Burning Skies (Book 2): Fallout

by Druga, Jacqueline

  Weapons being engaged, and words shouted out to him in a language he didn’t understand.

  Cal had arrived at the check point and did the only thing he could. He raised his arms in surrender.

  “I just want to go home, can you guys help me get home and out of this Godforsaken place?” Cal tried to convey to the soldiers but was treated like a wanted fugitive.

  He was roughly pulled aside, his items taken and searched. He was patted down for weapons, but they did take interest when they discovered his passport.

  They returned his backpack and walked him through the security fence. A block into the walk on the right was a gas station, one of those convenience store types. There was a gas tanker there and it looked as if they were taking the gas.

  Cal took in everything, just as asked. The entrance off of Highway 77 was barely guarded, he guessed that was because of the sea of cars parked across all six lanes of the road.

  Soldiers mulled around, and there didn’t appear to be any civilians. Clearly, that area was for military only.

  After passing the gas station, Cal was brought into a large box-style tent. Inside, decorated military personnel spoke to each other and gathered around a large table. They paid no mind to his presence. The soldier that escorted Cal inside held up his hand to Cal, signaling for him to stay put.

  Cal stopped walking and watched the soldier walk over to one of the leaders. He presented the leader with Cal’s passport, then the gentleman nodded and walked toward Cal.

  He held out his hand to a table and chairs and Cal sat.

  Cal wasn’t familiar with Chinese army rank but could guess by the stack of upside down Vs on the patch on his arm, the man was a sergeant.

  The sergeant spoke slowly and with pronounced and slightly broken English.

  “You are in America. Why?”

  “Vacation,” Cal replied. “I want to go home.”

  “I see. Home. London?” he asked.

  “Yes. Is that possible? Is there a way for you to help me get home? I’ll do what I need to do until then.”

  “I will make some calls,” he said, lifting the passport. “I will need to hold on to this.”

  “Yes. Absolutely.”

  “Mister … Calhoun, is it?”

  Cal nodded.

  “It could be some time. You would be willing to work the camp as an ambassador? We need English-speaking workers.”

  “Yes, I will.”

  “You do not look healthy.”

  Cal shook his head. “I have been sick. Radiation.”

  “We will see about getting you a job and bed, until then let us get you medical treatment. Follow me.” He walked by Cal and out of the tent. Cal followed.

  He didn’t know what the job and bed would entail, but he did know one thing, he was in and that was reason for his being there.

  USNORTHCOM, Colorado Springs, CO

  Welch had to wait twenty-four hours before he could leave the mountain and investigate.

  The raging battle, continuous gunfire over what Welch called ‘the flag’ had ended. One call out, and the rescue came in the form of an experimental bomb from Russia.

  It was so different that even masks didn’t work. Welch lost three men. Men who believed they were safer and stayed outside to keep firing.

  The bomb was not an explosion, it didn’t contain fire power, radiation, or some biological agent. Instead, when the bomb detonated it spewed trillions of what Welch could only describe as microscopic shards of glass or similar to glass.

  If any landed on the skin, they were absorbed and like acid ate their way through the layers of epithelia. But their main route of attack was inhalation and that caused an agonizing death.

  The microscopic shards entered the person’s airways, embedding in the lining of the bronchial tube and lungs. Every breath taken thereafter, pushed the shards deep into the tissue, cutting it to shreds.

  The victim coughed and choked as the entire respiratory system was annihilated, the lining of the lungs turned into a slosh and they drowned in their own blood.

  It was horrendous and painful.

  It was … inhumane, but the only way to bring a halt to the situation outside of Cheyenne mountain. He supposed another wave would come, and he was confident that they wouldn’t detonate a nuclear weapon, at least not yet. Not when they needed access to the United States Arsenal. It was the only control hub left. Welch made sure of it.

  Until that time came when they’d retreat inside after another attack, Welch made his way outside to assess.

  Twenty-four hours after they had wiped out the thousands of Chinese soldiers, no retaliation had occurred. No one from the Procs showed up. That told Welch they weren’t in constant contact. The invasion was too big, there weren’t enough hands on the battles to manage it properly. Things … soldiers … battalions slipped through the cracks. As did those who lost their lives at the massacre at Cheyenne.

  Outside, General Welch wore covering over his entire body as a safeguard. The fence outside the compound was down, not that it did much anyway. The main tunnel entrance had been battered, and starting from the second he walked outside, Welch saw bodies.

  They didn’t just drop where they were. They died in various positions, holding onto their throats, bent over with piles of dried blood by them. Some were curled up and others even appeared as if they were crawling. Fingers scraping the ground, mouths wide open, probably screaming in agony.

  Thousands of bodies scattered about.

  It was quiet, and the battle had been won.

  Welch wanted to feel bad, but he couldn’t. Those thousands of lives lost paled in comparison to the millions of Americans who were now dead because of them.

  The massacre at Cheyenne was not only the end of one page, but it was something else. Something bigger.

  It was the opening of the starting gate.

  General Welch put out word that it was time.

  A call to arms to those ready to fight, the rise of the resistance and the beginning of what would be the biggest war America would ever face … Operation Recover Home.

  Chapter Fifteen

  Sixteen Days Post Bombs

  Mitton, TX

  Perfect.

  Fen couldn’t ask for more perfection. It was exactly what they needed. The small town of Mitton was clean and picturesque. The townspeople moved about happily as instructed and there wasn’t a single case of sickness.

  Fen directed everything like a movie producer, knew what went where and how it should look.

  Four photographers and videographers were present and she pointed to where and what they would photograph. An Asian news correspondent stood by, preparing for a broadcast.

  “Play with the children,” Fen instructed a group of soldiers. “Smile, laugh.”

  She pointed to the camera people to capture the group of people having coffee at an outdoor café, and those who laughed while in line to get provisions.

  It was a beautiful sunny day, the best kind for a broadcast.

  Fen grabbed another photographer taking him toward the distribution center set up as a market. She then instructed the news woman that the market would be a great backdrop, especially with the coffee shop right next door to it.

  A little boy, no older than eight darted by, bumping into Fen. She stopped him.

  He wore the brightest blue and green stiped shirt, his brown hair was messy, and his dimpled smile was adorable as he peered up to her.

  “I brought the soldiers cakes,” he said. “Our thank you for saving us.”

  Fen smiled at him. “Go on,” she said. “They will like it.”

  She wanted to get the boy on video but he was too dirty. Perhaps she would find him, clean him, and then get him on camera. She reflected as she watched him carry the basket to the soldiers. He reminded her of her brother.

  Her biological brother.

  Always moving fast.

  Fen wasn’t born into a privileged life. In fact, she was very poor. They liv
ed in a farming village outside of Hong Kong. Her parents violated the one child law and the woman who lived next to them said Fen was hers. She was unable to have a child.

  She was five years younger than her brother. They lived in a small house, with flimsy walls and only one big room.

  She was about four years old when an earthquake struck her village and the mudslide that followed wiped everything out. Her and her brother survived only because they were out playing. Immediately she was an orphan, but instead of going to an orphanage, she and her brother lived on the streets. They slept in an old train car, ate by stealing food from the market, and made money by running errands and shining shoes.

  They were so young, but she could have lived that way forever. Her brother took care of her. Until the day he was hit by a car right in front of her.

  She screamed and cried. He wasn’t killed, but they found out they were orphans and had no parents. A newspaper had a picture of her crying and a wealthy family adopted her.

  She never saw her brother again.

  Fen had been searching her entire life for him, but he was nowhere to be found. She wouldn’t give up.

  The sight of the boy in the green and blue shirt brought back fond memories of her brother. She watched him run off after leaving the treats for the soldiers.

  She wanted to follow him, but the news reporter began and she wanted to listen to make sure everything was relayed properly. He would be easy to find. He tucked himself against the corner pharmacy store watching the broadcast.

  Fen waved. He waved back.

  “The people here welcome the humanitarian efforts,” the reporter said. “As you can see …” She pointed behind her. “There is not the brutality that is being reported. There is happiness, gratefulness. The people of Mitton cheer the soldiers and the children play with them. They finally are receiving proper med—”

  BOOM.

  The loud explosion rocked the ground and a blast of heat caused a fast, high pressure wave of air that lifted Fen from her feet and threw her in the air and a distance of ten feet. She landed hard on the concrete, face down, knees first and catching herself with her hands, breaking the fall enough that she didn’t smack her head off the ground.

  There was a pressure filled pain in her ears and they rang so loudly she couldn’t hear.

  A split second after she landed, she felt droplets, hitting against her hands like rain. Only it wasn’t rain, it was blood and debris.

  She sat up and everything spun. Her eyes rolled back causing vertigo to strike temporarily.

  Was she hurt? She didn’t know. It was hard to assess. She tried to focus, but things shifted out of control, rolling from her vision as if she were drunk. Her hands moved on the ground, feeling her way around and her fingers hit something.

  Looking down she saw it was an arm with a hand attached, a hand still holding a microphone.

  All around her were body parts. Arms, legs, heads. It was a bloodbath. Parts of the store were strewn across the street, mixed with food items.

  People screamed, but they were drowned out by the constant ringing in her ears.

  It gave it a very surreal, dream like feel.

  Fen tried to get her bearings, get it together. Giving it one more attempt to stand, she peered up and when she did, she saw the little boy still across the road. Again, he smiled at her and then he ran off.

  Fen wanted to scream out in frustration, how could she be that stupid? How did she not see the explosion coming? She bent her legs, got her footing, attempted to stand, but a pain shot through her hip and she buckled back down.

  You’re weak. You’re weak, she told herself. Get up. Be strong.

  After one more attempt, she succeeded. More than anything she wanted to chase down the boy, but she couldn’t. She’d have to order someone else to do it. Fen had to get it together, get her balance and take care of the situation at hand. A deadly situation she didn’t see coming because she never expected it to happen.

  An error she wouldn’t make again.

  Caldwell, OH

  The military phone was placed right where Troy had said it would be. In the feminine protection disposal box in the third stall of the old McDonald’s. Cal wondered how in the world he would explain not only what he was doing in an old McDonald’s, let alone the women’s room. Sure enough, like everyone else, Cal was given light janitorial duty in the mess hall. Which was … McDonald’s. He was to do that, stay busy until they found him more of a permanent job.

  Because he wasn’t American he had a different status there.

  They didn’t search him like they did others. He was able to conceal that phone in the waist of his pants.

  He rested after he had arrived at Caldwell, and they gave him some sort of medication that actually made him feel much more energized.

  Almost everyone had a job. A lot of the detainees were working at the Walmart cleaning shelves, packing items, and accounting for them. Cal had a bunk in a tent set up in the Walmart parking lot. But only those fully trusted or who weren’t American weren’t under lock and key after work hours.

  There were two living areas.

  For refugees, who were more like detainees, hundreds of tents, campers, and box houses were set up in a large fenced-in area within a fenced-in area that extended over the highway toward the prison. Once the detainees were allotted evening exercise in the free area yard they were placed in lockdown in their tents.

  The Nobel Correction facility was the other living area, for those who were labeled prisoners of war. Those people didn’t have jobs nor were they inside the actual prison. They slept like animals, outside, on blankets. The night before there was rain and the hundred or so of them huddled against the building to stay dry.

  He hadn’t the chance to speak to anyone yet, but Cal observed the routines as best as he could.

  Refugees were treated more humane. As they filed out of their tents in the morning, they were given a protein bar, water and released to work. During the guard change in the afternoon, they were lined up, given a meager meal, and placed in the free area to eat and walk around. After an hour they returned to work until sun down. Same routine, a meager meal, and yard time. Only they were allowed to use the portable showers set up against the fence. The lines were so long many didn’t get the chance to wash.

  For the prisoners, it was different.

  They were fed once a day and done trough style. The water in one, a slop in another. It was degrading.

  Cal was fortunate. He and eight others ate in the mess hall after the soldiers were finished with their meals. He had fresh coffee as well.

  He did wonder what the reasoning was that he had to put down he was an architect, considering his first two days he was scrubbing toilets.

  A twinge of guilt struck him when he sat down with his lunch. His food was fitting and smelled good. It was some sort of beef with lots of vegetables and rice.

  He was eating well, while others were not. When he was just about finished, a small laptop computer was placed in front of him, then a man in a button-down shirt sat across. He was one of the Chinese project supervisors. Those not military but had come over to aid in running things.

  “Mr. Calhoun,” he said in English but with a dialect.

  “Yes.”

  “I have received word that news of your exchange to your homeland will arrive sooner than we believed.”

  “That’s great news, thank you,” Cal said.

  “In the meantime, this job of cleaning is temporary, but we have heard you are very brave.”

  “Me? Brave? I don’t think so.”

  “You wandered the roads, faced radiation and scavengers all to try to make it to us and make it home. One of my soldiers has told me.”

  Cal wondered what soldier it was. One of the official soldiers or the Chinese American posing as one.

  “Thank you,” Cal said.

  “We have a job that we need a man of your intellect and bravery.”

  It sounded big and
important. Something that Troy would probably have screamed at him to accept.

  “We have been lax and are far behind.” He pushed the laptop to Cal. “We need to register every single refugee and prisoner in this camp.” He flipped open the laptop. “The program is already available. You need to merely start logging them in. Can we ask that of you?”

  Cal eyed the software, it looked easy enough. “Can I ask why you won’t send one of your men to do this?”

  “Because they need to go into the secure perimeter of the prison and refugee camp.”

  “Ah, they would have to be locked in,” Cal said.

  “It is safer for you than them.”

  What choice did Cal have? He agreed and after he was done with his lunch, he was taken by jeep the one mile to the Nobel correction facility where he was escorted into the fenced-in yard.

  The guards carried a table and chair, set it up by the gate, then left.

  Cal had previously been given instructions to interview as many as he could until the bell rung.

  Once his table was set, no one bothered to look his way.

  Cal stood and using a loud voice announced, “I am here like you are. Detained. I am taking names and information and putting it in a database so your families can find you. I know you don’t want to but I ask that you do this. Or how else will anyone know what has become of you?”

  “Are they really gonna let our families know?” someone shouted.

  Cal shrugged. “No. Your families would have to seek you out. They have set up refugee search centers two hours every day in certain towns. They can check the database but if you aren’t in it, they won’t know.” He waited for another question but one never came, and Cal took his seat at the folding table and propped open the laptop.

  It didn’t take long for the line to form. Cal glanced up to the first person in line. A young man, thin and frail who looked as if he was in need of medical attention.

  “Name?” Cal asked.

  “Tobias. Or rather,” he said, “Toby. Toby Garbino.”