She wiped the tear off his cheek and ruffled his hair.
“Remember, latch the door, and replace the bar once I go upstairs. Don’t open it until I tell you it’s safe.”
Debbie slowly ascended the stairs once again. The late-afternoon sun filtered through shattered windows. The house that had once felt like a home for her and Jake was now a filthy, broken-down shell. Pieces of glass littered the floor. The smell at this level wasn’t much better than what she’d been living in for the last several months. The odor of rotting meat, sewage, and garbage hung in the air, so thick it left a rancid taste in her mouth.
Debbie made her way through the debris and approached the front doorway. The door had been ripped off its hinges. She paused in front of the mirror still hanging in the entryway and nearly dropped her shotgun at the sight.
“I am truly hideous,” she said.
Debbie pulled a tangled and matted handful of greasy auburn hair away from the side of her face. She turned sideways and studied her profile. Her body had lost nearly all its curves. The toned muscles and healthy shape she’d enjoyed before the power went out had all but disappeared. Even though they had enough food supplies to keep from going hungry, the lack of exercise and sunlight had taken their toll. Debbie decided that if they got out of Austin, at the first body of clean water they came to, she was taking a bath.
She left the mirror, inched toward the front doorway, and listened intently. Slowly, cautiously, she stepped through. A rottweiler came out of nowhere, snarled, and lunged for her. She screamed, jumped out of the way, raised the shotgun, and shot it with both barrels as it passed.
She ducked back into the house and crouched behind what was left of her grandmother’s Queen Anne couch. “Way to be stealthy, Debbie,” she said as she scanned the street through the broken glass of her living room window.
No one came out of the other houses on the block. No one ran toward her waving a bloody ax. Zombies with lifeless eyes and tattered clothes were not moaning and reaching out for her as they limped down the street.
She laughed out loud. “Debbie, Debbie, Debbie. Your imagination is going to get you in trouble.”
She broke open the action on the shotgun, removed the empties, and put in two fresh rounds from her pocket. She closed the action with a loud click. The sound boosted her courage. She stood and headed back outside.
Debbie walked down the block, unprepared for the sights and smells that surrounded her. Rotting, putrefied mounds of flesh were everywhere. She had the stunning revelation that these lifeless chunks of bone, meat, and torn clothing used to be her neighbors. Hundreds of crows, ravens, and vultures were ripping away strips of meat. The drone of flies and yellow jackets was nearly deafening as they took advantage of the feast laid out before them.
She walked over one block. The scene was a mirror image of her street. The only evidence of life was the scavengers. All of the houses that hadn’t burned down had been broken into and thoroughly ransacked. There was no reason to go inside. Nothing could be gained by searching the broken-down cars that clogged the streets.
Debbie made her way back home. Tonight, she decided, she and Jake would gather up the survival items they’d need and start out on mountain bikes toward Uncle Nirsch’s ranch, eighteen hundred miles away.
Debbie reached the house, went downstairs, and knocked on the basement door.
“Jake, it’s Mom.”
Silence.
Now she was worried.
Debbie knocked louder. “Jake!”
Jake’s voice sounded small as it came through the heavy door. “Mom, is that you?”
“Yes, honey, open the door.”
Jake opened the door and jumped into Debbie’s arms, nearly knocking her over. He started chattering, his words coming out like a flood.
“I heard you scream! I was worried. I prayed for you. What happened? Are you okay? Was it bad guys?
“Hold it right there, little man. I’m fine. There was a mean dog and he tried to bite me, so I had to scare him off.” Debbie didn’t have the heart to tell him the dog had to be shot. He’d see enough death on their journey to Oregon.
“Hey, buddy. How would you like to go to your aunt and uncle’s house in Oregon?”
Jake couldn’t have hidden his excitement if he tried.
“You mean it, Mom? I just prayed and told Jesus I wanted to ride the horses and feed the chickens. He heard me!”
“Yes, Jake. Tonight we’ll leave for the ranch. We need to pack some things and get some sleep.”
“How long will it take us to get there? Will we be there in time for the baby calves?”
“I don’t think we’ll be there till late summer or early fall, honey. We’re going to ride our bikes and walk. It will take us a long time.”
Jake thought about this for a minute. “That’s probably better,” he said. “I didn’t get Adam or Jillian a birthday present.”
Debbie was proud of Jake. He was a sweet boy, always thinking of others. She so wished his dad could have seen him grow up. She thought back to the day her husband left for his last tour of duty. Tears flooded her eyes.
Tom had stood at the curb in front of Austin Bergstrom International Airport and pulled Debbie close. “You need to be strong for me, Debbs,” he said. “Jake needs you to be strong. I am sure I’ll be back, but if I’m not, you can’t cry for me. I have a job to do. Every man, woman, and child in this country is counting on me. I am choosing to do this. You need to promise me you’ll be strong for Jake.”
She could still picture him standing so clearly in the Texas sun.
“Promise me, Debbs. I need to hear you say it.”
“I promise.”
“If I don’t make it back this time, you need to move on with your life for Jake’s sake. I want you to take your maiden name back and find a good father for Jake.”
“No, I can’t do…I just can’t promise.”
“You need to promise me. You have to move on. I don’t want you thinking about me every time you introduce yourself to someone. I need to hear this, Debbs.”
“I promise,” she managed to whisper through the lump in her throat.
He reached up and wiped away her tears, kissed her, and walked into the airport, turning just inside the double entry doors and blowing her a kiss. It was the last time she ever saw him.
Debbie swallowed the painful memory and made her and Jake some supper: canned meat, Ritz crackers with peanut butter and jelly, canned peaches for dessert.
“You better get some sleep, buddy,” she said when they were done. “We have a long way to go.”
“What about packing, Mom? You need my help.”
“I think I can handle it okay. Now brush your teeth and hit the sack.”
“Okay. But if you pack my stuff, don’t forget Blazer.”
Blazer was Jake’s toy horse. His Aunt Michelle had given it to him the year before for Christmas. She’d added explicit instructions on how to care for him. “You need to make sure he eats right,” Michelle had said. “Feed him every morning, let him run every day, and brush him before he goes to bed. Never forget about him or ever leave him behind. He’s counting on you to take care of him.” Jake took his aunt’s charge seriously. He was never far from Blazer.
“I’ll make sure Blazer is happy and that he has a good place to sit for our trip,” Debbie said. “Now go to bed.” She kissed her boy and started packing.
Debbie lay down and closed her eyes about 5:30, but sleep wouldn’t come. She was so full of anticipation for their journey—and full of fear and uncertainty. How could she drag a nine-year-old boy eighteen hundred miles across six states, with just the clothes on their backs and a few months’ worth of dry, tasteless food rations? What was out there? Was everyone else dead? Was she the only person who prepared for survival? What if her aunt and uncle weren’t on the ranch? What if they were still in D.C. when all this happened, whatever this was?
There really wasn’t a choice in the matter. Their wa
ter was going to run out eventually. As far as she could tell, there’d been no rain the whole time they’d been barricaded. It didn’t rain much in Austin anyway. And if it had rained, would the rain barrels she’d purchased do their jobs? Would the water be safe to drink? They had only so many iodine tablets. Was the rain radioactive? Was the air they were breathing radioactive? Did they already have some disease and not know it? Had America been invaded? Were they now at war and behind enemy lines?
She needed answers, and her Uncle Nirsch would have them. She just prayed they would make it and that her aunt and uncle would be there. Sleep finally overtook her exhausted mind and body. There were no dreams this night, just the nearly comatose state she needed to recharge for their journey.
She awoke with a start. Had she heard something? She checked her watch: 10:45 P.M.
“Well, I guess it’s time,” she muttered. She yawned and rubbed the sleep out of her eyes.
“Hello? Is somebody in there?”
Debbie froze. Fear tore at the corners of her mind, snapping her back into total consciousness. Someone was outside the door.
26
BOISE
APRIL 23
GARY REID STOOD IN THE MIDDLE OF THE I-84 OFF RAMP AT the entrance to Boise Idaho. He was dressed in his finest Armani suit and surrounded by several of his closest staff members. The word had come two days earlier from a Gowen Field airman. The person in charge of the United Collective in Idaho would arrive at 10 A.M. April 23, along with the first of the supply trucks.
Reid pulled out his grandfather’s pocket watch: 9:50. He returned it to his breast pocket and straightened his tie. He wanted to make a great first impression. He hoped they would see his value, that he would have some position of authority under their leadership. He knew things about several residents, including those who could make trouble over the help that was coming. Chad Ellison was first on the list. Reid had hated Ellison since high school. Katie had broken up with him just after their senior year and started dating Chad. Reid had never forgiven him for it. He was sure Katie still had feelings for him.
Another person on the list was Leo Moore, that arrogant pastor. Reid had given Moore an opportunity to gather his congregation and stage a proper welcome for the U.C., but Moore had refused. The pastor said he was hopeful the U.C. would bring relief to all those who were struggling but had reservations about the new government.
Reid looked up I-84 just as a black Chevy Suburban came into view, followed by a long line of cargo trucks. As the Suburban moved closer, more trucks appeared on the interstate in a never-ending parade. Reid straightened his tie again and held up his hand in greeting as the convoy came down the off ramp and rolled to a stop at his feet.
The Suburban’s driver got out and opened a rear door. A fifty-something man with a thick gray beard and wearing a dark green uniform emerged, followed by a younger, clean-cut man in a red uniform. The younger one walked up to Reid and held out his hand.
“My name is Corporal Evans, with the U.C. 31st,” he said. “This is my commanding officer, General Thorston.”
Reid introduced himself and extended his right hand. Evans grasped it firmly. Reid then extended his hand to Thorston. The general glanced down, then looked away.
“I am Mayor Reid,” he said to the general, fighting to keep his voice composed, “and on behalf of the citizens of Boise, Idaho, I would like to warmly welcome you to our city.”
Evans spoke to Thorston in German. The general nodded and waved his hand in the air as if shooing away an insect. He spoke a few words and, without waiting for a response, turned, walked back to the Suburban, and got in. The driver closed the door behind him and returned to his place behind the wheel.
“The general wishes to talk with you more in private,” Evans said. “For now he wants to get started setting up the perimeter. Is there somewhere we can go? Your home, perhaps?”
“Yes,” Reid said. “My home office is fine, but what do you mean by a perimeter?”
“The U.C. has had some trouble with bandits and roving gangs of a sort, so we have taken to establishing a defensive perimeter anywhere we are needed to help the people. Now if you will ride with us and show us the way to your home, we will get started.”
Reid joined Evans and Thorston in the back of the Suburban and the convoy began to slowly move into Boise. As they eased through the streets, Reid looked at all the people who had come out of their homes to watch him pass. He felt a surge of power and significance as he rode by. Most of the trucks broke off from the convoy, with the exception of one small cargo truck that followed close behind the Suburban.
When they pulled up to the mayor’s palatial home on the ninth hole of Falling Brook Golf Course, someone threw open the canvas at the back of the cargo truck. Armed soldiers began to pour out and enter his house. Reid started to protest and get out of the Suburban, but Thorston reached over, placed his leathery hand firmly on Reid’s arm, and shook his head. Reid tried again to protest and pull away. The general’s grip grew stronger.
“What are you doing?” Reid said. “This is my home!”
The general turned and addressed Evans, without releasing his grip on Reid’s arm. Evans nodded.
“The general would like me to inform you that he needs a place to live, and this home will serve his needs,” Evans said. “He says that you can cooperate, find another place to live, and have luxuries and favors that others do not, or you can continue to protest and be dealt with. If you wish to cooperate, then please show us into the house so we can discuss a few things.”
Reid sat back. So this was how it would be. He could do nothing to stop them. They had an army, after all. He was no longer in charge.
Through his entire political career, Reid had been adept at turning negative situations and into positives ones. This time, he decided, would be no different. It might not be what he was used to, but he would still have a station above everyone else in Boise.
He led them into his former study and closed the doors. Evans spoke with the general in German, then addressed Reid: “We will need a list of law enforcement officers, both city and county, along with their addresses.”
Reid walked across the study to a file cabinet, pulled a few files, and handed them to Evans.
“We will also need a phonebook and any personal information you may have about the clergy in any churches or religious organizations.”
Reid produced a phonebook and began telling Evans what he knew about pastors and their congregations, starting with Leo Moore. When Evans had compiled a list, he ushered Reid back to the Suburban. Several of the armed soldiers had gotten back into the truck. Both vehicles moved out, Reid leading the way to each address, starting with law enforcement.
Chad Ellison stood over a propane cook stove, a pan of tomato soup bubbling on the burner. He warmed his hands over the steamy broth, lost in a daydream. He was remembering winter days from his childhood. He’d come indoors after playing in the snow with his friends and find a hot bowl of tomato soup waiting for him, little oyster crackers floating on top and his mother standing next to the stove, removing another batch of gooey chocolate chip cookies from the oven.
“Tomato soup.” Chad grumbled. “What’s for lunch? Tomato soup. What’s for dinner? Tomato soup. Hey, what are we having tomorrow? Oh wait, let me guess: tomato soup.”
They’d eaten it for lunch and dinner for weeks, ever since they ran out of other canned food. They could’ve traded for other foods at the fairgrounds, but the cost would have been too much. The only valuable items they had in this day and age were their few guns and ammunition. Chad wasn’t about to trade those. He could live on the soup and the flavorless oatmeal they ate for breakfast each morning.
He’d tried to hunt a few times, but was unable to find any animals larger than mice or blackbirds, with the exception of a few stray cats. He was not about to eat cat. The deer, elk, turkeys, and rabbits that once populated the rich farmland in the Treasure Valley had been wiped out within a
month of the attacks. The saddest part was that most of the meat went to waste. Without electricity, no one was able to freeze the unused portions, and most people didn’t possess the skills to preserve meat by salting or smoking it.
Chad was ladling soup into a bowl when Rick and Earl rushed through the front door. When they were both in, Rick slammed it behind them, locked the deadbolt, and leaned against the wall, panting, while Earl closed the curtains.
“Whoa!” Chad said. “Slow down. What’s the rush?”
Rick slid down the wall and sat on the floor. Tears began to fill his eyes.
“They shot him,” he moaned. “They hit him in the head, and when he fell, they…they just shot him.”
“Shot who?” Chad said. “What are you talking about? Who shot him?”
Rick and Earl began talking over the top of each other. Chad held up his hand. “Hold it! One at a time. Rick, I want you to start at the beginning and tell me what happened.”
Rick wiped his eyes with his sleeve and took a few deep breaths before speaking.
“We went to see Grammy and Pops again this morning. When we were coming back, we saw some of those trucks that came into town this morning, driving by us. When we were walking by the church, one of the trucks pulled up, and a bunch of guys with rifles got out. Pastor Moore came out. One of the guys carrying a clipboard handed him a piece of paper. He said they knew that these certain guns were in the house, and that Pastor Moore would need to bring them out. Pastor Moore went in, and came back a couple minutes later carrying a shotgun and pistol. He handed them to the guy with the clipboard. The clipboard guy looked at them closely, then waved at the others, and they ran into the church. Pastor Moore kept asking what they wanted and why were they going into the church.
A few minutes later the soldiers came out carrying several large bags. Pastor Moore shouted at one of them and grabbed his arm. The bag he was holding fell. Several song books and Bibles fell on the ground. Another soldier hit Pastor Moore in the head with his rifle and knocked him down. When he started to get back up, the soldier…”
Collective Retribution Page 16
