The Gauntlet

by Mike Kraus

  “Then the sooner we disarm it the better. As soon as I call this in I’m sure we’ll have some nuclear guys out here to take care of it.”

  “No,” she shook her head, “No, that’s not what I mean.” Linda looked at the soldier ahead of them who was heading to find a radiation suit in the APC. “Hey, hang on a second!”

  “Ma’am?”

  “Can you tell how long that thing’s been down there? By measuring the radiation levels and whatever in the soil around it?”

  He cocked his head to the side and raised an eyebrow. “Maybe… but why?”

  If that’s the only one left behind, then if we know how long it’s been sitting there alone—with no other crates to block the radiation from hitting the ground or walls or whatever else—then we’d know how long ago the other crates were moved out from here to the cities.”

  Jackson nodded vigorously. “That… is a good idea. Might come in handy in tracking them down.” He pointed at the soldier. “Figure that out if you can, too. I’m going to go follow up on the call and see how fast we can get reinforcements here.”

  “Yes, sir!”

  “Linda.” Frank took Linda’s arm and pulled her off to the side. He had managed to follow most of what was going on despite the pain in his head, and he was growing more and more concerned about one particular aspect.

  “What’s up, Frank?” Linda looked him over, still worried about his condition.

  “We need to try calling Sarah. I don’t like how we haven’t heard from her.”

  “Agreed. You still have the phone?”

  “Oh yeah, I forgot.” Frank slipped off the backpack he had been wearing since before they arrived and opened it up. He pulled the black case out of it and looked in horror at the long crack that stretched across the shell of the plastic. “What the…” Frank opened the case and found the phone inside to be damaged as well, bearing a broken screen and a large dent on the number pad.

  “Looks like the case took the brunt of the damage when that RPG hit us.” Linda gingerly pulled the phone from the case and gently depressed the power button. There was an electronic whine from somewhere inside the phone before it grew so high pitched it became inaudible. A small puff of smoke came from a crack on the side of the device a split second later and Linda dropped it back into its case with a grimace.

  “Hm.” Frank grunted and placed the case down on the ground before putting his pack back on. “So much for trying to call her on that.”

  Linda sighed and looked around. “I’ll see if Jackson can get someone to get a phone for us. We have her number so we can try calling her again.”

  Frank stared at the phone on the floor for a few seconds before looking at Linda. “Do you think we’ll catch a break sometime soon? Or are we going to be perpetually one step behind?”

  Linda sighed again and shrugged, her silence the only appropriate answer to Frank’s question.

  Chapter 6

  “I don’t see what the damned problem is. You’ve got your money, so why—” The man talking on the phone pauses and rolls his eyes as the person on the other end of the line interrupts him. After a few seconds he speaks again. “Look, fine, whatever. I don’t care anymore. Just get it taken care of. Yes. Yes, it’s still working. Yeah, great. Thanks. Later.”

  Malcolm Stadwell throws his satellite phone onto his bed and rolls his eyes again. “Asshole.” He tilts back his head as he finishes another bottle of beer before chucking the bottle into a nearby trash can.

  Though the apocalypse has come to the United States, Malcolm Stadwell barely feels a thing. With a backup generator, a large stock of food and drink and a healthy amount of security, he is both safe and comfortable in his four-bedroom home on the northern outskirts of Washington, D.C. The home is small but has a spacious basement, a built-in generator, whole-house battery and solar panels and is set up in a discrete neighborhood off of the beaten path and surrounded by ten-foot-tall steel fencing.

  It is Malcolm’s sanctuary and fortress and home, allowing him to remain in denial about the events in the outside world while he relaxes, watches old movies and drinks himself to sleep every night.

  As Malcolm trots down the stairs from the second story to the first, he opens his mouth to shout at his housekeeper. “Maria! Did you get around to that mopping today? The cellar’s in awful shape and I don’t… what the hell?” As his right foot hits the bottom of the stairs, it nearly slips out from under him. He looks down and lifts his foot up, grimacing as he realizes that it’s covered in some sort of sticky substance. “Dammit, Maria! What did you spill?!” He shouts at her again, but there is no answer.

  He shakes his foot gingerly, not bothering to look very closely at the substance as he hops over a puddle of it and rounds the corner of the stairs. He stops, frozen in shock as he sees a dark form lying on the ground in front of him. A pool of dark red blood covers the floor, having flowed from the body’s head and collecting at a low spot at the bottom of the stairs. Malcolm gulps hard, not sure how to process the sight of his dead housekeeper until he remembers that there’s a small .380 revolver tucked away in the pocket of his robe.

  Malcolm pulls out the revolver and snaps back the hammer, holding the weapon out at arm’s length with a slight tremor. He glances down at the body again, confirming that what he is seeing is real. “Someone broke in?” He whispers to himself as he steps forward, cringing as his wet foot hits the dry floor with a slight squelch. Fear seizes at his stomach, causing his arm and hand to shake even more as he steps forward. The edge of his robe catches in the thick liquid, pulling it slightly back and startling him.

  “Who’s there?!” He whirls around and shouts at the empty room, nearly firing at a shadow in the corner cast by the grandfather clock. He takes a few steps backwards, heading into his living room when his left ear barely catches a soft rustling off to the side. He turns again, ready to fire, but an olive-skinned hand reaches out and grabs his arm, bending it to the side and snapping the bones in his wrist.

  Malcolm cries out in pain as the gun slips from his fingers and clatters to the ground. He reaches for the weapon with his left hand but the assailant gets to it first, pulling it away before Malcom can get to it. Recoiling in fear, a small scream of pain escapes Malcolm’s lips before another assailant approaches from behind. In less than thirty seconds he is seated in a chair in his kitchen with his arms and legs bound.

  “What the hell do you want?! Just take whatever it is you want, please! Anything! Just take it!” Tears run down his cheeks, partially from the pain in his wrist and arm and partially from the abject fear running through his mind. His home north of Washington was supposed to be secure; after all, he designed it that way intentionally. Paranoia fueled by his traitorous actions against his country led him to spend money on unnecessary security measures for his home. When the unexpected happened and the country fell to the attacks, the home became a fortress. The first few days were traumatic as he realized that he was partially responsible for what had occurred. Justification and alcohol quickly took away the trauma, though, replacing it with a sense of self-righteousness and egotism.

  ‘Anyone could have done it.’

  ‘If I had said no then they would have found someone else.’

  ‘At least I’m safe and have food and water.’

  ‘Idiots. They should have thought ahead and prepared themselves for something like this.’

  “Mr. Stadwell.” The voice is smooth and cuts through Malcom’s thoughts. He opens his eyes, blinking several times to clear away the tear-filled clouds. An olive-skinned man stands before him, dressed in casual clothing. His features are masked by shadows but he bears the attitude of a man who is in complete control of a situation and has no fear or anxiety whatsoever.

  “W-who are you? Just take whatever you want, please! But don’t kill me! I beg you!” Malcolm chokes out the words.

  “Take whatever I want?” The man smiles coolly and sits down in a chair a few feet away from Malcolm. “You’ve
already ensured that I have everything I want and need, Mr. Stadwell.”

  The way in which the man says his name makes Malcolm realize who he is. He squints, trying to make out the man’s features to confirm his suspicion. “Amari?! Wh-why are you here? What’s going on?”

  “My name is not ‘Amari,’ Mr. Stadwell. My name is Farhad Omar.”

  “Why are you here?” The momentary indignation slips out of Malcom’s voice as he realizes that he is most likely not going to leave his kitchen alive. While he doesn’t know who this ‘Farhad Omar’ is, the way in which Amari says his true name makes it clear that Malcolm is involved in a game in which he is destined to be the loser.

  “To deliver your final payment, of course.” Omar flashes a warm smile. “You have provided invaluable assistance to me and for that you have my thanks. You are, however, a supremely disgusting individual. You have betrayed your country for coin. I have no love for your country but it is yours, and you have given it up because you cannot control yourself. I find that to be… intolerable.”

  Omar stands up and nods to one of the men standing next to him. Malcolm opens his mouth to protest, to try and defend himself and prolong his existence for a few more seconds. Before the first syllable can slip past his lips there is a loud snap as the suppressed pistol fires. Malcom’s head sags down on his chest, blood spilling from the gaping wound in the back of his head and trickling out the hole in his forehead.

  “Goodbye, Mr. Stadwell.” Omar turns and heads for the front door to the house, taking care to step gingerly over the housekeeper whose body still lies on the floor. As he exits the house and heads toward a pair of vehicles parked out front, a man runs up to Omar from one of them, a phone clutched in his hand. “Sir, they’re mustering at the mouth of the river. They’re awaiting your arrival.”

  Omar smiles and nods. “Tell them I will meet them in six hours. We will commence then.”

  Chapter 7

  It was early the next morning when the distant rumble of diesel engines woke Linda from her slumber. She sat up from a sleeping roll and threw off a rough green blanket, looking around to get her bearings. After Jackson placed multiple calls with those higher in his chain of command, everyone at the complex settled in as best as they could with the threat of a dirty bomb lurking beneath their feet. The APC was moved out of the warehouse and the hole in the wall was patched up, the intact Humvees were moved to key choke points at the entrances to the complex and another soldier who had some basic bomb defusal training worked with Cooper to defuse the dirty bomb.

  It took a few hours, but Cooper and his comrade finally emerged from the basement, sweat pouring from their faces as they pulled off the hoods of their radiation hoods and smiled in triumph. The bomb was relatively simple to defuse, but they had taken extra time to carefully document each step and each component of the device with photographs and notes which Jackson then passed up the chain for use once the other devices were discovered.

  With the threat neutralized shortly before sundown and the promise of a large convoy of reinforcements on the way, the group dug in at the warehouse and prepared to wait out the long night. A fire was built in the middle of the warehouse, its smoke disappearing through holes in the roof, and meals were heated and passed around. Linda had kept close to Frank throughout the night, watching him carefully for any signs that his concussion or potential internal injuries might be leading to further issues.

  The night passed without trouble, though, and when Linda woke up and looked around Frank was already up and about. He was moving slowly, his body still aching from the rolled Humvee, but the fire was back in his eyes as he leaned over to hand Linda a steaming metal cup filled to the brim with a black liquid.

  “This is supposed to be coffee,” he said, sniffing suspiciously at his own cup. “But it tastes like… I don’t even know.”

  “Turpentine?” Linda grinned as she sipped from the mug, winced, smiled and took another big sip. “It’s sort of an acquired taste. Spend a few years in the sand and you’ll grow to love it.”

  One of Frank’s eyebrows shot up as he watched Linda drinking the brew. “You can keep it.” He held out a hand and she grasped it, stood up and looked around. A small cluster of soldiers sat around the fire eating breakfast while a couple others stood guard near the back entrance of the warehouse. The rumble of the patrolling Humvees reminded her that they were still at risk of being attacked. She put her coffee on a nearby barrel and took her rifle, vest and backpack from the ground. Once her vest and backpack were on she took a long drink from the cup before nodding at Frank.

  “Thanks again for that. Any word on when the reinforcements will be here?”

  “Jackson said he’d come by soon and let us know. I’m not—oh, there he is.”

  Frank and Linda looked over toward the APC as the back door opened with a clang and Jackson jumped out and came jogging over to them. He wore an expression of concentration and determination, though Linda thought she detected a note of glee in his voice when he spoke.

  “Nice to see you finally up, Rollins. I need you two in the APC now. We’ve got new orders from command.” There was a sense of urgency in Jackson’s tone and Frank and Linda glanced at each other before Linda responded.

  “What’s going on, Jackson?”

  “This way,” he replied, ignoring her question. He turned and jogged back toward the APC with Frank and Linda close behind. When he arrived, he leaned in and gestured at the soldier sitting inside with headphones on. “Take ten.”

  The soldier nodded, took off his headphones and left the APC. When he was gone, Jackson climbed inside and sat down near the front. Frank and Linda followed suit and Jackson pointed at the back of the vehicle. “Close up the hatch, Rollins.” She complied and took a seat next to Frank who was looking uncomfortably at the short ceiling. “You okay, Frank?”

  “Just remembering what happened the last time the three of us were sitting inside a vehicle.”

  Jackson snorted and nodded. “We’ll keep it brief.” He picked up a few papers covered with scribbled writing and flipped through them before continuing. “As you know, reinforcements are on the way. We received orders an hour ago to await their arrival, at which point they’ll secure the device.” Jackson gritted his teeth as he read the next line. “We’re then going to proceed with them to the east where we’re going to be joining with a task force to respond to a fire that’s broken out near a sanctuary city.”

  “What?!” Linda exploded as she leapt out of her chair, banging her head against the roof of the APC. She rubbed her hand on her head as she shook it, not believing what Jackson was saying. “What is this, some kind of sick joke?”

  “I’m afraid not, Linda.” Jackson spoke softly, using her first name in a show of genuine sympathy.

  “Didn’t you tell them about the crates? The devices?? The fucking attacks by Omar’s men?!” Sitting next to Linda, Frank tilted his head and winced slightly as she screamed at Jackson.

  “Of course I told them!” Jackson raised his voice, though he stayed still in his seat. “I told them everything multiple times, talked to all sorts of people! I’ve been on the horn on and off since last night. No dice.”

  Linda stopped and stared slack-jawed at him for several seconds before slumping back down into her seat. “Unbelievable. Just… unbelievable.”

  “They acknowledged it and said they’re going to investigate, but they’re not treating it as a priority.”

  “Dirty bombs in the survivor cities aren’t being treated as a priority.” Linda closed her eyes and tilted her head back. “What a load of crap.”

  “Does this mean they’re not going to search for the devices?” Frank asked.

  Jackson shrugged. “I have no idea. I told them in no uncertain terms that this was a huge deal but they’ve got a lot on their plate and I don’t have any special pull.”

  “That’s why we needed Sarah,” Linda groaned. “If she was there she’d have every last man, woman and child out sea
rching for those crates.”

  “I know. But she’s not, and we have to deal with this as best as we can. I’ll keep calling and trying to get through to someone who understands what we’re dealing with, but… oh, wait. Here. Someone’s calling back.” Jackson turned at the sight of a blinking amber light on a radio mounted to the wall of the APC. He picked up the telephone-like transmitter/receiver and spoke into it.

  “This is Jackson.” For a few seconds his expression remained neutral and Frank and Linda could hear the staticky voice of a woman talking on the other end of the line. Jackson’s expression suddenly changed, though, and his eyes grew wide and he sat up in his seat. He looked up at the mount on the wall as he spoke again. “Hang on. I’m putting you on speaker. There’s a couple of people here who want to talk to you.”

  Linda’s stomach did a somersault and she felt a shiver run through her entire body. Even though she hadn’t recognized the voice on the other end of the line, Jackson’s face and what he said told her all she needed to know. She glanced at Frank who, like her, had obviously figured out who Jackson was talking to as he had the same look of disbelief that she was bearing.

  “—the hell are you talking about, Jackson?” The annoyed voice came through a speaker on the radio. The person on the other end sounded like they were sitting in a bathtub while wearing a bucket on top of their head but to Frank and Linda’s ears it was the sweetest sound they could imagine hearing.

  “Sarah?!” Linda nearly shouted.

  “…Linda?” Though Sarah tried her best to keep the emotion in her voice contained, it was clear that she was somewhat taken aback to hear Linda speaking.

  “I thought we lost you!” Frank spoke next, grinning from ear to ear. When Sarah replied, her gruffness returned, though there was still a certain note of elation leaking there from time to time.