moving to a stack of clean trays. He indicated that Randy should grab a stack of plates nearby. “There’s only four of us officers left to handle things, along with the sheriff.”

  “The sheriff said there were three jail staffers here. Where are they?”

  “We had an accident out on Cell Block B. Two employees were hurt, and the third didn’t come to work this morning,” Smith shrugged. “Can’t really blame her.”

  Randy only nodded, remembering what the sheriff had said about the accident earlier.

  Smith showed Randy where to put the trays and plates, and together they spread the trays out, adding plates to each. They moved to the oven, opened it, and pulled out three trays of meat patties caked in simmering gravy.

  “Not too bad,” Smith said, sniffing at the tray.

  “Better than what we’ve been eating,” Randy agreed.

  With Jenny’s help, they loaded up the plates with one meat patty, a serving of corn and lima beans, and a packaged Hostess cake.

  “We need to take the cakes out of their packages,” Smith said. “Can’t let the inmates have anything they could use to harm themselves and others.”

  “Plastic wrapping?” Jenny’s eyebrow raised as she started removing the packaging and placing the cakes back into a tray section.”

  “You’d be surprised what they can make,” Smith said.

  “Is that why we’re not giving them forks and knives?” Jenny asked.

  Smith nodded. “Exactly. They’re going to eat this barbarian style, with their fingers. But it beats the alternative.”

  After preparing the trays, they rolled up two tray carts and slid the trays inside.

  “Okay, let’s push these into the control room,” Smith said.

  Randy could sense him tense up as they wheeled the carts out of the kitchen and down a long hallway. Smith used his ID to swipe them through two lockdown sections with jail bars on both sides, and Randy winced each time the officer slammed the doors shut behind them.

  “Are these inmates dangerous?” Randy asked, more concerned for his sister than anything, and Jenny flashed her brother a thankful glance.

  “We’re not a maximum-security jail,” Smith said. “No murderers here. Some of these guys are even nice. But make no mistake, there are others in here who would just as soon piss on you and leave you for dead than help you.” Smith fixed them with a stare. “Don’t worry, you’ll stay in the control room, perfectly safe.”

  “That’s good to know,” Randy sighed with relief. They wouldn’t be directly exposed to the prisoners, though it was still scary.

  They came to a compact control room and pushed the carts between two long desks covered with electronic equipment. There were monitor screens, a dozen blinking green lights, countless buttons, and an intercom system built into the panels. Four empty chairs sat unfilled. On the other side of the door leading to the cell block, bright halogen lights blared down, and they heard the distant shouts and hollering of inmates.

  Smith leaned over one intercom and pressed a button next to it. “Okay, sheriff. We’re ready to go down here.”

  “Roger that. Give us a minute. We’ll be right down.”

  Randy looked back the way they’d come. There were at least three doors between them and safety. He swallowed, feeling like a rabbit trapped in a den of wolves. He closed his eyes against all the yelling on the other side of the door.

  A minute later, Sheriff Stans and another officer joined them in the control room.

  The sheriff removed his gun from its holster and looked at them. “Now, kids. I’m going to have you help push the food carts onto the floor, then you’ll return to the control room. We’ll shut the door behind you.”

  “Got it, Sheriff.” Jenny nodded bravely, though Randy could tell his sister was scared.

  Randy replied, “Understood.”

  “Okay, let’s go.”

  Chapter 34

  Moe Tsosie, Jack Rabbit Road, Arizona

  The cue ball cracked the tight cluster of solids and stripes, and the balls exploded in all directions. Moe watched as the green-striped fourteen and the solid orange three fell into the corner and side pockets, respectively.

  “You’ve got your choice, Lane,” Moe told the other trucker as the man picked up a piece of chalk and rubbed it on the end of his pool stick.

  In their two days holed up at Coyote’s, Moe had learned a handful of things about the man. Two of them were his name and rank in the United States Army. Sergeant First Class Lane Tithing was two years younger than Moe and had served in Afghanistan, though he’d not seen the same action as Moe. Still, Moe recognized the haunted look in Lane’s eyes that hid his share of demons.

  On Thursday, the power had gone out, and Rocko had taken the last of his steaks from his walk-in cooler and thrown them on the grill. The three had sat on a picnic bench in back of Coyote’s, gazing out over the endless scrubland while eating steaks, corn on the cob, and baked beans off paper plates. Rather than drink himself into oblivion, Moe had enjoyed each cold beer with the knowledge it might be his last one.

  Friday started as one game of pool and then turned into many as midday turned into early evening. With darkness approaching, Moe felt his time to leave Coyote’s draw near. But he kept telling himself, “One more game. One more beer.”

  “What game are we on?” Lane knocked a striped ball into a side pocket.

  “Who knows?” Moe replied. “Probably the hundredth.”

  “You’re close, Marine,” Lane gave Moe a sober nod and swiped a gray-blond lock of hair from his eyes.

  “I’d say you’ve taken at least seventy percent of them.” Moe shook his head, disappointed in himself.

  “I’ve won eighty-two games,” Lane allowed himself a slight grin, “and you’ve won thirteen.”

  Moe chuckled. “You’re a real shark, man.”

  “I just like to win,” Lane replied with a gray-eyed sparkle.

  “Hey, guys,” Rocko called out from the lounge. “Check this out.”

  Moe peered through a window in the partitioned wall to where the bartender stood by the front door.

  “What is it?” Moe asked. He rested his pool stick against the wall and stepped into the lounge area with his beer in hand.

  Rocko pointed at the door. “Looks like some action down the road.”

  Moe joined the man, and together they stepped outside. Moe stared down the road at the orange flames rising from rooftops, and the waft of burning wood stung his nose.

  “Someone lit the trading posts on fire,” Rocko said with a disgruntled smirk. “Think they’ll come for my place?”

  “I think you can count on it,” Moe replied.

  Rocko developed a worrisome expression. “Hey, Moe. I understand if you want to leave. Things are getting dangerous around here, and I don’t want anyone getting hurt on my account.”

  Moe turned to Rocko with a sad look. He lifted his beer and jabbed it into the big man’s chest. “That really hurts, Rocko. You think I would abandon you just when things were getting good?”

  Rocko grinned. “Thanks, brother.”

  “What’s going on?�
�� Lane asked as he pushed through the doors.

  “We’ve got company.” Moe nodded toward the fires as a pair of pickup trucks filled with people drove between two burning buildings. The people in back hooted and hollered and held up items they’d looted from the stores.

  “I’ve got just the thing.”

  Lane fished his keys from his pocket and walked to his truck. He opened the sleeper section of his rig and leaned inside. He pulled out one AR-15, then another, followed by a large ammunition can. The man leaned back inside and withdrew two handguns, slipping them into his waistband. Lane stepped down from his truck and called to Moe. “Little help over here!”

  Moe hustled over and lifted the ammunition can to his chest. “You came prepared.”

  Lane picked up the rifles and shrugged. “If the last nationwide quarantine told me anything, it was to keep my rig stocked, especially with weapons. People get crazy in crazy situations.”

  “I wish I’d thought of that,” Moe said in agreement. “Things have been awful crazy the past few days.”

  Lane smiled.

  The three retreated inside Coyote’s, and Rocko locked the front door, pulling a chain from the wall and wrapping it around the rectangular door handles.

  “You want one of these handguns?” Lane asked the tall bartender.

  “I’ve got everything I need back here.” Rocko moved behind the bar and reached beneath the counter to pull out a sawed-off shotgun.

  Lane nodded at the weapon with appreciation before turning to Moe. “What do you think we can do to bolster our defenses in fifteen minutes?”

  “I’ve got a few ideas,” Moe looked around as he placed the ammunition can on a table.

  Minutes later, shapes appeared outside the front doors, illuminated by headlights. Two people pushed against the glass. Moe and Lane peered from behind a semi-circle of tables positioned around the bar with a slight gap on either side. It was their version of circling the wagons.

  Rocko stayed behind the bar to guard against anyone breaking in through the back.

  When the doors wouldn’t open, the shapes shoved harder. The glass doors gave three inches but didn’t split apart. One person pointed down at the chains wrapped around the handles on the inside, and the other nodded.

  They stepped back, and one of them lifted a baseball bat high and swung it hard. Glass shattered across the lounge floor as the person worked the bat around the edges to clear the sharp shards.

  As soon as the shapes stepped across the threshold, Moe and Lane opened fire. Their .223 rounds smacked their targets backward, sending spritzes of blood flying into those standing in the lot behind them.

  Moe hadn’t shot at another human being in over a decade, and sick anxiety rose in his gut as he watched his first kill hit the ground. Moe tamped down his emotions, breathing steady as he changed targets and spat lead at someone who dove out of view.

  Incoming fire peppered the tables, sending wood chips into Moe’s face. Moe ducked down and waited for a lull before popping over the top again and letting loose with a few more rounds until the entrance was clear, and three people lay dead.

  “They’re messing with your trucks!” Rocko shouted from behind the bar.

  Moe leveled his gaze at Lane. “Ready? On three.” Moe counted down, and when he hit zero, the two men fired two rounds each through the entrance before advancing to the windows.

  Moe took the window on the far right where their trucks sat parked. A handful of people stood on the truck steps and pried at the doors with crowbars. Moe calmly raised his rifle and fired at a man digging at his passenger side door. The bullet punched through the man’s arm to send him spinning to the ground.

  A woman standing by Lane’s rig raised a handgun at Moe, but Lane fired three rounds from the other window. The bullets buttoned the woman up her side from waist to shoulder, spattering Lane’s truck with blood.

  “Someone’s breaking in through the back!” Rocko shouted.

  “Need help, Rocko?” Moe yelled over his shoulder.

  “I can handle it,” Rocko called back.

  Moe glanced to see the bartender stoop as he left the safety of the bar and shoved through the swinging kitchen door.

  Two pickup trucks circled into the lot and came to a hard stop at the far edge. A dozen armed people leapt from the back and spread out across the blacktop, firing at Coyote’s. Their shots flew wild, hitting the side of the building or zipping harmlessly by.

  “This is target practice,” Moe edged around the window frame, picked a target, and fired.

  Moe missed the first two times but kneecapped the man on the third shot. With Lane’s added fire, the parking lot turned into a killing field of anguished wails and prone, dying forms. Some crawled away, hand-over-hand, and Moe left them alone until everyone was down. Then he took care of the wounded ones.

  A shotgun blasted from the kitchen, followed by another.

  Moe exchanged a look with Lane across the room, and the man jerked his head for Moe to go check on Rocko. Moe nodded and drew away from the window. He squeezed through the gap in the tables and side-stepped around the bar. He reached the swinging door when it flew open and Rocko busted through.

  The big man stumbled forward, moaning and clutching his stomach. Moe shifted his rifle to his right hand and tried to catch the man with his left. Too heavy to hold, Rocko bore Moe backward where they tumbled into the legs of one of the overturned tables.

  Moe eased his friend to the floor, eyes watching the blood on Rocko’s hands. The kitchen door crashed open again, and Moe jerked his attention up as a man with a butcher knife charged through. Moe swung his rifle around and fired two quick shots into the man’s belly.

  The man had raised the blade to swipe at Moe. He looked down and grabbed his stomach as blood gushed between his fingers.

  Moe lunged forward and kicked him in the chest, sending him tumbling back into the next man coming through. Bringing his weapon to bear, Moe stalked forward and pulled the trigger repeatedly. His rounds chewed into the pair, driving them back into the kitchen where they fell to the floor dead.

  Moe hit the magazine release, and the empty piece hit the floor with a clatter as Moe loaded another. He swept the barrel of his weapon through the long kitchen. A dishwasher and stove rested against the near wall, and the far wall held shelves of canned food products and other supplies.

  Footsteps approached from outside, and a woman stepped into the kitchen with a pistol in her hand. Moe jerked his rifle to his shoulder and fired. His aim was off, and his round smacked a big jug in an explosion of ketchup. The woman gasped and leapt back as the red sauce splattered her face. Moe covered the back door for two seconds before he heard boots running away.

  He stepped over the people he’d killed and rushed to the door, firing at several shadows running in the darkness. When no more marauders challenged him, Moe lowered his rifle and reached out to grab the edge of the buckshot door, slamming it shut behind him.

  “It’s Moe coming through,” he shouted to Lane before he stepped into the lounge.

  Rocko still lay on the floor, leaning against the underside of the table with one arm thrown over the column for support. His face was drawn into a grimace of pain, and blood filled his lap and dripped in a large puddle on the floor.

  “Coast is clear,” Lane shouted from his window, though he continued to scan the parking lot for more targets.

  With a nod, Moe placed his gun on the bar and fell to his knees by Rocko’s side. He removed his T-shirt and placed it beneath Rocko’s hand, applying pressure until he groaned.

  “I think they got me good,” Rocko said. “I can feel it.”

  Moe agreed. The amount of lost blood pointed to a vital internal injury. The nearest hospital was back in Winslow.

  “Hang in there, buddy.” Moe’s voice felt distant, like another version of him was speaking. “Let’s see if we can get this bleeding stopped.”

  Moe looked up and saw Lane standing next to the bar. He pla
ced his rifle down, stripped off his shirt, and tossed it to Moe, and Moe placed it over his already blood-soaked garment.

  Rocko’s eyes opened wide with panic before his expression softened into a dreamy state, like no pain touched him. His breathing settled, and his hand relaxed over his wounds. The bartender looked slowly around the bar, eyes drifting over the shelf of knick-knacks, bottles of liquor, and old photos of friends and patrons from years gone by.

  The bartender’s eyes fell back to Moe. “It was a good run.”

  “Don’t say that, man.” Moe’s breath hitched, though he tried to keep himself calm for his friend. He looked around. “Hey, Lane, toss me some bar rags—”

  “Moe,” Rocko hissed, ripping Moe’s attention back.

  “Yeah, man,” Moe leaned closer and put his hand on the big man’s shoulder.

  “It was a good run,” Rocko repeated with a pointed look. “And I’m glad you were my friend. I’m glad...” His face twisted in pain but fell soft again as it passed. “I’m glad you were here at the end.”

  Moe started to protest more but he knew Rocko’s time was up. Moe nodded and gripped his friend’s bloody hand tighter.

  “I didn’t go down with the ship,” Rocko gasped and smiled. “You have to sink it for me. Got it?”

  “Okay, brother. I’ll see it done.”

  Moe held his friend’s eyes, sending comfort and energy to Rocko’s passing spirit. He whispered a Navajo prayer as Rocko’s body stiffened with his last breath and then relaxed forever.

  Chapter 35

  Kim Shields, Washington, D.C.

  Kim stepped out of the elevator and into the lobby, wearing her full protective gear. She strode to the front doors, stepping over rotting corpses as she went. She pushed through both sets of doors and entered the facility’s courtyard where the dim emergency lights fought the evening’s darkness for dominance.

  Everything was quiet, and nothing moved. The corpses were just bumps of shadows covered in fungal growth, its faint crimson luminance unholy in the darkness.

  Burke’s shiny, black bus sat parked against the curb.