“Shit, I know them,” Grimes added. “A bit obnoxious if you ask me. Very full of themselves … Whoa! Look at this, guys.” He was standing over an open gun crate, next to a cot. Behind both at least twenty more crates lined the back wall. Grimes withdrew a brand-new AK-103. “Haji has some new toys, brought to you from Kalashnikov Concern in Udmurtia, Russia straight to Stowell, Texas, all for the purpose of killing Americans.”
“Hope these Hajis are shitting mud bricks about now, realizing Paradise wasn't all they were told,” Gunny said, adding his usual colorful commentary.
“But why so many crates of guns for”—Frank looked up to the ceiling for help with the mental calculations—“fifteen terrorists?”
“Here’s the answer.” Aimes held up a gallon-sized, plastic zip-lock bag, stuffed full of little round pills. “There must be several thousand Ampes here.”
“I don’t get it. Are they selling drugs too?”
“No,” Frank answered, not looking up from his examination of the papers on the desk, “ISIS commonly jacks-up their suicide fighters on Captagon before they go into battle. That way they feel indestructible and less likely to run away from their mission of blowing themselves up, or in this case, shooting people.”
“Then, it looks like we’ve stumbled onto the tip of a much larger arrow.” Grimes mused, while pointing to each crate. “Fuck me! That's over two hundred Kalashnikovs. In our little town? They're planning an invasion.”
“Precisely!” Frank added. “Hello.” From the mess of loose papers he pulled a single printout. It was a satellite image of his compound, with his name written on the top. Below this was, “AK-74 #AB 29 3 001,” and below this, “Remington 7MM #E6875669,” and “Beretta 92FS #BER314397Z.”
“Major?” Aimes said over Frank's shoulder, “Are those the serial numbers of your guns? How the hell did they get that kind of intel?”
“Yes, and I don’t know. My AK has the ATF stamp, so the feds would know about that one … but even if they somehow got access to ATF records … you got me on the others.”
“That's why I bought my guns from third parties. No reason to let our government know about my private collection,” Grimes offered gruffly. He sat on the cot, adjusted the splint on his broken leg, and then rose to join the others.
“We have a bigger issue than the government trying to grab our guns, Lieutenant.” Frank examined a yellow pad with lots of scribbles, to the left of the microphone. At the top of the page was “Phase Three” and below it, lots of doodlings of palm trees, little pig silhouettes with “Abdul” written inside each, and dozens of furry looking things, which he suspected were women's pubic areas.
“This guy must have been some sort of perv,” Grimes said, echoing his own thoughts.
Frank tapped on a hand-drawn box on the yellow pad, surrounding five sets of numbers, expecting Grimes knew what they were. He was the electronics expert among them.
“Frequencies,” he said decisively. “Specifically, they’re five different ham radio frequencies on the 20-meter band.”
Frank twisted the volume control on the transceiver, and the static blared.
All three stared at the bisecting line’s location on the large display.
Frank wrote this number on the top of the pad.
“When we're done here, I can monitor these frequencies from my setup at home.”
Frank turned to Grimes. “Thanks, Lieutenant. That's what I was hoping you’d do.” He returned his attention to the pad. “Now what do both of you make of the date, July 8th? There's a question mark by it, as if Hassan, wasn’t sure about it.”
“They obviously chose our Independence Day as the day to blast their nukes …” Grimes mused out loud.
“My bet, it's the date they're getting more fighters. And when they arrive, they have guns and Ampes for each.”
“That's good, Gunny. I think you may be corr—” Frank stopped thumbing through the yellow pad and cocked his head at a sheet of paper in between its pages, folded in half. He pulled it out and opened it. A satellite map, like the one he’d found of his own compound—only bigger, with many buildings on a triangular section of land, bounded by large fencing and a navigable river. On top of the page was typed “Abdul Raheem Farook,” and his address in Florida.
“Do you suppose he's the pig or the twat?” Aimes quipped.
“I …” Frank caught a hand-written note on the bottom corner of the page: a set of numbers. His eyes flashed to the frequency he just written on the top of the pad. It was the same. “I suspect this is the location of the head pig.”
Chapter 15
July 5th
Lexi & Travis
“I wore these damn shoes for you, Father!”
They woke to a vehicle zooming past them at high speeds. Lexi had been dreaming that they were back at the accident and she was yelling at her father, who was pinned to his seat, bleeding to death. He seemed completely uninterested in her attire, which was true before the accident. But this time, in her dream, she was yelling at her father for not noticing her dress and boots. Before he died, he told her, “You’ll always look beautiful to me, no matter what you wear.”
She smiled at this lingering thought. It wasn’t real, but it felt as real as anything she could let her mind settle on concerning their father.
“I’m hungry, Lex,” Travis whimpered.
“Hang on, Travis, let me just—” Lexi stood up, intending to sneak a peek and see if the coast was clear, but she fell over as her feet shrieked in pain. She couldn’t go any farther, not until she did something about them.
It felt like late morning and the spot they had found themselves in wasn’t too bad; it was protected and yet they could see the highway and anybody searching for them. They’d have to stay there a while longer.
“I need to fix my feet first. Why don’t you peek and see if anyone is coming?”
His head bobbed up and down in agreement, before he stood up and stuck his head tentatively outside the canopy of green.
Lexi tried to slip out of one of her boots, but it felt like she was ripping skin off her foot in the process.
“Damn it to hell!” she cursed at herself, letting the first one fall, then the next. Why did she have to pick the most uncomfortable shoes in her closet to drive home a point? Hiking boots would have done the trick.
She didn’t dare look at her feet. But after building up her courage, she did, and was terrified by what she saw. Both were swollen like grapefruit. Each heel had been overtaken by two giant blisters: one swollen like a gorged tick, the other already popped and oozing. But the most grotesque was the gauze. Most of it had come off in the boot. Her right foot was still connected to the boot by a bloody umbilical—that’s my blood. It had dried like an epoxy that became part of her skin. An inch or so of gauzed skin reluctantly came loose when she pulled harder, leaving behind a rawness that made her stomach turn once more.
She didn’t think she could do this.
Usually, when she felt completely out of control and her only option was to cry, that’s what she did. And someone, normally her aunt, arrived to help her pick up the pieces. This time, no one would come and save her. Her father and mother were dead. Her aunt and uncle were a couple of thousand miles away—as good as dead. And to make matters worse, her brother was completely dependent upon her. As much as she wanted to take her seat on her treasured pity-potty, she had to figure something out, on her own.
It took a while, but she gradually worked off the remaining bandages, leaving most of her skin intact. She even managed to lightly clean her destroyed feet, being very judicious with their water. Although they had stocked up a little at the house from which they had made their swift late-night getaway, she didn’t know if they’d get another chance before reaching Abe’s place.
Her bare feet almost felt good, wiggling dry in the warm morning air.
She wondered if there was anything in the Prepper Brothers book that dealt with first aid, especially blisters. Leaning
over to her father’s bug-out bag, snorting again at the strange name, she dragged it toward her by a shoulder strap.
It was the first time she had actually taken the time to really examine the book. Yesterday, she had hurriedly flipped through its pages, stopping to catch only a few sentences. This time, she carefully thumbed through each page, letting the words tumble through her fingers from the back to the front, stopping and consuming a few paragraphs every couple of pages. On the book’s second page, normally just a blank filler page, there was some writing she hadn’t seen.
She glanced in stunned silence as the words connected, making sentences in her brain. When she finally grasped that this was a message from her dead father, her head flew back as if she had been slapped, and she looked around as if someone else might read it before she did.
Travis was sitting cross-legged in front of her, guzzling water from one of the many full water bottles they’d found last night, like a horse gorging itself after a long walk in the desert.
She read.
Dearest Lex,
I had always intended to teach you myself how to prepare for an emergency or something far worse, but here we are, another unfulfilled promise of mine. If you’re reading this, it’s because we didn’t make it to Florida. And so I’m leaving this book as a substitute for me, to help you and Travis survive the next few days, before you make it to one of the addresses I’ve left with you.
I’m sorry I wasn’t there for you and Travis. I purposely stayed away to protect both of you.
I will love you always,
Dad
Lexi closed the book and looked at it again, blinking back tears. How could she have any left?
After a couple of minutes, having regained her composure, she whispered thanks to her dead father and opened to the back of the book under the lists section for “On The Road.” Under “The First 24 Hours Shopping List,” the fourth item down was apple cider vinegar. This had been on her own shopping list, given to her by her father, although at the time, she didn’t know why.
In parentheses, beside it was “uses”: After “Cleaning” and “Remove Stains,” there they were. “Injuries” and, equally good, “Heartburn.”
“Hand me the vinegar,” she directed Travis, who was studying the food choices in her Hello Kitty bag. He held the bottle out to her, his eyes begging for the go-ahead to dig into one of the items inside. He’d even eat the tuna at this point.
She unscrewed the top and took a whiff, crumpling her face at the smell and considered what she was about to do. Lexi held the bottle out to the air as if for inspection and said, “Here’s to you, Daddy.”
She took a gulp. “Oh God, I’m gonna hurl.” She slapped the dirt with her other hand in protest, waiting for the nastiness to fade.
She’d live with the heartburn.
“Do we have any paper towels in there?”
Travis handed her a small napkin from Simpson’s World Market. He had grabbed a few of them when no one was looking.
She grimaced away the taste, took the little cloth and used it to dab a bit of vinegar on each of her wounds. Each dab was like jamming a hot poker into the already damaged area. But after the pain quickly subsided, each actually felt better. Once more, she wrapped each foot in gauze. When it was completed, she gingerly slipped on the monstrous boots and tentatively tried out her handiwork. Perhaps she could actually go on, although she certainly needed new shoes soon if they were going to make it to Abe’s in the next day or two.
Now some food.
They needed something more substantial than the beef jerky they finished yesterday. Surprisingly, Travis was all-in for the two chicken, noodle and vegetable MREs from their father’s bag, instead of one of the items they had bought from the market. She had no idea how long they had been in there, but heard they would practically last forever. It was pretty cool that she only had to pour water into one package and that would heat the packets of chicken. Both their stomachs growled in anticipation.
While they waited, she gave Travis the condiment bags to play with—each contained Skittles candy, and she investigated the other food packets. It only took a few minutes and then she poured the deliciously hot contents of each bag into their cups; Travis had pulled out spoons and jabbed one in each cup, so that each was standing at attention.
They scooped food into their mouths, mmm-ing their delight, and were done in seconds.
While Travis cleaned their cups, she packed up their bags, figuring they’d eat the rest of the MRE’s contents on the road. Lexi wanted to get moving if there’d be any hope of making it to Abe's house in the next day or two.
A mile further down the highway, while popping the last couple of candies in their mouths, they saw a sign for Greensville. She didn't want to stop, but her feet were hurting a lot. They still had some cash. Maybe this town had a shoe store.
The fire’s smell arrived before it was even visible. Neither gave it any thought until breathing became difficult and then they noticed the smoke was all around them.
The main drag bisected the “downtown,” and they stood there, dumbstruck. It looked like one of the nuclear bombs had gone off here. The street was carpeted in debris, surrounded by several smoldering burnt-out cars. Over half the stores were leveled and several were still glowing. Their eyes watered from the thick haze which hung around them like a soupy morning fog.
“What happened?” Travis asked.
“It was a riot,” crackled a male voice behind them, causing Lexi to jump. She turned to face a very old man resting on a cane—there sure are a lot of old men with canes in Florida. “Ma and me hid out last night while a bunch of kids looted and rioted our town. That’s our home.” He pointed to a white house with a wrap-around porch and a white picket fence. “I saw you two out here staring and thought I'd come out and see if I could help.”
“Hi, I'm Travis Broadmoor.” The boy thrust his hand out. “And that's my sister, Lex, I mean Lexi.”
“Do you have a shoe store?” Lexi barked, not moving to reward the old man's offered hand with hers.
“Sotheby’s shoes. And I think it’s one of the few that didn’t burn down. I'll walk you there.” He thrust his cane into the pavement and lurched forward one step.
Great, she thought as the man hobbled one slow step after another.
Their pace was painfully sluggish. This could take all day.
“That's all right, I'm sure we can find it.” Lexi burst forward.
Her brother pulled her back. “Thanks, mister, for being so nice to us.”
They waited for him to catch up. “Don't you have any police around to stop these kids, as you called them, from destroying the town?”
“Haven't seen the police since the bombs went off.”
“You mean the new-cue-lur bombs, right?” Travis offered, following along.
“Nuclear, Travis,” she corrected.
He shot her a scowl.
“Did you see any mushrooms?” the old man croaked at both of them, but he was looking at Lexi. She remembered seeing one in fact, but bit her tongue.
After a minute of no answers, the old man continued, “One of our neighbors, a ham radio operator, said that there were multiple bombs exploded around the coast and two in the sky. That’s what killed everything electric. We have an old Westinghouse that still works, but so far, all we're hearing is mostly static.
“Say, you two really look like you could use a shower and some food. Ma will be cooking a big meal, always too much for us. After we get you some shoes, you wanna come back with me? I have a gravity shower set up outside that you can use; already rigged some curtains around it for Ma’s privacy.”
Lexi turned the offer over in her head before answering. Although it would do them good to have a shower and a big meal before they continued their journey, she wanted to get more miles under foot. Yet she was already feeling fatigued. Maybe after finding shoes they could rest some more. And maybe he could help them find bicycles. She just hated the idea of d
epending on anyone, most especially a stranger. They had depended on their father, who was family, and look where that got them.
“Can we, Lex?” Travis begged.
“Okay, thank you,” she said curtly.
Walking through town, it looked worse than when they were outside looking in. She remembered seeing video footage her aunt had showed her of when her hometown Wildcats won the championship and the town went nuts. Some of the students overturned and burned a police car. Her aunt and uncle were very agitated about the whole thing complaining that the kids came to school here, from privilege, and yet they rioted and destroyed property from a celebration over a sport. Lexi remembered the image of the overturned burned-out car and the garbage in the streets. This town looked far worse than that.
“Dammit! Looks like they got the bakery. Ol’ Hoffsteadler will want blood for that one.”
Lexi saw a smoldering lot with a giant oven in the middle of it and a pile of burnt rubble. Literally, everything had burned but the oven. Any other day, she’d laugh at the irony.
“Looks like they spared your shoe store, though …”
Lexi excitedly gawked at the brick facade on the other side of the street. Its lofty sign read Sotheby’s Shoes. Then her heart sank. Its two front windows and double doors were missing; the looters had already had their way with it. She was starting to feel desperate, like she’d almost be willing to steal shoes off of someone already wearing her size.
Her feet crunched on little bits of shattered glass; images of their accident flooded her mind. It seemed like it had happened weeks ago, but it was only yesterday.
She withdrew the shotgun she had captured from Rodie last night and secured her bag around both shoulders.
Two of the front shelves were overturned and boxes and shoes were strewn everywhere. She stepped around them and walked through the women’s section, which was mostly bare. She headed toward the back of the store, where the children's shoes were kept. She may have been 22, but she was “petite” and could actually wear a large kid’s size, so she sometimes shopped in the kids’ section. Past Infants, she saw a display with one boy’s hiking boot, which looked like the correct size. She laid the shotgun down and then lifted her right foot and compared boot print to boot print. It looked good. She had considered getting tennis shoes, but those were all gone. There were only two boxes below the boot display. The first box held tiny boots made for what looked like a three-year-old, but the other had the mate to this one. Bingo.
Highway: A Post-Apocalyptic Tale of Survival Page 9
