Bunker (A Post-Apocalyptic Techno Thriller Book 4)

by Jay J. Falconer

  Inside were at least two dozen #10 long-term food cans lying on their side with labels facing up. Mostly pasta and potatoes, though there were a number of veggies, too.

  Bunker turned the knob on the faucet in the sink and ran his hand under the stream. “Instant hot water. Nice touch.”

  “I got first dibs on the tub,” Daisy quipped. “Heaven knows I need a bath.”

  Bunker laughed. “You mean the tub without a curtain?”

  “Yeah, we’ll have to solve that little problem first.”

  “If not, we can find a volunteer who’ll gladly stand guard for ya. I’m pretty sure Albert’s been checking you out.”

  Her face went tense as she wagged her index finger at him. “Oh, don’t even go there, Bunker. Not unless you wanna see me pull my gun again.”

  Bunker smiled, then opened the door to the fridge. He scanned its interior. The shelves were stocked, but not with food. Bottled water and cans of beer were the only two items. The contents of each shelf alternated from one type of beverage to the other, filling every square inch with inventory.

  “The man obviously loved his beer,” Daisy said in a jovial tone.

  “Don’t we all.”

  “At least it’s not that crappy light beer. Might as well drink water at that point.”

  Bunker appreciated her taste for what he considered God’s beverage. Though he did enjoy his share of whiskey, too. “Nothing quite like a cold one. Especially on a hot summer day.”

  She put her hand inside and snatched a can, then held it in his direction. “My treat.”

  His mouth watered when he thought about popping the lid and downing it quickly. The cool mountain freshness of this particular brand would have been heaven. “Nah, I’ll pass. We got too much work to do. Need to stay sharp. Maybe when this is all over, we can indulge in some serious brain cell killing. But for now, we need to keep moving.”

  Daisy put the can back on the shelf and grabbed two bottles of water. She gave one of them to Bunker. “I figured as much. But I needed to be sure.”

  “So, what? That was a test?”

  “Yeah, but not just for you,” she answered, removing the cap and taking a few swigs of water.

  “I see. You wanted to slam one, too.”

  “Was thinking about it.”

  Bunker took a drink, swallowing hard in preparation for another round. “Like I said, later.”

  She paused, tilting her head a bit. Her eyes ran soft before her lips grew into a smile. “It’s a date, then.”

  “Copy that,” he said, holding back the rest of what he wanted to say. He took a step toward the next compartment, but stopped his feet when he noticed the puzzled look on Daisy’s face. “Something wrong?”

  Her eyes darted around the kitchen. “Can I ask you something?”

  He worried it was going to be a personal question after her comment about a date. “Yeah, shoot.”

  “How exactly did Tuttle get all this stuff down here? It’s not like the fridge or stove could fit through that hatch.”

  “Good question. Must be another entry point somewhere.”

  “Yeah, maybe,” she said, pausing. “But he still couldn’t have hauled them down the narrow tunnels. Or pushed them through those bulkheads. They’re too small.”

  She was right, leaving only one answer. “Must have been pre-installed before they lowered this section and buried it.”

  Daisy nodded. “Makes sense.”

  “I’m sure that’s why he spent the money on these high-end appliances.”

  “Because replacing them would be next to impossible.”

  Bunker agreed. “He needed stuff that would last.”

  They continued their exploration of the subterranean base, working their way out of the food prep area through another airtight blast door.

  Tuttle had planned this horseshoe-shaped complex well, every section spaced out and protected from the previous. It was almost as if he was expecting some kind of catastrophic event to take place underground.

  Whether that be a fire, a virus, invasion, or something else, Bunker wasn’t sure. The fire extinguishers hanging on the walls before and after each blast door had him leaning toward fire. Regardless, he was impressed with Tuttle’s madness. A madness masquerading as genius, if Bunker chose to look hard enough.

  After a ninety-degree right turn, they traveled into another rectangular section containing a generous supply of equipment and hardware—both large and small—everything from nuts and bolts on up to refrigerators. A workbench sat to the right, with a sheet of pegboard hanging behind it on the wall. Hand tools, saws, and tape were the most prevalent items, each hanging from a hook.

  “Looks like you were right,” Daisy said, moving her feet toward the stack of Cobalt Blue appliances in the corner. Tuttle had two of everything. “These are the same models we saw in the kitchen.” She looked at the blast door again, her hands up and spaced apart. “Still won’t fit.”

  “He’s using them for parts.”

  She nodded after a short pause, then her voice dropped in pitch and developed an accent, as if she were trying to imitate a country man. “A man’s got to have backups, Daisy.”

  He laughed, appreciating her theatrics. “Tuttle?”

  “Yeah. Something he said to me a few days ago.”

  “Well, he’s right. Redundancy is important.”

  “He obviously believed it.”

  “I can’t imagine how long he’s been at this.”

  “Or how much he spent.”

  “I guess when you live alone and never leave your homestead, you can get a lot of work done.”

  “If the walls don’t start talking to you first,” she said, laughing.

  Electrical panels covered the wall opposite the bench, with a handful of conduit piping linking them together. The three Tesla Powerwall v2.0 battery units installed down the center caught his attention. “I was wondering when we’d run into his battery array. Looks like he went all out.”

  Daisy didn’t respond, her head down and feet moving for the exit door of the section. He wasn’t sure if something was pulling her forward, or she simply wasn’t interested in Tuttle’s tech. Either way, he decided to follow her lead.

  The next corridor had a blast door at the far end as expected. However, this tunnel had a feature not found in the others—a junction at its midpoint. It branched off to the left, which was odd since every turn they’d taken since the first intersection was a ninety-degree right. Bunker assumed the series of right turns would complete a closed horseshoe shape that would take them back where they started.

  “Hmmm. I wonder what’s down there?” Daisy asked, standing shoulder to shoulder with Bunker.

  “If I had to guess, another way out. The main hatch can’t be the only access point. Not if Tuttle planned this as well as I think he did.”

  “Which way should we go?”

  “Straight ahead. Let’s see what’s in the next compartment. If my bearings are correct, it’s the last section before we head back to where we started.”

  She marched ahead without hesitation, her hands making quick work of the spin wheel in the center of the door. She opened it.

  Bunker waited for her to step inside, but her feet didn’t move. He put a hand on her shoulder, letting her know he was in position and ready to proceed. She still didn’t advance. “Something wrong?”

  She nodded with her knees locked, her eyes never wandering from the view into the next room. “Uh . . . we might want to take a minute and think about this.”

  Bunker pushed in next to Daisy, leaning past her arm. He peered inside, his vision filling with stacks of wooden crates and barrels—dozens them—each with black lettering stenciled on their sides.

  It took a few seconds for his brain to catch up to what his eyes were reporting: TNT, gunpowder, charcoal, and Tannerite.

  When his mouth finally joined the party, he said, “Now that’s a stockpile.”

  Bunker stepped over the bulkhead and to
ok position to the right. He wanted to swing his head around to check on Daisy, but couldn’t pry his eyes from the four containers labeled IMX-101.

  It wasn’t long before he heard footsteps coming his way, then a rustle of air wandering in from the left.

  “What’s IMX?” she asked.

  “If I’m not mistaken, it’s a new high-grade explosive I’ve read about. Something new since I served.”

  She took a step toward the door. “Sounds dangerous.”

  “Actually, just the opposite. It stands for Insensitive Munitions Explosive. The Army wanted something much more stable in their arsenal. But I didn’t know it was already in the field.”

  She bent down and picked up series of clear plastic bags, each filled with powder inside. “What’s all this for?”

  Bunker could see their labels as she picked them up in pairs: Red Iron Oxide Fe2O3, Barium Nitrate BaNo3/2, Sulfur, Potassium Nitrate KNO3, and Aluminum Power, 30 Micron. “Base chemicals to mix, in case he ran out of the final product.”

  “You can buy all this stuff?”

  “Everything but the IMX. It’s military-issue only.”

  “How did Tuttle get his hands on it?”

  “He couldn’t. Not unless he had a source inside the Army.”

  “Or former Army. Like Franklin,” Daisy said.

  “I suppose, but that would mean they were involved in some kind of black market sales of munitions. Does that sound like them?”

  She paused for a moment, then shook her head with vigor. “Tuttle was a little unhinged, but he wasn’t a criminal. Neither was Franklin.”

  “Are you sure?”

  Her eyes lit up. “Positive. There’s no way either of them was an arms dealer.”

  Bunker couldn’t stop the next set of words from leaving his lips. He felt compelled to take a shot at his own past. “Sometimes, people aren’t what they appear to be. Even close friends.”

  “Yeah, I know. Tell me about it,” she said in a steady tone, raising one eyebrow in the process. “But not Tuttle and Franklin.”

  “Then this must be something else.”

  “It has to be,” she added.

  “At least now we know why he designed this place with the blast doors,” Bunker said, taking an unplanned step toward the first container of IMX. He didn’t know why, but he suddenly felt the need to check its contents.

  Daisy grabbed his arm, stopping his advance with a firm squeeze. Her tone turned deliberate, matching the intensity in her eyes. “Maybe it’s time we head out, Jack? This stuff could be unstable.”

  Bunker let her words soak in and resonate, his mind still churning through the potential uses of the IMX. Her concern was understandable, not having his experience around explosives.

  The desire to inspect the stash vanished from his chest. “You’re right. This can wait.”

  She nodded, her eyes turning soft. “We need to check that connecting tunnel, then get back to the Sheriff. I’m sure he’s starting to wonder what’s going on down here.”

  Bunker agreed, reversing course. He led the way out of the chamber, taking a quick right at the midpoint of the previous tunnel.

  A chemical odor hit his senses about halfway to the next blast door. He stopped and held up a closed fist out of habit. “Do you smell that?”

  “Yeah, chlorine,” Daisy said after a hand came up to her nose. “But why would Tuttle have chlorine? It’s not like he has a pool.”

  “To decontaminate water, among other things.”

  “He must have a lot of it,” she said, blinking a few times before she spoke again. “Maybe we should turn around?”

  He thought about it for a moment, but his curiosity overruled his logic. “You wait here. I’ll check it out.”

  She didn’t argue. “Be careful.”

  The chlorine scent continued to grow, but it wasn’t enough to stop his advance. In fact, the increase was only a slight amount, making him wonder if the odor had drifted into the hallway from its source.

  However, that theory didn’t make sense, not with a closed door in front of him. The seals should have kept the smell from seeping into the tunnel, assuming it was an airtight door.

  If he was correct, then only one explanation remained—someone must have moved through here recently, bringing along the chlorine cloud. Probably from the supply room he figured was on the other side.

  He opened the door and stepped inside to find another mud room, about half the size of the first one they’d encountered beneath the chicken coop. As expected, a series of metal rungs led up to the surface at a thirty-degree angle. This room also had a decontamination shower, but the shoe-scraping board with nails was missing.

  “A second entrance,” he mumbled before calling out to Daisy. She came to his position in seconds.

  He pointed at the ladder. “The chlorine is up there.”

  “Wait a minute,” she said, taking a step back. “If these doors are sealed—”

  “My thoughts, exactly,” he said, stopping her in midsentence.

  “Then someone else was just down here.”

  “One of the boys, I’m guessing. You know how they like to explore.”

  Bunker climbed the ladder and opened the hatch at the top. The chemical smell tripled as soon as the air from above landed on his nostrils. He minimized his breathing while climbing out. Daisy was right behind him, her shirt collar pulled over her nose.

  A small wooden shed about eight feet across and just as wide surrounded them. Sunlight poured in through a series of cracks in the boards along two of the walls, showering the room with streaks of light.

  Bunker took a visual inventory, counting seventeen buckets of chlorine tablets, twenty-two gallons of liquid chlorine, and sixty bottles of pure ammonia. All of them pushed up against one of walls.

  Daisy pointed at the exit door, her eyes watering. She coughed. “Let’s get out of here.”

  Bunker agreed and followed her through the door where a grassy pasture met his feet.

  The back of Tuttle’s trailer was a least a hundred yards away, with the pole barn standing proudly to the right. The chicken coop was on the left as expected, confirming Bunker’s suspicions about the horseshoe shape of the underground complex.

  The Sheriff and several others were huddled around the chicken coop, their backs to him. Two of the gawkers were Victor and Dallas. He figured one or both of them had just been in the escape hatch.

  “That was intense,” she said, coughing three more times. “I can see why he stored all those chemicals way out here. If the wind shifted, the smell would completely overtake his house.”

  “I don’t think that’s why he did it.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “He wanted to keep trespassers away.”

  She turned and looked at the small shed, then at the chicken coop. After another round of coughing, she said, “To conceal the escape hatch.”

  “Smart, if you think about it.”

  “Just like hiding the entrance under the chickens.”

  “Roger that. None of this is by accident.”

  “Obviously. But I never expected ammonia,” Daisy said. “Pure ammonia at that.”

  “Seems to me, if you dilute ammonia in water, it can be used as fertilizer.”

  “That would mean he’s stocking it as backup to the ammonium nitrate in the barn.”

  Bunker smiled, his tone turning light as he delivered his best rendition of Daisy imitating Tuttle. “A man’s gotta have backups, Daisy.”

  CHAPTER 13

  Mayor Buckley stood with sore knees in front of the window in the back of the Sheriff’s Office, his lungs struggling to process the ever-thinning air of the building.

  Three Russian checkpoints were visible inside the city limits, carving up the streets into designated control sectors, each with razor wire and barricades. Troops with assault weapons stood at the ready, their eyes watching everything around them. Most of the soldiers were older, with grizzled faces from years of service.
The younger men looked unsure, their heads twisting at the slightest noise.

  The pain in his heart doubled as he watched a three-man team in tactical gear escort a man, his wife, and two children from one point to another—all four civilians under the threat of a bullet. Other citizens roamed free, though everyone knew their activity was under watch by the eye in the sky.

  Construction of the video monitoring system began once the signal towers were in place to track the transponders injected into everyone’s neck. General Zuhkov’s men quickly deployed a centralized, tethered hot-air balloon with a remote-controlled gyroscopic camera attached. The technology wasn’t daunting to say the least, but it was efficient to deploy and covered a wide area. Too much high-tech would be complicated to mobilize and maintain, which is why Buckley figured they’d chosen the simpler balloon route.

  The Russian tech meant a central monitoring station was operational in town. Buckley hadn’t seen it yet, but it didn’t mean it wasn’t there. He thought it would be within cabling distance from the mobile generators, their diesel engines purring in the background.

  The latest trucks to arrive were a pair of flatbed tractor-trailer rigs. Their cargo—a skid-mounted water treatment plant made by a company called Evoqua. Buckley presumed the equipment was a combination of filtration and reverse osmosis, designed to keep the Russian troops safe from contaminated water.

  The need for purified water source made sense, given their unwelcome presence. It wouldn’t take much for a lone saboteur to poison an unprotected water supply, taking out a large group of soldiers without firing a shot.

  Water and food are just as important as guns and ammo when you’re the invading force. He thought about the logistics of their arrival and realized water would have been too heavy to transport. Plus it would have run out quickly, leaving the invaders at the mercy of the town’s water supply. That left only one choice—mobile equipment for onsite filter and decontamination before the water touched the lips of their men.

  The buzz of activity continued outside, with scores of citizens and troops doing what they needed to do to survive one more day. So far, no shots had been fired—on either side—but he worried the situation might soon change.