Bunker: Boxed Set (Books 1, 2, and 3)

by Jay J. Falconer

  There had to be more to the story.

  CHAPTER SIXTY

  One of the vultures that had been circling overhead landed on a tree branch, thirty feet above Bunker’s position. The bird must have thought it was safe to approach its intended meal, since Bunker hadn’t moved in a while.

  He ignored the scavenger, knowing the meat eater couldn’t get to him, not with the scrub oak surrounding his head, neck and body. He was nestled in and protected, from the bird and hopefully from the men in the miner’s camp below.

  Bunker kept his attention on the Russians, who now were standing around a computer that a soldier had retrieved from one of the trucks a few minutes earlier. It sat on the same lumber stack that Daisy had taken position behind when they first escaped from the Pokémon men.

  The commander stood in front of the console, watching something on the screen. Bunker assumed it was the high-definition video from the drone, but from this distance it was simply a guess.

  Bunker could also see something in the man’s hand, next to his ear. Probably a field radio. If so, it seemed likely that he was calling in the details from the flash memory card.

  Was it a video of Bunker and Daisy’s killing spree?

  Or something else?

  Before Bunker could decide what to do next, a loud series of sounds erupted behind him. It was Tango, neighing and nickering in a panic.

  Bunker turned his head out of instinct, snapping a branch in the process.

  The vulture above him screeched, then took off from its perch, flapping its mighty wings with a swooshing sound.

  The Russian commander yelled something from the clearing. Bunker brought his eyes around and peered down to see a squad of rifle barrels pointing up at the ridge. Two soldiers brought binoculars up and pressed them against their eyes, scouring the hillside for threats.

  Three men ran to one of the trucks and retrieved a new piece of equipment with a tripod configuration at its base. It was an infantry mortar. The turret of the APC’s 30mm cannon was moving his way, too.

  Bunker froze, figuring the scrub oak’s color array would keep his exact location a secret. He waited, hoping the Russians would decide he wasn’t worth the hassle. Or the expense.

  Ten seconds ticked by.

  Nothing happened.

  Thirty seconds.

  Again nothing.

  Maybe he was in the clear?

  Just then, one of the binocular-wearing men pointed at the ridge and said something in Russian.

  The commander didn’t hesitate, pointing at the ridge and yelling commands. The troops fired their AK-47s in earnest, unleashing a world of hurt at the ridge.

  Bunker ducked, burying his head in his hands.

  The chatter of automatic fire tore at the countryside, lighting up everything in sight. Rocks split apart, bark exploded, and tree limbs shattered as the barrage intensified all around him. Some rounds hit close, others not. He knew the Russians were spraying and praying, hoping to land a lucky shot from afar.

  When the men fired their grenade launchers, mounts of dirt started to fly apart. He decided it was time to bug out. He slithered away from the ridge, keeping his face buried in the surface clutter as bullets whizzed past his head. It wouldn’t be long before the mortars were brought into the fray.

  He hadn’t planned an emergency egress like he should have, failing rule number four of SERE training. SERE stood for Survival. Evasion. Resistance. Escape, the latter of which, escape, was taking up the most space in his mind at the moment.

  The only choice was to make a run for it, then hop on Tango and gallop away through the dense forest. It would take the Russians some time to work their way up to the ridge, so it might give him a decent head start.

  Bunker stood in a crouched position to run, but as expected, a salvo from the mortar launcher delivered its first shell. A tree exploded to Bunker’s left, its wide base disintegrating in a cloud of dirt and smoke.

  The shockwave smashed into Bunker, sending him flying, tumbling through the brush like a football squib kick. He flipped, spun, and skidded, somehow missing a tree stump and a pile of rocks that would have brought a swift and painful halt to his momentum.

  Once he came to a stop, Bunker rolled over to his knees, planning to get to his feet, but the high-pitched squeal in his ears kept his balance from returning.

  His body wasn’t responding to commands from his brain, either, no doubt overloaded by the compression wave and the disorientation flooding his senses.

  Two more rounds from the grenade launchers hit the forest. They weren’t close, but the damage was visible.

  A second later, another mortar shell landed on the ridge, this time to the right, far enough away that Bunker wasn’t caught up in the destruction zone.

  More guesswork by the Russians, giving him a glimmer of hope that he might make it off the ridge without having his body ripped apart like string cheese.

  The sound of the explosions tearing apart the forest, however, still nipped at his eardrums. He covered his ears with his hands, sucking in a half-dozen breaths in an attempt to quell the pain. It seemed to work, his legs finally listening to commands from his brain. He got to his feet and staggered forward.

  It would only be seconds before the troops in the clearing readied another mortar with his name on it.

  He ran in an unplanned zigzag pattern, his balance erratic, stumbling with irregular foot plants. A straight line would have been preferable, but he’d take it. Distance was good, any type of distance, and in any direction that led away from the clearing. The range of the weaponry wasn’t endless, but he still had a long way to go to escape the field of fire.

  Another round hit, this time dead ahead, slamming into the side of a small rise in terrain just beyond a pile of boulders. The earth flew apart, sending rock, grass, and other debris in every direction.

  The blast knocked him back, twisting and flipping in the air. He felt his legs rotate once around before they found the ground again, landing sideways on his knees. Bits of rock slammed into his left shoulder, feeling like someone was peppering him with golf balls.

  Each impact stung, but he shook it off and got to his feet again, deciding to take a different route than before. He ran parallel to the ridge, figuring the Russians were assuming he was retreating in a straight line away from the ridge and adjusting their trajectory accordingly.

  Bunker’s new flanking route would take him to the far left, then he’d turn right to head away from the ridge. Eventually, he’d turn right again, zeroing in on Tango’s location. That was assuming the horse was still where he’d left him.

  The animal must have been frightened to death, each explosion causing an even greater state of alarm. Bunker imagined Tango rearing up on his hind legs, flailing his front legs and kicking to free the reins.

  The Clove Hitch was strong. So was the branch, but when twelve-hundred pounds of pure muscle got angry, there was no telling how much damage could be done.

  Another shell went off—farther away from his position, just as Bunker expected. He could see the impact point, shattering a mighty oak in half in a cloud of smoke and dust. He dove behind a pile of deadfall to avoid the concussion wave and any possible shrapnel hurled his way. So far he’d been lucky, but he knew it was only a matter of time before something took him down.

  The automatic weapons fire finally stopped, leaving the detonation sound of the latest mortar shell echoing across the mountaintop. Bunker listened for Tango but didn’t hear him. He wasn’t sure if that was a good thing or not, but he’d know soon enough.

  He resumed his dash through the forest, running another hundred yards or so to the left. Another shell landed in the distance, proving his theory to run an evasive flanking route was the right choice. He kept his pace, turning right while tracking the number of seconds between bombardments.

  The timing seemed consistent, providing him with a sense for when the next detonation would arrive, which was now. He dropped down behind a pair of large ro
cks with moss growing on one side, steeling his mind and his body in preparation for the next round of incoming.

  The blast arrived on schedule, blowing apart another area on the ridge. He wasn’t sure where this one hit since he was behind cover, but it wasn’t close. The sound was much less intense than the last, indicating the enemy was working a different area of the ridge.

  He got up and took off, making good time down a natural game trail, its brush trampled and dirt exposed. His energy level was holding, no doubt due to his fight or flight response taking over.

  The adrenaline pumping in his arteries felt invigorating, giving him more speed and determination as his body pain faded and his muscles came alive.

  Just then, he heard the sound of water on his left. A stream, he figured. Wait, check that, more like a river. Something with rapids or possibly a waterfall. He changed course, planning to take cover and then grab a drink after the next shell landed.

  Bunker stepped around a smattering of birch trees, then stumbled through twenty feet of thick brush, using his arms as pry bars and as shields to keep the branches from cutting into his face.

  He expected the water source to appear next and it did, in a deep ravine ahead, down a nearly vertical embankment that led to a stand of bushes with red berries on them.

  Bunker wasn’t sure if he should classify the water source as a river, but it was certainly a heavy stream. He couldn’t judge its depth, but it was somewhere close to thirty yards in width. Not that it mattered. The current was heavy, with several rocks protruding up from the water, each reaching at least fifteen feet above the surface.

  Their stoutness impeded the flow’s swiftness, creating trails of bubbling whitecaps to the left, their color and length reminding him of fading contrails in the sky.

  His eyes locked onto one of the bigger rocks across the waterway, near the far bank. It was shaped like a giant finger pointing at the sky. It even had a pair of wide knuckles jutting out along its midsection.

  Everywhere he looked he saw collections of dead trees, branches, and garbage on the upstream side of the rocks, huddled together and pinned against the stone by the force of the water.

  Before he could take another step, a blast landed to his right. The explosion was uphill from his position, digging a massive crater into the hillside.

  Dirt, rocks, and plant life were sent airborne. So was he, twisting backward and to the left like someone had tied a bungee cord to his pants and yanked it with the force of a semi-truck.

  His solo flight seemed to go on forever, with time ticking in slow motion. Then a shredding pain tore into his left forearm just as a cool splash of water flooded his legs.

  Bunker’s backwards momentum stopped an instant later, snapping his head back against something hard.

  He closed his eyes to contain the pain from the whiplash and the impact, then everything went black.

  CHAPTER SIXTY-ONE

  Mayor Buckley ignored the growing crowd of townspeople behind him as he waited for the oldest of the FEMA representatives to finish his conversation with three other men.

  Buckley couldn’t help but stare at the circular bandage along the left side of the man’s neck. It was tan-colored and about the size of a nickel, positioned just under the earlobe.

  When the pale fellow with thick, gray hair locked eyes with him, Buckley stepped forward to engage. “I take it you’re the man in charge?”

  “Yes sir. John Howard. Field Commander,” the man answered, his words thick with an English accent. His slightly down-turned eyes and broad, wrinkled forehead gave him a distinctive, intelligent look. Almost professorial. “And you are?”

  The Mayor put his hand out for a shake, holding it strong to send a message. “Mayor Seth Buckley.”

  Howard grabbed it, giving it a firm shake.

  Buckley took his hand back. “What’s going on here, gentlemen?”

  “No reason to be alarmed,” Howard said, his eyes sharp and focused. “This is just a precautionary deployment.”

  “For what?”

  “Is there somewhere we can chat in private?”

  Buckley hesitated for a moment, his mind churning through the request. A private chat? There was only one reason for a FEMA Field Commander to say those words. Something was seriously wrong. Howard didn’t want others to hear their conversation. Buckley’s heartbeat skyrocketed as he pointed to a building across the square. “How about my office?”

  “That’ll be fine. Lead the way, Mr. Mayor.”

  Buckley wanted a second pair of ears in the meeting with the FEMA commander, so he motioned to the tall blond civilian standing next to him. “This is Bill King, one of our most prominent business leaders. I’d like him to join us.”

  “That’s fine, Mayor. It’s your call,” Howard said and redirected his hand to King, shaking it as well. “Pleasure.”

  King shook it twice, but said nothing. Buckley figured King had become concerned about the private meeting as well, keeping his lips silent.

  Buckley turned and began the trek to his office with King and Howard following behind. He ran a quick visual check of the other FEMA men nearby. Each of them had the same circular bandage attached to their necks as Howard, and they were in the same location. He wasn’t sure what it meant, but he planned to find out as soon as they were behind closed doors.

  All three men were silent until they stepped inside Buckley’s office on the third floor of the Town Hall.

  King spoke up first, his tone light and probing. “Sounds like you’re from across the pond. I’m guessing London.”

  “Australia, actually. From a small coastal town called Wollongong.”

  “Never heard of it,” King responded in a gruff tone.

  “You’re a long way from home,” Buckley said without hesitation, wanting to defuse any potential offense from King’s demeanor. He had a million questions to ask Howard, but one found its way to his tongue first.

  “How did you end up working for FEMA?” he asked, realizing the question was probably the least important one he could ask at the moment. He wasn’t sure why his lips uttered that query before any of the others. Maybe his heart had decided to trump his logic in some kind of stall maneuver, not wanting to have this conversation.

  “Actually, my team and I are on temporary assignment. We were in country training when the EMP swarm hit. I’m sure you can imagine that US Emergency Services are spread rather thin at the moment. They needed volunteers, so here we are.”

  Buckley didn’t like the sound of the word volunteers. “Well, we appreciate the help and the quick response, though I have to admit, I’m a little more than astonished that you’re actually here, in Clearwater. Certainly there are more prominent communities needing help. Like Denver. Or am I missing something?”

  Howard paused before he spoke, looking as though he was searching for the right answer. “I’m not sure how they do things here in America, but where we’re from, we go where they tell us. We don’t ask questions.”

  “I understand, but why exactly are you here?” Buckley asked, avoiding a different question burning a hole in his mind. The word volunteer was the cornerstone of what he really wanted to ask about, but he needed to tread lightly until he knew more about these men and their mission.

  “We’ve been tasked with containment.”

  “Containment of what?”

  “There’s been an incident in Denver.”

  “Incident?” King asked in a sharp tone, flashing an intense look at Buckley.

  “When the EMP swarm hit, it created a minor breech in a CDC bio-containment facility.”

  “I’m sorry, what did you say?” Buckley asked, not believing what he’d just heard. The word swarm was out of place and brought an even higher state of alarm to his chest, especially when it was followed by the word breech.

  “One of their storage units failed. We’ve been sent here as a precaution to inoculate the residents of Clearwater in case the hazard cloud makes it way here.”

&nbs
p; “Jesus Christ!” King snapped. “Hazard cloud? Are you frickin’ kidding me? We’ve got families living here. Women. Children.”

  “Like I said, we’re here on a precautionary basis. Nothing to be alarmed about. The CDC has protocols in place for such an event as this. So does FEMA. My men are setting up the medical unit right now.”

  Buckley pointed at the man’s bandage. “I see you guys already got your injection.”

  “Yes, it’s standard procedure for all first responders to be treated before they head into the field.”

  “What exactly is involved in this treatment?”

  “A simple injection every day for the next thirty days. We have plenty of supply.”

  “Thirty days?” King snapped again, his face looking even more agitated than before. Buckley figured the high-strung man was about to blow. Not that he could blame him.

  Howard tightened his eyes, checking his watch with a flash of attention. “The lengthy protocol protects against any possible contagion.”

  There was an extended pause in the room.

  “Are we talking anthrax, or what?” King asked with fire in his eyes.

  “No sir. Nothing like that. However, I can’t elaborate since the compound being stored is of a classified nature.”

  “Do you hear what they’re saying, Mayor?” King said, throwing his hands out to the side.

  One of Howard’s men came through the office door and handed him a clipboard. The commander flipped up the top page and studied the page below it for a few moments, then gave it back to his underling. “Let’s move the timeline up. Make sure everything is ready. We begin in five minutes.”

  The FEMA assistant nodded, never uttering a word. The young, dark-haired man turned crisply and walked away, heading for the door.

  Howard looked at Buckley. “We’ll need to start with the children and the elderly, then move on to the more able-bodied residents.”

  “So tell me this,” King said, folding his arms over his chest. “What happens if we refuse these inoculations?”