by Dave Lund
Eh, screw’em all. Catch and release, the turds go to prison then come out and go back to slinging dope, stealing shit, to their old gangs with new skills learned from the other turds in prison …
Bexar’s focus was ripped forward by the child that stumbled out of the house and fell off the porch face-first into the yard. Without a word he plunged the heavy blade into the back of her skull. Dark, pus-filled blood seeped out from the girl’s ruined skull, staining the snow. Bexar rocked the knife back and forth to get it loose and turned in time to see big brother come off the porch. Turning quickly, Bexar straight-armed the teenager in the chest and away from him, took two steps and planted the knife into the flat, unfocused right eye, cratering the socket, and popping the eyeball like a large zit.
Wiping the blade off on the teenager’s filthy jeans, Bexar stepped back onto the porch and tapped on the door again, waiting and listening with focus this time, but nothing stirred. Slowly stepping into the house, Bexar swept the dark corners in the house with his small flashlight. The dried-out remains of what was probably a large dog greeted him in the middle of the living room, the carpet stained dark with blood. It was hard to tell what it had been, but the kids’ last meal appeared to have been their friendly family pet.
Turning right, Bexar opened the interior door to the garage, stepped through all the piled, boxed, and random storage of knick-knacks that families everywhere relegate to the garage instead of throwing away, pulled the release and lifted the garage door. The kids still lay motionless in the snow, the radius of dark clotted blood expanding from their heads.
Light filtered through the open garage door, and the search for a gas can was on. No mower, no shovels, no nothing … Bexar glanced through the window on the back wall and into the backyard where a shed stood open, lawn mower visible in the shadows. Tilting his head back, Bexar looked at the ceiling, closed his eyes, and took a deep breath. Stupid mistakes are found in the details and those details will kill you. Chivo’s words rang in his head. Bexar knew Chivo was right, and if he was going to live long enough to scoop up his wife into his arms and disappear to somewhere safe with his family, the details mattered. He headed out to the shed that he should have looked for before going in the house.
A few minutes later, Bexar placed a big plastic fuel can down at the end of the driveway. His goal was to gather enough for thirty gallons per truck, what he guessed would be a full tank of gas for each. This can contained five gallons out of the sixty he needed to account for. Trudging across the snow-covered lawn to the next house, this time Bexar walked through the backyard to check for a shed. No joy. With a deep breath, he walked around the low brick wall on the porch of the patio-style home, pulled the screen door open and checked the door handle.
Coronado, CA
“Chief, we have a plan, well, two plans really.” Kirk looked at Davis, who produced a piece of copy paper with a crude sketch on it.
“Sorry Chief, I tried calling Battalion I.T., but apparently PowerPoint won’t run on these computers the Navy use.”
Aymond stared at Davis, expression flat. It was funny; he knew it was funny, and if the situation wasn’t as bad as it was he probably would have laughed, quietly.
Davis nudged Kirk, who continued, “Anyways, it isn’t enough that we scuttle the ships, we have to deny any further access for any possible ships in the future. We have to run two of them into the channel by the sub docks, get them turned and down them right at the narrowest point. Like a blockade that can’t move until the hulls are cut for scrap.”
“OK, not a bad idea, but an op like that would take two full teams, plus support. Maybe launch from the lockout of a converted missile submarine or a team insertion with a flight of Little Birds. How do you accomplish this task with no support, not enough men, and without getting our Chinese neighbors up our ass?”
Kirk flipped the piece of paper over. “That is where things get a little sporty, Chief. This op is going to be run sort of loose, but we’ll wear our PT belts so you can promise the colonel we’ll all be safe.”
That drew a smirk from Aymond. The reflective PT belt, a glowing safety-band of freedom and safety, was loved by all with a rank of O-5 or higher, and hated by everyone who pulled a trigger for a living. “OK Kirk, break it down and tell me how you’re going to achieve the impossible.”
“We’re Marines, Chief, we are the impossible.”
“Fucking Rah, Chief.”
The smirk was gone. Aymond was back to business, and the other two members of the team knew it. Kirk produced a notebook and started walking Aymond through each step and detail of the operation plan.
Cortez, CO
“This is it; all that I could scrape together, even what was left from our ambushed school bus.”
While Chivo was out scrounging for ammo, and Cliff had done whatever it was that super-spooks did, Bexar had unhappily spent the morning kicking in doors of the houses in the neighborhood to pull together enough plastic fuel cans to give each truck thirty extra gallons, which he’d syphoned out of the abandoned vehicles ruined by the EMP. It was still better than dealing with Cliff.
Bexar looked at the plastic tote of ammo on the floor of the cold garage. He knew that Chivo would have found more if there was more, but the pickings looked slim when dividing it between three people for two separate journeys. Now returned from his morning-long scavenging expedition through the town, it was time to prep the truck he would use for the long journey ahead.
According to Cliff, they were roughly five hundred miles from Groom Lake, and over nine hundred miles from the SSC. The irony that each were paths the other had taken was not lost on the group. After the dust-up two days prior, which Cliff seemed to shrug off with no emotional attachment, the atmosphere was serious but nearly giddy.
“We have the shorter route; we can split it in a way to help you out. I have to warn you, Albuquerque is a cast-iron bitch.” Chivo was completely serious; a massive swarm of the undead had collapsed a bridge out from under their group, killing Apollo and Lindsey in the process. Even thinking about that day and their “visit” to the strip club made Bexar feel a little hungover. Like the few times he’d visited strip clubs before the EMP hit, he’d immediately regretted the decision. The undead stripper had wanted a piece of him, and he and Chivo had drank too much. Nothing all that different from the old days, except the stripper was a reanimate and wanted me for more than crispy twenties.
Bexar grunted and walked to the door. “You two figure it out; I’m going to get the trucks ready.”
They had two trucks, both of them ragged-out pieces of crap, and only one of them with a windshield. I bet the jackass will take the truck with the windshield, after we came up here and saved his ass. Bexar took another deep breath; he had to control his emotions. It was amazing that Chivo did it so well; it was like there was a light switch in his brain. Emotions on, emotions off, emotions on, emotions off, wipe on, wipe off … “You’re losing your damned mind, Bexar,” he whispered to himself.
Kneeling down, he checked the tire pressure in the first tire before wondering how he would put air in the tires if they were low. He couldn’t fathom trying to pump a tire up with a bicycle pump. Maybe they could find some of those CO2-cartridge-fired air pumps or a bunch of cans of fix-a-flat, but Bexar had always used the air compressor in his garage or at a service station to air up tires. His Wagoneer had a small air compressor that ran off of leads to the vehicle’s battery, but that truck was destroyed and gone forever.
Bexar raised the hood, giving up on the internal debate about tires for the time being to check the oil and radiator fluid. While going door to door for fuel a few hours prior, Bexar had had the foresight to snag a few quarts of oil from one of the garages. Soon each truck was topped off, fueled, and had spare fuel cans in the beds of the trucks with sections of garden hose for syphoning tied to them.
The rag-tag war-wagons are ready. Now for ammo, food, water, and blankets … an extra few of them if we end up with the w
onder truck with no windshield. Bexar kicked the snow off his boots and walked back into the garage to find Chivo sitting on the floor, filling magazines for their M4s one round at a time.
“Where’s Cliff?”
“Upstairs mano, packing for his cruise I guess.”
SSC, Ennis, TX
Bra firmly in place, hair pulled back into a tight pony tail and sunglasses pushed up on her forehead, Amanda stood alone in the dim tunnel and pulled the bungee holder over the last M4 magazine on her chest rig. Along the outside wall of the outrageously large concrete-lined tunnel stood silent the equipment she knew would be needed to accomplish her plan. She was determined to fight and establish a toe-hold, however tiny, on the surface, knowing the acres and acres of farmland around and near the lake could be brought back into production. First with stable feed crops to help bring the cattle back into action, if there were any still left alive, then seasonal crops to feed the survivors she knew existed and had to help.
She estimated that her battle rattle weighed in at over fifty pounds, most of it consisting of loaded magazines for her rifle and pistol. This was a quick day trip, a patrol outside the protection of her underground fortress. The first task was to walk the park’s fenceline, making notes of needed repairs. Once the small lakeside park was secure, then she could start branching out and expanding the perimeter in larger and larger concentric rings, leaving in place the barriers that would be multiple layers of protection. Even without the semi-trailer-mounted nuclear power stations, the SSC facility generated enough power from its own nuclear reactor to power a small city. The SSC would serve a purpose, even if it wasn’t what Clint thought the purpose should be.
Amanda stopped at the metal rungs leading upward and topside. The facility diagrams and overhead map of the surface showed the emergency hatch overhead would open near the southern boat ramp. Before mounting the ladder, Amanda jumped up and down to check for any loose gear that might make noise. Satisfied she could maintain stealth, she twisted the lock of the suppressor on the end of the short-barreled M4 to check it was attached and pulled the charging handle back slightly to press-check that a round was in the chamber. The bolt carrier slid forward and, after a couple of taps on the assist, Amanda took a deep breath, let the rifle hang on the sling, and began the climb upwards.
The metal wheel on the hatch turned smoothly and, with a hydraulic hiss, the hatch rose upward and tilted to the side, the cold crisp March morning sunlight assaulting her eyes. Amanda pulled the sunglasses down and pulled herself out of the vertical tunnel and onto the surface.
The brown grass crunched quietly beneath her boots while she turned in place and scanned for any undead that posed an immediate threat. Satisfied she was alone and hidden in the trees for the moment, Amanda inhaled deeply and took in the smell of the lake, the trees, and the cold. The sun was beginning to warm the day. She hadn’t been underground for all that long, but her mood instantly lifted with the sunlight and fresh air. Not completely confident that she could open the hatch if she closed it from the outside, Amanda left it open, chancing that a walking corpse could accidently fall in. If it did she would take care of it when she returned.
Amanda walked north to the short sandy shoreline and started towards the east. The highway bridge could be seen spanning the end of the lake ahead of her. She knew that she would eventually reach the pumping station, which was what controlled the holding pressure of nitrogen before Clint activated the facility. She could then follow the fenceline back north and along the edge of the farmland to the west. Amanda figured she had about an hour before Clint realized she was gone and might come looking for her, so she had no time to waste.
Groom Lake, NV
Jessie sat nude in a plastic chair she had brought into the women’s shower room, which reminded her of a high school locker room shower, or like those she had seen on prison TV shows. No stalls, no privacy, just dozens of showerheads around the room and on pillars in the middle. With the chair positioned in the water flow, she never thought she would be so happy to shave her legs again. Her tummy was already starting to show a little; in a few short months she would have problems even reaching her calves. Never in her life had her leg hair grown to this length, but having experienced the far end of the women’s rights movement over the last few months, it was really calming to take some time for herself. Jessie kept telling herself that she wasn’t primping for Bexar’s return like some high school sweetheart, but still, with everything she had been through, with all the fighting, the road-weary battle-hardened protective shell she had constructed to make it this far, she couldn’t help it that her heart fluttered a little thinking of wrapping her arms around her husband, her lover again.
Sarah hung her towel on the rack and joined Jessie in the shower room, turning on the spigot next to her. “Getting all dolled up to see Bexar again?”
“Is it that obvious?”
“Honey, you haven’t stopped smiling since you heard he was alive, and I don’t blame you, but since we’ve met I don’t think I really saw you smile.”
“What about you? What are you going to do when we get out of quarantine, see about meeting a nice Air Force boy? God, I feel like we’re about to get released from jail or something, talking about when we get out.”
“No, Erin first. I’ve got to try getting my little girl back … I don’t know if that’s possible.”
“She loves you. I’m sure you can.”
Sarah stopped washing and turned to face Jessie, “And she idolizes you, but you can see it in her eyes, like a switch flipped. My little deer hunter in pink, I’m afraid that girl is gone forever and the woman that replaced her is cold. No joy left, not since her father died, not since we had to fight our way across the country … not after what she’s seen and how many of those God-damned walking corpses she’s put down.”
Jessie stood to rinse off, looking down with her hand on the small growing baby bump. One tear escaped down her cheek before she flashed hot with anger. Not for you, my little pea in the pod. I don’t know how, but you’re not going to grow up in a world of death, without joy or compassion.
SSC, Ennis, TX
Amanda stood at the fenceline, looking at the open backyards of a small country neighborhood. A dozen reanimated corpses stumbled across the road and into the yard in front of her. Glancing around to make sure she didn’t have any surprises, she took a kneeling position, propped her elbow on her leg, flipped the selector to single fire. A muffled crack broke the morning air, the closest undead’s face exploding towards her in a black mist.
Surprised, she dropped into a prone shooting position. Amanda moved her rifle to find where the unexpected shot came from, only to see Clint walking down the narrow neighborhood street with his rifle up, death leaving the end of the rifle’s suppressor with each careful squeeze of the trigger, each shot falling in cadence with each rolling footstep, each round finding its macabre target in a shower of shattered bone and dark rotten brain matter.
Amanda flipped the selector on the M4 to safe and rose to her feet, letting the rifle hang on the sling. She watched Clint down the last walking corpse before he walked to the fenceline where she stood.
“I told you not to come up here.”
“And I told you that we have to start somewhere. Our nation’s survival depends on the farms and farmers. The military can’t give us crops of cotton to spin into new thread; they can’t grow feed corn for our cattle …”
Clint kissed her on the cheek. “I know, babe, but my mission is to protect you and coordinate the survival of our nation, not plow a field. Same for you.”
“You’re not going to stop me. You can keep working on your mission, but first the farmers fight, then the farmers farm. All of civilization was built on the back of agriculture and that is how it will be rebuilt. How about I make that my first Executive Order, what would you do then?”
“Your order would be law unless overturned by the Supreme Court.”
“So be it, and take it up
with them, after I find and appoint new people to the Court.”
“Yes ma’am.”
“Well, now that you’re here, help me walk the fenceline. We start taking back our country by taking back this park. We’ll take it step by step from there.”
CHAPTER 4
Cortez, CO
March 13, Year 1
Cliff stowed the small shortwave radio in his backpack. He couldn’t transmit, he couldn’t talk to anyone, but messages could be sent to him, if indirectly. The secondary number station was up and broadcasting. The first day of broadcasts gave the letter designator for the memorized pad cypher to be used the following day. The transcribed message was short, but it didn’t need to be long. He didn’t think it would come to this, but missions have to adapt as new intelligence is gathered, deciphered and analyzed. This mission, the new mission, he had to complete alone. He couldn’t be followed, had to make sure he wasn’t followed. Some state secrets had to be kept, even after the collapse of society just in case society rose again.
I could kill them … but Chivo is right; Bexar should have the chance to get back to his wife. Besides, I never enjoyed putting down my own recruits. So distraction, something that will keep the two of them occupied but that they can work through. Something just enough to give me time and distance … he unlocked the bedroom door and headed downstairs.
Cliff walked into the garage. “After all the help we gave the ‘prophet’ to see the light and then scrounging all we could find, we’ve got thirty fully topped-off magazines for the M4s and a small handful of loose rounds.” Chivo started to interrupt but Cliff held up his hand, “To keep things aboveboard, we split things evenly. Each of us can have ten mags, you two can even keep the pocket change of ammo. Everyone has a topped-off pistol and complement of magazines, but that’s all we had, right on the dot.”
