Bunker (A Post-Apocalyptic Techno Thriller Book 4)

by Jay J. Falconer

  Zhukov stood silent for a minute as another soldier wheeled a two-shelf cart across the stage. It was about ten feet long, with a set of batteries occupying the lower shelf. The second shelf contained a bank of electronic gear, though its power must have been off since none of its lights were illuminated.

  The General ambled to the cart and flipped a switch, bringing a bank of lights to life across the front of the equipment. He turned to the crowd and spoke through the loudspeaker once again, skipping certain connector words in his version of broken English.

  “Compliance agent injected,” he said, pointing to the left side of his neck. “We track you. You leave without permission, explosive detonates. Try to disable, also detonates.”

  Buckley stopped scratching his neck when he heard those words, yanking his hand away.

  “So much for those thirty days of injections. I guess that was all bullshit,” King said. “I knew something wasn’t right with that whole thing.”

  Stan Fielding turned around and stared with intense eyes, his face flushing red. He pointed at the circular bandages on his girls’ necks. “You let them do this. How could you, Mayor?”

  Buckley didn’t have an answer for the single father. The man was right. He’d let this happen. Just another failure on his already full resume.

  At this point, his seat in the Governor’s office was nothing more than a pipedream. Not that his future political aspirations mattered in the grand scheme of things. Lives were at stake. So was everyone’s freedom. The Russians were here for a reason and this was just getting started. Whatever this was.

  There was one consolation, though. At least now he knew why he’d heard a metal click when the FEMA injections were administered. They were implanting the tracker and explosive.

  “Remember when FEMA mentioned they had a list?” King asked, his question coming out of nowhere.

  Buckley took a few seconds to locate the memory. “Yeah. It was after we asked about treating the residents out of town.”

  “How could they have that information?”

  “Not sure. But this was obviously well planned.”

  “No shit, Sherlock. But not only that, they must’ve had help from someone. You know, on the inside. Otherwise, how could they get their hands on a detailed list like that? I’m pretty sure our government doesn’t track that type of stuff. Not real-time info about who’s in or out of town. So the Russians couldn’t have stolen it from some computer hack.”

  “Or maybe they do track us,” Doc said without hesitation. “The skies are covered with satellites. Who knows what they are really watching? They’ve admitted to spying on everyone. Nothing is sacred. Every phone call. Every Internet post. Every email.”

  “Or they could’ve had spies in town. For a while now, setting this up,” King said.

  Buckley agreed with King, but he wasn’t about to cave to the man’s pressure. “Okay, I see your point, but what do you expect me to do about it?”

  “I don’t know, show a little concern maybe?”

  “Trust me, every cell in my body is concerned right now. For everyone. Including you.”

  “I’ll bet the new guy, Bunker, is part of all this. I mean, come on. He just shows up out of the blue and bingo, we’re invaded. Sounds a little suspicious to me. Plus, now we have this General trying to bribe everyone with truckloads of free food and supplies like he’s our best buddy. Then he tells us we’ll explode if we don’t follow along like sheep. Seems damn clear to me. None of this is by accident. They’ve been planning this for a while and must have had inside help to pull it off.”

  “Trust me, Bunker is not part of this,” Buckley said.

  “Yeah, you say that now, but how do you really know? This was all orchestrated with precision. They could’ve easily placed sleeper agents in town just waiting for the go-ahead to take action.”

  King had a point. Buckley shrugged.

  “What if our government is in on it somehow?” Stan Fielding asked, his tone serious.

  Fielding’s theory had merit. “It would explain a few things,” Buckley answered.

  Stan nodded. “And you have to ask yourself, why send a General? This town can’t be that important.”

  “Unless it is,” King added.

  Zhukov aimed the megaphone to the side, pointing it at another truck pulling up. This vehicle was a long flatbed, loaded with a stack of poles that stretched from one end of the rig to the other.

  Buckley figured they were at least fifty feet long since they hung over the rear of the trailer by a couple of feet. They could have been made of steel or plastic; he couldn’t be sure.

  Behind the flatbed was a ten-wheeled mobile crane, its hook swaying in front of the windshield as it crawled along under its own power. The lowercase letters “anipsotiki” were stenciled on both the front of the cab and the side of the crane’s main boom.

  Following the crane was yet another flatbed, this one transporting two rectangular pieces of cargo that filled the trailer from front to back. Each section was wrapped with a red tarp and strapped down in multiple directions.

  Buckley watched a team of men remove the straps, then pull the tarps away with a theatrical flare.

  King didn’t hesitate. “Generators. Big suckers.”

  “At least we’ll have power again,” Fielding said.

  “Looks like they’re gonna be here a while,” Buckley said, thinking of the residents who were out of town. The Russians had sent out patrols in their ATVs looking for them. He hoped that God had stepped up to keep them safe. Or Bunker had, assuming the man was still alive and in the area. Nobody had seen him since the Sheriff sent him with Daisy to Tuttle’s place.

  King lowered his eyes and stared at the ground for a few seconds. Then he shook his head before aiming his focus at Buckley. “Jesus Christ. We are so fucked. So is my son, wherever he is. We’re gonna have to do something, and fast.”

  CHAPTER 6

  Daisy Clark found the light switch at the bottom of the ladder and turned it on when her feet found the loose dirt at the bottom of Tuttle’s hidden bunker in the barn.

  Everywhere she looked, the room was brimming with treasure—not just any treasure; this was the type of stash that could inflict endless amounts of damage and death.

  “Jackpot!” she announced, hoping Sheriff Apollo could hear her from his position above the trap door in the barn.

  “What did you find?”

  “Everything! You need to get down here.”

  “On my way,” he said, his feet appearing on the top rung of the ladder a few seconds later.

  Daisy waited for his arrival, then held out her hand to lead his eyes to the inventory. “Look at all this.”

  Apollo didn’t answer right away, his mouth agape. He walked to the wooden rack of weapons installed on the wall, then ran his fingers over two of the rifles stored vertically on the left, their barrels pointing up. They were both pump action shotguns, their distinctive slide-action fore-end evident.

  The next three guns were assault rifles, 5.56 caliber, if Daisy had to guess, bringing Apollo’s hands to them quickly. She estimated their barrels were only sixteen inches long, perfect for gunfights in tight spaces.

  “M4 Carbines,” he said, snatching one in his hands. “Colts.” He played with the folding stock, then held it up to his shoulder. His eye went behind the sights as he pretended to search for targets in the room.

  He brought the weapon down, with his attention lingering on the twelve-inch secondary attachment hanging under the front of the barrel. It had its own trigger and the word “Havoc” stenciled on the side.

  “A flare launcher, sir,” Daisy said in case her newly-appointed boss had questions.

  Apollo nodded, then studied the hundred-round drum installed in front of the trigger guard. He ejected the firepower upgrade and inspected its contents for a three-count. After a flash of his eyebrows, he mounted the magazine back to the weapon with a firm hand. “He spent on bundle on this stuff.”

&n
bsp; “Must have thought World War III was coming,” she quipped, pointing to the pile of the banana-shaped magazines sitting on the shelf below the rack. They looked to be of the thirty-round capacity, but there were at least five more hundred-round drums as well.

  “Bunker’s gonna love this,” Apollo said, putting the rifle back in the rack. “And the communications gear we found upstairs.”

  Daisy agreed, thinking about the radio sets and the working batteries they’d discovered. She nodded slowly. “Thank God Tuttle was a paranoid nut. Those homemade Faraday cages really did the trick. I didn’t know you could turn a storage cabinet into one of those.”

  “Then again, was Tuttle really so paranoid? After all, what he feared would happen, did.”

  “True. It’s like they say, it’s not paranoia if you are actually being followed. He looks like a genius now.”

  “I don’t know if I’d go that far. There’s a fine line between insanity and genius,” the Sheriff said, walking to the far end of the rack, bypassing at least a dozen rifles.

  The longest of the barrels belonged to hunting rifles, Daisy decided as she followed her boss. Each had a high-powered scope and a sling for carrying.

  The second cabinet was smaller than the first and built differently. It was more of a display case and angled for presentation, featuring a line of semi-auto handguns. Glocks mostly, though there were a few Rugers and Colts mixed in.

  There weren’t any revolvers and that surprised her. Tuttle obviously liked them, having a cowboy gun at his bedside before he died—a .357 magnum revolver, maximum firepower for a man of his size. Perhaps Tuttle only kept the semi-autos down in this bunker. His revolver stash may have been somewhere else.

  On the floor beyond the weapons cache were at least fifty cardboard boxes of ammo, still sealed in their bulk shipping cartons. Some were critical defense loads with hollow point rounds to inflict maximum damage once they entered the body cavity. Others were standard-tipped. All of them were lethal if the shooter’s aim was accurate.

  Apollo knelt down and inspected the first column of containers, his eyes taking in the black lettering that indicated the manufacturer, caliber, grain, and quantity of rounds. He seemed most interested in the .223 caliber ammo, his fingers ripping open the top seal on the 1000-round container. His hand went in and pulled out one of the rifle rounds. He held it up in front of his eyes. “Full metal jacket. Green tip. That’ll do some damage.”

  Daisy wasn’t shocked by the amount of ammo on hand. Nor was she surprised by the illogical order of the stockpile, the boxes mixed and stacked haphazardly. She would’ve arranged them by caliber to allow for quicker restock.

  At least the waist-high collection of green-colored ammo cans was organized, their grab handles facing up. She snatched the top one. It was heavy. She opened it. Inside were 30-06 rounds. Mostly for hunting. Another ammo can held .223 rounds. The third one she checked had the larger .308 rounds, yet she didn’t remember seeing a rifle chambered for that ammo.

  Must be around here somewhere, she thought to herself as she continued walking behind her boss. She figured all the ammo cans were full and ready to go, which would explain why the 1000-round boxes of bullets hadn’t been opened yet. They were being held in reserve, for when Tuttle’s version of World War III started.

  A clothing rack with four caster wheels stood in the adjacent corner, its line of garments hanging from the central aluminum bar. However, this wasn’t your typical lineup of clothing. It was tactical apparel, at least two dozen forest-green camo shirts of various sizes to the left, with just as many pairs of pants to the right.

  An unmarked container the size of a dishwasher sat just beyond the end of the rack. Its top lid was open, giving Daisy an angled view of the tactical vests sitting loosely on the box.

  Tuttle must have inspected the delivery, but never bothered to stuff the items back inside. Again, not surprising given the disheveled state of the man’s home.

  Apollo picked up the first vest and inspected it, testing the Velcro seals on the magazine pouches. He then turned his attention to the cross-draw holster along the front.

  “Are any bulletproof?” she asked, wondering if Tuttle had finished his purchase with some body armor. Since the Russians had cut off access to town with roadblocks, they wouldn’t be able to get to their gear room inside the Sheriff’s office.

  Apollo dug through the rest of the box of vests, then reported, “Not that I can see.”

  Gas masks, hiking boots, gloves, safety glasses, and scores of earplugs rounded out the garb, all of it sitting in clumps nearby. The man even had a few thousand feet of paracord bundled and ready to go. It was sitting on a thick, folded stack of cargo netting—camo-colored, of course.

  Apollo went to the backpacks leaning against the third wall and picked up one of the six. The pull of gravity on the straps told Daisy they were full, much like the two hiking packs in Tuttle’s middle bedroom. However, these were camo-colored and about half the size.

  The Sheriff opened the top zipper to inspect its contents. “The man has been busy. I’ll give him that,” he said, angling the open pouch toward Daisy.

  Her eyes ran a quick check as Apollo pulled items out one at a time, her mind making a detailed list of the inventory.

  Magnesium fire starter kit.

  Quart-sized plastic drinking bottle.

  Smaller metal water bottle with a strap and twist cap.

  Mobile water filtration system and pump.

  Three feet of rubber tubing.

  Three green bandanas.

  Pack of water purification tablets.

  Container of waterproof matches.

  Chainsaw in a can.

  Mini-fishing kit.

  Three military ready to eat meals.

  Two energy bars.

  Three granola bars.

  Handful of beef jerky.

  Advil to go pack.

  Metal cup.

  Small cooking pot.

  Magnifying glass.

  Folding knife with a belt clip.

  Heavy-mil garbage bag.

  Blue 10x10 tarp.

  Two pairs of wool socks and gloves.

  Orange beanie.

  Pack of steel wool.

  Mobile first aid kit.

  Reflective survival blanket.

  Dog tag reflector with a compass.

  Spool of twine.

  Fixed blade survival knife and sheath.

  Head lamp and strap.

  Extra batteries.

  Glow sticks.

  Pouch with twenty $5 bills.

  Folded area map.

  Notepad and pencil.

  Can of bear spray.

  Small measuring tape.

  Can opener.

  Toothpaste and brush.

  And finally, a bar of soap.

  “That’s one hell of a bugout bag,” Apollo said, standing with his hands on his hips, admiring the inventory.

  “Yeah, good luck getting all of that back inside,” she said with a smile, her boss rolling his eyes.

  “He obviously spent a lot of time putting this together. I’m guessing the other packs have the same items.”

  The last of the unexplored walls grabbed Apollo’s eyes next, specifically the six-foot banquet table. Its foldout legs appeared weak and its wood veneer top had several deep scratches. On it were a stack of bundled white paper, each three feet long and rolled lengthwise, with a rubber band around their middle.

  The Sheriff took one of the rolls and slid off the binder. The paper unspooled as he pushed the other rolls to the side, then laid the paper out on the table.

  Daisy stood next to him, her eyes drawn to the same discovery. It was an area map of Clearwater County showing the rivers, lakes, mountains, forest, roads, bridges, and the mines in the area. But someone had drawn on it in red ink, creating a loose collection of shapes resembling circles and ovals. Eleven of them, to be exact.

  Apollo pointed to the farthest one on the right. “Silver King
Mine.”

  Daisy nodded, then pointed to the ink in the middle. “Mason’s Bridge. Where Stan’s wife died.”

  The Sheriff continued with the next one, moving left. “Patterson’s Meadow.”

  “As in Jim Patterson?”

  “Yep. The one and only,” he answered.

  “Isn’t he dead?”

  Apollo nodded. “Eight years ago, if I remember right.”

  She tapped her finger on the meadow. “Why do you think he circled it so many times?”

  “Not sure.”

  “I guess it would make a nice spot for a hunting cabin. The mountains around it would protect it from the winds,” she said, checking the other circles. All but one of them was indicating another bridge in the area. The last circle was for the abandoned Haskins Mine, an old phosphate pit that had long been extinct. “What does all this mean?”

  “Not sure,” he said, unspooling another map. It also showed Clearwater County, only it was a topographical map, defining the contours of the terrain, including elevation.

  The third map contained climate information for the entire state. Apollo tossed it away, moving on to the fourth, which was a detailed road map. It showed the roads, highways, and railways in the area, each in a different color.

  There was more ink on this map, too, only Tuttle hadn’t drawn circles. Instead, he drew long, squiggly red lines that seemed to run from point to point, many of them connecting at common locations.

  Daisy pointed at one of them. “What do you think these are?”

  “My guess . . . Frank was marking the old logging roads.”

  “Why?”

  Apollo shrugged. “The only reason I can think of is to move his supplies without anyone noticing.”

  “Or as escape routes,” she added.

  * * *

  Victor Rainey waved at his new friend Dallas to keep up as he turned a corner around another stack of pallets in the rear half of Tuttle’s barn. He could hardly contain himself. “The best stuff is back here.”

  “How do you know all this?” Dallas asked, his legs working double-time to catch up.

  “When Tuttle was done working outside, he’d sit in his old truck and drink a bunch of beer. I could see him from my grandmother’s porch with a pair of binoculars. All I had to do was wait until he went inside to tap a nap, then I’d sneak in here. Tuttle would be out for hours.”