by Roger Hayden
Greg Atkins had a mission, and he was already running against the clock. His friend and partner in prepping, Veronica, had been taken at gunpoint by a deranged man who claimed to be a soldier in the army. Her fate was largely unknown to Greg, but he knew he had to do everything in his power to try to rescue her. Going after Veronica changed his hunker-down plan considerably. Traveling anywhere, no matter how close or remote, posed a risk. But the Ebola virus soon became the least of his problems.
The state-mandated quarantine and travel ban had effectively isolated most of Nevada, and its most populated cities, from Reno to Las Vegas, had descended into anarchy. The military had moved out and positioned themselves along the northern borders of Nevada to keep anyone from getting in or out. The Ebola virus was too powerful to control and had spread too rapidly. Officials felt that the risks of sending personnel into infected areas far outweighed the benefits. As personnel were ordered to pull out of infected areas, officials felt it was best to monitor the outbreak remotely and wait for the contagion to peak and subside. No one would have believed it, but the government agencies had largely abandoned Nevada.
Many quarantine sites, such as Base 42, were left to fend for themselves. No one was going for them until the area had been officially determined safe from disease. Two months after the outbreak, no such call had been made. In the media, it was declared unconscionable by pundits, politicians, and celebrities alike that so many people would be left on their own, but as the virus spread to neighboring states, people began to accept the most extreme measures in containment.
Despite being shot in the leg by Veronica’s attacker, Greg was determined to leave Aunt Tilda's ranch and find her, wherever she might be. The man, who had identified himself as Sergeant Charles Irwin, claimed to have come from Base 42. He had tried to convince Greg and Veronica to go back with him, stating that he was on a scouting mission to help local residents and inform them of the military outpost.
But Aunt Tilda's butchered body wrapped in a tarp in the basement told a far different story. Greg didn't believe a thing Irwin had told him, if he was even who he said he was. For all he knew, Veronica could have been taken to a basement of some house, tied to the radiator and God knows what else.
The man was indeed from Base 42, but he wasn't a soldier, he was an impostor. His real name was Jacob, a drifter from Reno with a lengthy rap sheet. After the mutiny in Base 42, he volunteered to go into town and search abandoned homes for supplies, and it just so happened that Aunt Tilda and her neighbor, Joe, lived along his route. But they weren't the first. If the home was occupied, Jacob’s plan was to work his way in by posing as a soldier and then scope the place out from the inside.
Once in Tilda's home, he knew he had discovered the jackpot. She was a self-proclaimed "homesteader" and had up to five months of food and supplies stored in her basement. Things escalated when her neighbor Joe showed up to check on her, spooking Jacob just as he was trying to win her over.
An army vet himself, Joe had a number of questions for Jacob: who he was, where he had been stationed, and general military stuff. Questions that one soldier would normally ask another, nothing out of the ordinary, but Jacob panicked, and as a result, he shot Joe and Tilda, then took his knife to their bodies for “extra fun.”
Greg knew that the longer Veronica was missing, the worse the outcome would be. She had been gone for nearly five hours. His leg throbbed with pain from the gunshot wound, but he was relieved that the .22 bullet had been relatively small. It could have been much worse. Perhaps the wound Greg had inflicted on Jacob’s shoulder with his Beretta would slow them down.
Come morning, he limped to the kitchen table using a nearby wooden cane, which had probably belonged to Veronica's uncle. He sat and opened a large map booklet of the state he had taken from his van. Light poured into the kitchen from the skylights. He estimated his current location on the map, just outside Reno, and saw that Sun Valley was not too far. Finding a secret military outpost, however, wasn’t going to be easy. From what he had heard, it was a small base hidden behind concrete walls, barricades, and concertina wire.
The main highway, Interstate 580, would not be without its share of risk, but it was the only route into Sun Valley. Staying safe and mobile would require a careful balancing act and therefore take time—a commodity Greg did not have. With his leg propped up on a chair and his mind racing, he opened his notebook and began to jot down his plan for the trip:
Distance from Reno to Sun Valley - roughly fifteen miles
Top van off with siphoned fuel
Load up with supplies
Van as mobile prep unit
Hide van under camouflage
Continue trip on foot
Bring: Bug-out bag, weapons, night vision, binos, trip wire
Set-up stakeout point outside of base
Survey and record activity
Find a way in, find a way out
Greg stopped writing. His plan was simple enough, but he didn't like to throw caution to the wind. He wanted a reliable strategy with an outcome that was nearly guaranteed. For starters, he wasn't sure if Veronica had even been taken to Base 42. Secondly, he wasn't sure if he could find the base, and lastly, he was in no condition to be traveling a great distance on foot. Driving the van too close to the base would alert anyone there of his presence. A successful mission would take tact, planning, and focus. He was no good to Veronica captured or dead.
"Son of a bitch," he said, pushing himself up from the chair at the kitchen table. His leg still ached, and he had a pain in his chest just from thinking about Veronica. He had committed himself to protecting her. She was his friend. They been through months together, hunkering down in Greg's house in Carson City. They had warded off two home invasions through sheer teamwork. Now everything had changed. She was gone. Kidnapped by a psychopath.
"I should never have taken my eye off him," Greg said out loud. "I should have shot him the minute we saw him in the house."
He pushed himself away from the table and hobbled to the living room couch. He vowed that he would never hesitate again. Shooting first and asking questions later was part of the way things would go from now on.
The house was quiet and deserted. There was no longer any power as the generator had run out of fuel overnight. He took careful steps, using the cane to reduce the weight on his bad leg. Most of his supplies were still in the van, packed and ready to go. The thought of Aunt Tilda’s body in the basement gave him the chills.
He made his way to the bathroom down the hall, still wearing only boxer shorts, a T-shirt, and a band of gauze around his leg. There was just enough natural light in the bathroom that allowed him to see himself in the mirror. His hair was shaggy and unkempt. In place of his normally clean-shaven face, he fashioned a light brown beard. There were bags under his eyes and a paleness to his skin. His brown eyes were slightly bloodshot, but not Ebola red. Considering the pace at which the outbreak had spread, it was a miracle he was still alive. And that's how Greg wanted to keep it.
He had lost weight over the months and looked a lot thinner as a result. Tired of gazing, he looked away from the mirror and began the hard process of cleaning and changing the bandage on his wound.
After his shower, Greg dressed in tactical, desert-tan shirt, pants, and ammunition vest. He had re-dressed his wound and was ready to get on the move. He left the house using the cane and went to his van under the light of a new day. From the back, he pulled out a hose and a ten-gallon fuel can and filled it up with gas siphoned from both Tilda's and Veronica's cars. In the end, he had ten gallons of fuel. Sun Valley was close, but he didn’t want to leave anything to chance.
Before getting in the van, he stretched and mentally prepared himself for the journey. He had weapons, optics, food, and water. There were plenty of resources for a stakeout. He took one last look at Tilda’s house and breathed in the open air. The home was an ideal place, perfect for hunkering down, and he couldn't understand why things couldn't have wor
ked out as planned.
After leaving Tilda’s, he took the barren 580 Interstate, keeping careful watch for any other vehicles on the road. His van was a gold mine for thieves. It had a stockpile of enough food, weapons, and survival gear to support an entire family. A few miles down the two-lane road, his eyes narrowed as he tried to figure out what a slumped figure on the side of the road might be. It looked like a large dog or some other roadkill. He soon realized it was human.
His heart sank and he slowed the van to get a closer look. It was a man lying on his side in a pile of dirt rocks and a dried puddle of blood. He was rendered unrecognizable by a litany of open sores. His mouth was wide open and bulging blisters covered his eyes. In his frozen contorted agony, it was clear the man had experienced the furthest thing from a painless death. Greg stepped on the gas and sped past the body the minute he saw that it wasn't Veronica.
Down the road ahead and all around him were nothing but desert and wide-open terrain. He was on the outskirts of civilization, exactly the kind of area one might find a secret military base. He kept his eyes peeled for any road signs. The surrounding area was a diverse range of hills, plateaus, and valleys. Predominantly made up of sand, dirt, dust, and rocks, there were also shaded areas with patches of grass and large rock outcroppings—perfect for concealment—and acacia trees. Their spread branches gave the impression of beauty and calm.
The digital clock on the radio said that it was 11:14, and as far as he was concerned, it looked to be almost noon. The glaring sun in the cloudless sky was overhead, slightly to the east. He wore his favorite pair of sunglasses and tried the car stereo, which only played static. Radio transmission had been fading in and out as far back as Carson City.
It was as if the residents had officially been cut off from the rest of the world. Complete quarantine and isolation. No power. No running water. Not even working radio frequencies to let them know what was going on. His dashboard GPS had no signal. His cell phone was the same. All he had was a map and compass.
A few more miles down the interstate, there was a small intersection. There was a dirt road on both sides that stretched into the desert as far as he could see. In over ten miles, he hadn't seen a single vehicle, just one dead body on the side of the road. Following the map, he took a right turn down the long dirt road. As he turned, the sun glared right into the windshield, nearly blinding him. He stopped the van and glanced at the map, looking for any identifiable terrain or landmarks. There was a valley displayed nearby, but no military facility was identified within range. Something ahead, however, piqued his interest: a faded, green road sign.
Greg put the van in gear and sped toward the sign, drawing closer. A thick cloud of dust was left in his wake as rocks, stones, and pebbles flew up from behind the tires, crackling underneath the rubberlike kettle corn. The dirt road became more bumpy and rough, as if it hadn’t been traveled on in a while. Two large mountains were in the distance and the road seemed to curve right between them, similar to the valley terrain shown on the map.
The map also showed a nearby cliff, indicated by curvy contour lines with tick marks pointed toward low ground. Greg believed the top of the cliff would be a perfect stakeout spot if he could find cover. Somewhere shaded, he hoped, with plenty of concealment. Finding higher ground in general was important to his mission.
The sign got closer in range and Greg could make out the lettering. In two simple words it read, “Restricted Area.” He slowed the van to a roll as he studied the rusty, metallic sign, looking for any other clues. There was no additional text anywhere on the sign. There was no “by order of the Defense Department,” or the FBI, or any other department or agency. The sign also looked like it had been there since the 1950s. It could mean nothing, or it might be an indication that he was traveling in the right direction.
A few more miles down the road, he saw some lonely acacia trees amid the patchy terrain of dead grass and weeds. Vegetation appeared closer to the mountains where some grass had retained its color and the flat land gradually began to descend into the valley. Greg’s heart raced with anticipation, but he remained alert of his surroundings, considering every possible spot up and around the mountains that could be a lookout or ambush site. He steered with one hand while positioning his rifle next to his seat with the other. There was still no base in sight.
He drove up over a hill as the path became even more rugged. His van was not an off-road vehicle by any stretch, but it had been his best option for mobile prepping. The path winded up and to the side of a mountain, and Greg hoped for a spot high enough where he could park the van and conduct reconnaissance. His engine rattled and heaved, clearly struggling the weight of Greg’s supply haul. It was a company van, but his last concern was the condition he kept it in. He’d pay for the repairs himself if he had to—if things ever went back to normal.
Like an oasis, Greg found a spot up the mountain where he could park the car and look out over a cliff. It was shaped and located exactly as it was shown on his map. Before reaching the summit, he noticed an ideal spot to hide the van in.
There was a large open crevice on the side of a hill between large stone pillars, with branches extending from the cracks. Greg felt the time was right to ditch the van and set up his stakeout spot. If the base was anywhere remotely close, he was high enough to see it.
He parked the van and sat silent for a moment. There was a half tank left and the engine was smoking. The van needed to cool off, and although he didn’t like leaving all of his supplies, he wouldn’t be far. Greg stepped out carefully with the aid of the cane from Tilda’s house. He squeezed through the shaded crevice, just large enough to fit his van into, and went around to the other side. He opened the door and pulled out his bug-out bag and rifle. Laying them aside on the ground, he then pulled out some rolled-up camouflage netting and fastened it over the van. His leg still hurt, but the pain was manageable and certainly not enough to immobilize him.
He heard and saw no one, and a light mountain breeze blew around him, making everything seem calm and pleasant for just a moment. He grabbed his bug-out bag and threw it over his shoulders while trying to keep his balance.
Come on, old man, he said to himself.
He picked up the rifle—his prized Remington Bolt Action Model 700 with a scope. With the bug-out bag, rifle, and cane, he trudged up the hill leading to the lookout cliff. The dry dirt and pebbles crunched beneath his boots with each step. The rugged cliff sat on the side of the mountain overlooking the wide plains below. Atop the cliff, covered in heavy scrub, there were several trees with thin braches stretching out like veins, their leaves as brown as an autumn desert. It was a perfect lookout spot, better than Greg could have hoped for.
He tossed his pack down and rested his rifle against a nearby tree. Looking out from the cliff from the cover of thick, plentiful desert shrubs, he gazed at rolling hills and the flat, barren landscape below. There were some signs of green vegetation, but the dry season had taken its toll.
Across the land he could see more mountain ranges that touched the clouds. The sun shone brilliantly on everything below. Greg could have appreciated it more if the situation hadn’t been so dire. He turned around and dug into his bug-out bag, pulling out a pair of binoculars. He looked out into the vast open space, carefully scanning everything below.
Through the lens of his binos, Greg saw a faint smoke trail miles away. It made the hair on the back of his neck stand up. He could see something, but what? It wasn’t a fire exactly, and the surrounding area looked like a landfill. He thought he could see trash piled into a large hole that, from his vantage point, looked about the size of a swimming pool. He continued to scan when, in his field of vision, at least two miles away, he saw an enclosed facility with large, concrete walls.
He removed the binos, quickly rubbed his eyes, and then looked again. The walls had concertina wire on them, but there were no other discernable markings. There were no signs, people about, or vehicles anywhere to be seen. The place
looked about as isolated as any military outpost could be. He had a feeling about it, just as he had a feeling about the path he had taken so far.
“Base 42,” Greg said out loud, smiling.
He lowered his binos and readied his rifle. After watching the base and observing its defenses, he planned to take action and save Veronica before it was too late. What stood between them was a short distance, thick concrete walls, and concertina wire. That’s all? He smiled wryly, then turned back to his bug-out bag and began to lay out the equipment he would need for the perfect stakeout.
Inside Base 42
On the night he kidnapped Veronica, Jacob's beat up pick-up truck arrived outside the gates of Base 42 with the engine smoking. He leaned against the steering wheel and held down the horn in front of the rolling chain-link gate that was chained and padlocked shut. From the passenger seat, Veronica again struggled to free herself from the ropes tied to her wrists and ankles. Somehow, she managed to open the truck door, startling Jacob, whose head shot up. The blood-soaked rag wrapped around his shoulder had controlled the bleeding enough to keep it from running down his shirt.
"Where do you think you're going?" he asked.
His eyes were half-shut, sweat poured down his forehead, and he appeared to be on the verge of delirium. He was in no rush to grab her. Instead, he found it amusing. Even if she made it out of the truck, nothing but desert surrounded them. Veronica, however, saw it a different way. She fell out of the truck onto the rocks and dirt below and immediately began to crawl away, digging her bound hands into the ground and pushing herself forward with exhausted grunts.
Jacob remained in the car, his head sinking lower and about to pass out from the liquor he had downed to dull the pain of his gunshot wound. It was the middle of the night, and it hadn’t taken long for them to arrive at the base. Jacob had driven like a madman through the twists and turns of the valley and the mountains. Veronica didn't think that they would make it. She had almost accepted it. But now that they had arrived, the only thing on her mind was escape.
