by Mark Rounds
“We have researched that issue, but getting a new vehicle is out of the question. Most of the trucks around here that fit our needs are in the hands of farmers who are husbanding them for harvest this fall. Our friends here have found a wrecked Dodge with a compatible motor, but they figure three days to swap it out. We need to leave faster than that.”
“We can help with getting you a place in Moscow,” said Capt Nixon. “We don’t have direct contact with that site, but you are authorized, when you get there, to tell a select number of them that we can provide medical supplies, communications, and intelligence support.”
“So what are your plans then?” asked Nixon.
“We will leave tomorrow morning using the Subaru and some contraption my wife has come up with,” said Chad. “We plan to skirt Othello, based on local information about the situation there. Apparently, there is another of these tribal drug clans building there. We figure that with the kids and all, we will be lucky to make twenty miles a day. So figure two weeks to ten days. It’s maddening; pre-Plague, we could have covered that distance in an afternoon.
“Anyway, tonight, some of us are going to help the BACA members that are headed back across the river. After that’s done, we wait for daylight and then we’re gone. A couple of BACA members will act as our guides on the back roads to the north of Othello.”
“Take care then,” said Nixon. “I’ll make a report to Col Antonopoulos. He sends his regards but things are building around here and his time is limited. We’ve had three more incidents with hidden cells of Slash users on base. Two were out-and-out sabotage attacks but one was another attempt to get at the three people we have in remission. Unfortunately, one of them was killed along with several members of our security detachment. None of the assailants survived.”
“No worries,” said Chad. “I agree. We don’t want to put our friend in that kind of jeopardy. Once we’re on the road, I will check in and let you know what’s happening.”
Capt Nixon broke the connection and looked up at Col Antonopoulos.
“Do you think he bought it, sir?”
“I think so,” said Col Antonopoulos. “I appreciate you doing this. We need them in Moscow, and I think Chad could figure out that I was lying. I hate doing this, but based on his first call, we actually have a lead on someone in the hierarchy of our adversary. If we can capture that person or a group of people in that position, we could interrogate them; maybe learn something more than tactical intelligence.
“I am morally conflicted at having to put a friend in harm’s way like this. I have spoken with our naval counterparts and I can have the alert drone overhead with Eight Hydra 70 rockets in an hour and change. I’ve spoken to Gen Buckley and, with some notice, I can have the Chinook with a platoon of Rangers from the 2nd battalion, 75th infantry. I can’t keep them on continuous alert but, if I have some warning, I can have them spooled up for that. I am counting you not to let us be surprised.
“All that said, I know I am putting six minor children in jeopardy to get at these bastards. That makes me feel more than a little dirty, and it’s affecting my sleep. I hope this works.”
June 5th, Friday, 3:04 am PDT
Vantage, WA
Dave was hunkered down in a blind near the Vantage Bridge. He was still almost a mile from the first of the stranded cars and further still from the first of the Infected controlling the bridge. He had spent most of the evening working his way to this blind and then observing the Infected living on the bridge. There were more of them than he imagined. Dave estimated that over a hundred and fifty individuals were on the bridge. Most of them were armed in some way. The lived in motor homes, trailers and even in built nests under stalled cars and in semi-trailers.
Since the Stricklands group had broken through on their way to Royal City, the Infected had started using sentries, but the bulk of the people on the bridge drank and partied late and slept late. Those who weren’t partying seemed sullen, resentful at having to stand sentry.
One of the BACA members, called Screwball by his brothers, claimed to be a former US Navy Seal. Dave had heard stories like that before, but this guy seemed to know what he was doing. He suggested that he and a friend work a rubber boat along the bridge, from support to support, so they didn’t have to fight the current so much. Then he was going to climb the bridge, place Dave’s shaped charge under the truck, use mountain gear to hang over the side of the bridge to get out of the blast, and blow the truck.
Dave had been skeptical, so Screwball had offered to climb any building he chose. Dave picked the blank side of a warehouse east of town and was more than a little surprised when Screwball was able to clamber up the side, using rivets and welds in the metal for hand-holds. It turned out that he routinely won bar bets climbing all manner of buildings and monuments.
Dave’s part of the plan was pretty simple. He was to watch the occupants of the bridge to see if anyone noticed the black boat working its way along the bridge; if they looked like they were about to sound the alarm, he was to take them out.
He was still over a mile away from where Screwball would be climbing the bridge but he was in a much better position to shoot from since the last time he had attempted long distance fire against the bridge dwellers. He was at a higher elevation than the level of the roadway and in a prone position. He had a sand bag to rest the rifle on, and he had even taken the time to build a suppressor from some PVC pipe sleeves. It wouldn’t silence the rifle completely, but it would take the sharpness from the report and spread out the sound so it sounded more like a thump than a crack. It wouldn’t last for too many shots, but hopefully, it wouldn’t take many.
Even using his optics, Dave could barely make out the boat in the shadow as it moved along the bridge supports. The current was quite swift and twice it looked like they would be washed downstream, but finally they got to the right support. Screwball had a little trouble on the lower part of the column where things were damp and somewhat slick, but as soon as he got to the drier part of the support, the rough surface provided more than enough handholds.
Dave shifted his attention to the bridge. There was one sentry sitting on top of the semi-trailer whose field of view did not cover where Screwball and his friend were. The one that concerned him was walking around, either restless or trying to keep moving to stay awake. His random circuits included occasionally peering over the edge of the bridge. There was little light and most of Screwball’s route was in shadow, but Dave couldn’t rule out that he might catch motion out of the corner of his eye, so with each circuit, Dave watched him very closely. As Screwball reached the top of the support and began to work his way out on to the girders, he disturbed a nesting pigeon. The bird made a huge ruckus and the sentry immediate went over to look.
Dave had been tracking the sentry and as soon as he stopped to look over the edge, Dave stroked the trigger. The round took the Infected in the back of the head and flipped him over the railing to fall past a startled Screwball. The report of the rifle sounded more like a piece of debris hitting the support than a rifle shot.
Dave was already searching for his next target as he worked the bolt of the big rifle. The sentry on top of the semi stirred from his place and started to gather his gear, and Dave could see him calling out. Whether it was the name of the other sentry or an alarm, he wasn’t sure. He stroked the trigger again and the top of the sentry’s head exploded like an overripe melon, his remains slumping back onto the top of the trailer.
Screwball was not idle. As soon as Dave began firing, he dispensed with noise discipline, clambered over the edge of the bridge, and took cover next to a truck with a camper shell that was perhaps twenty feet away from the truck he intended to blow. He removed the shaped charge from his knapsack. It was deceptively small. Dave had fastened it to a slightly concave piece of sheet metal that was nine inches on a side which was then fixed to a one foot square piece of ¾” plywood to keep the charge pointed in just the right direction.
As Screwba
ll was focused on clearing the charge, he was not paying attention to the camper shell. Unbeknownst to him, it was occupied and there was now enough noise that one of the occupants opened the lift gate of the shell.
Dave had been watching however and as soon as a human form was visible, he fired. The round was supersonic so the first thing Screwball heard was the crack overhead from the bullet passing. The round passed through the shoulder and neck of the man trying to exit the camper shell, and then carried through the camper shell and through the cab shattering the windshield.
Screwball first flattened himself against the truck and then pulled forward the silenced MP-5 that was hanging from a sling around his back. He then popped up and peered inside the camper to see a frightened infected female holding a revolver trained at the opening. He fired a three burst that put her down and made no more sound than that of hands clapping.
Dave fired at one of the bridge people who showed more sense by trying to see what was going on by peering quickly around a corner and then retreating. Unfortunately, that last shot passed the limit of abuse that the homemade suppressor could take and the end exploded in a shower of partially molten plastic fragments. The round went wild and Dave had to spend precious seconds clearing away the remaining pieces of hot plastic, heedless of the burns they were inflicting on his hands.
Screwball threw caution to the winds, grabbed his charge, and sprinted across the intervening twenty feet to the pickup blocking the road and dove for the pavement. He slid and ended up under the truck that was his target. He could see now at close range that they had chocked the wheels with cinder blocks so that a bump and go with a truck would not easily dislodge it. He placed the charge under the differential, just the way he had practiced, and then looked up. He saw two sets of feet and knees from bridge dwellers who were taking shelter behind the truck and quickly whipped the MP5 around to put a three shot burst into each set of knees. They both collapsed, grasping their legs in pain. The biker double tapped them both, armed the charge, and began crawling out. He was in the process of pulling himself to his feet when a size twelve combat boot attached to an equally large infected bridge dweller connected with his arm, knocking him flat on his back. Screwball was sure he had met his end as the only thing he could really focus on was the barrel of the twelve gauge pointed at his head.
June 5th, Friday, 3:06 am PDT
Vantage, WA
Connor Strickland had been acting as Dave’s spotter but there had been precious little to spot as Dave methodically worked from one target to the next. Then the suppressor exploded and only the fact that he had been using binoculars saved his eyes. He quickly recovered and glanced over at Dave, who was struggling with the chunks of plastic still melted onto the end of his rifle. Connor shifted his focus back to the binoculars and saw Screwball on the ground with a pump shotgun pointed at his head.
Connor shifted from the binoculars to Chris’s M-1 which had become his weapon of choice and aimed, making sure to raise the barrel well above the head of the target, and began a careful measured fire. At this range, the 30-06 was just barely super-sonic and as such was as not accurate as he would like. None the less, the rounds impacting the truck around his target did distract the infected bridge dweller for a couple of crucial seconds.
Screwball used the distraction to his advantage, drawing his Smith and Wesson Model 686 from under his vest and firing all seven shots into the midsection of his attacker knocking him off his feet. Screwball got up, holstered the now empty revolver and pulled the MP-5 around to the front. Then he double tapped his assailant with a three round burst and took off for his entry point. He grabbed a nylon runner off of his harness and clipped it around the guard rail with a carabineer. He took another runner, clipped it to that and then his harness and climbed over the side to hang just out of sight. When he was sure he was out of the blast radius, Screwball pulled the radio controlled detonator from his pocket and thumbed the arming switch and then, in quick succession, the detonator.
There was a loud crack, rather than an explosion as in the movies, and then he saw the end of the pickup rise in the air and fall over the railing, the momentum of the blast carrying it over the edge and into the water. Thankfully, it cleared the rubber raft of his waiting friend.
The blast was the signal for the rest of the twenty-three riders that were headed back across the bridge to start up. They had quietly walked the bikes down the hill to the last place where the rising Columbia Gorge concealed the highway from the bridge. The distance was almost two miles from where the blast had cleared the bridge and now people were starting to wake up and respond.
Dave had finally cleared his rifle and began shooting the most likely targets. Connor laid aside his empty rifle and began to spot for Dave, calling where his shots were landing.
Dave had gone through fifteen more rounds of his precious .338 when the first of the BACA chapter reached the road block. Several were firing pistols one handed as they went through, hitting little but keeping people’s heads down. By pre-arrangement, one of the bikers stopped for a second in front of Screwball. Screwball gave his friend down in the boat a thumbs-up. The man in the rubber raft cast off, to be picked up later downstream.
Screwball clambered onto the back of the waiting bike and began spraying the barricades with short bursts of fire from the MP-5 as they rode through the maze of vehicles that were scattered up and down the bridge.
As soon as the last of the bikers was across the bridge, Dave rolled over and winked at Connor.
“Damned good shooting,” said Dave smiling.
“I didn’t hit anything,” said Connor disappointedly.
“At this range, it was good shooting not to hit Screwball and to get close enough to distract the target. You did good young man, and likely saved Screwball’s life. Let’s go back and see about breakfast.”
Chapter 5
June 5th, Friday, 7:25 am PDT
Royal City, WA
“Just what the heck is that?” asked Chad, looking at the contraption his wife showed him.
“Well, we had to improvise,” said Mary defensively. “Nobody was trading for bicycles. I tried but they are worried about the scarcity of gas. So Sparky came up with this idea. I helped him find some of the parts.”
“Actually,” said Sparky, “the design is as much her idea as it was mine.”
“OK, so explain to me how we are going to use it,” asked Chad. “I can see that it’s a trailer.”
“That’s right,” said Mary. “We were able to get an old stock trailer for a bag of split peas. Then we cut down the trailer to the frame and the metal floor. After a test run, we built a safety rail around the edge.”
“And the chairs, office chairs?” asked Chad incredulously.
“We tried some seats out of abandoned cars but they were too heavy,” said Sparky. “So we took some office chairs, added some crude seatbelts, welded them so they wouldn’t turn, took the wheels off, and welded the base to the trailer. Your wife suggested we put firing rests around the edge so we could fire weapons if we had to.”
“OK, I can see that,” said Chad, “But the bed?”
“Chris can’t remain seated too long,” said Mary. “Otherwise he ends up in considerable pain, so we will strap him to the cot that we welded in the middle of the trailer and surround him with whatever supplies we decide to take.”
“But what will tow this … thing?” asked Chad. “The truck will need a new motor. The Grease Monkey said they found an old block and figured they could use parts from the current engine but getting it in with the tools we have will take at least three days which we don’t have.”
“We will tow it with the Subaru,” said Mary sweetly.
“Loaded up, that thing will have at least a ten thousand pound draw weight,” said Chad. “The Subaru can tow three thousand pounds max. This will burn up the engine on the Subaru and no way will we be able to get up to highway speeds.”
“We will have to take it slow,” said Ma
ry. “The Grease Monkey said we will have to watch the temperature and stop for cool-downs regularly. He figures that if you keep the speed below twenty-five and drive in second gear we should do fine.”
“But if we drive in the low gears, won’t our gas mileage suffer?” asked Chad. “We’re kind of low on gas right now.”
“The Grease Monkey says that there are still hundreds of gallons of gas in the tanks of this gas station,” said Mary. “It’s just that with no power, there was no way to get at it. He figures it’s best to use soon as it will go bad after a while and there isn’t enough Stabil in the whole county to treat what’s left. So he rigged up a bilge pump out of an abandoned boat to run off the generator in the Subaru. Our tank is full as are all the jerry cans and all the BACA bikes left with a full tank.”
“Dear,” said Chad shaking his head wonderingly, “you have always impressed me with your combination of being able to think out of the box and then get the details right.”
“Well, Heather helped a lot with that and the Grease Monkey did all the car stuff,” said Mary.
“Yeah, but you honcho’ed the whole idea,” said Chad wonderingly. “I think this will work.”
“Great,” said Mary brightly. “Heather has made a list of the stuff we will take. Sparky and the Grease Monkey are staying on here and they said they would get the truck back together and keep an eye on what we leave behind.”
“How soon can we be on the road?” asked Chad.
“Amber, Heather, and the kids have been reassessing and repacking our stuff,” said Mary. “Some of the heavier food stuffs and some of your tools just weigh too much. If you can come help us make some decisions, we could probably be packed by noon?”
