by Justin Bell
“So, looks like this is where we get off,” Orosco said, confirming Liu’s suspicions. “We’ll have to make do with seeing what info we can gather from the folks in this neighborhood until they get this fire knocked down or they confirm that Galveston is clear of the fallout.”
“Fair enough,” Liu replied, opening his door and withdrawing himself from the passenger seat. Dressed in his dark blue combat uniform, he wore a black tactical vest with the patch on his arm identifying him as Customs and Border Patrol. As he stepped from the car, he looked around, noticing for the first time that while they hadn’t made it all the way to Galveston, there was plenty of destruction to go around.
Dark smudges pressed into the smooth surface of several surrounding buildings, windows smashed out in almost every one of them. Two cars within view had flattened tires, and another one was actually turned over on its side, pushed up against a stoic, brick structure.
People were milling around everywhere as well, wandering aimlessly through town streets where no traffic traveled, just an endless parade of the confused and entranced—the exact people that Liu wanted to speak with. Survivors and eye witnesses of the explosions had been few and far between—due to the persistent deadly radiation keeping them separated and isolated—so this was a unique opportunity to get some direct, first-hand intelligence around the circumstances of the explosion.
Maybe if they were lucky, they might even spark a lead or find someone who knew someone and could actually provide some real information.
Liu figured chances were slim, but slim was better than none.
He turned to talk to Orosco and saw him facing the flames, a shrouded figure blanketed by fire, just standing and watching them as if he was one of the entranced. Orosco looked up at the tallest coil of fire and actually took a step forward, as if approaching it to ask it a question.
“Orosco?” Liu asked. “Ricky?”
The other agent took another step forward.
Liu took three broad strides and came up behind him, clamping a tight grip around his shoulder. “Ricky!”
Orosco turned, his eyes jolting open as if awoken from some half sleep. “Yeah. I’m with you.”
“Come on,” Liu said. “Let’s go see what these folks have to say, okay?”
Orosco nodded and followed Liu towards a group of aimless wanderers, wishing he hadn’t stopped walking on into the fire.
***
The one good thing, Phil decided, as the sun continued drifting towards the broad expanse of the horizon, was that the darker it got, the less aware they were of how screwed up the world had become. They continued riding their ATVs alongside Interstate 70, the entire width of the Colorado plains stretching out before them. They’d made really good time and were within thirty miles of the Kansas border, but the sky had shifted towards darkness. While the endless line of abandoned vehicles was no longer visible in the dim light, Phil knew they were there, which was enough to still make him nervous as he rode at the lead of the four vehicle caravan.
Grass and tumbleweeds flattened under the fat all-terrain tires of the vehicles, and Phil watched for any sign of a place to pull off and spend the night. They’d long since seen any trees or mountains, now riding along the flattest terrain in the United States, but flat or no, they still had to sleep.
Drifting closer to I-70, Phil guided the ATV along the shoulder, his engines revving and reflecting off the smooth, metal hide of the vehicles he was alongside, his eyes scanning the side of the road. The pale headlights of his lead ATV caught on something—a brief reflection, shining the darkness.
Burlington Village
An arrow on the sign pointed left, and Phil flicked the blinker on his ATV the same direction, leading the vehicle away from the road and deeper into the grassy plains. He looked back over his shoulder and saw the rest of the convoy following his lead, six headlights trailing him, one pair right after another. The Honda jumped over the uneven ground, thumping along over rocks and packed dirt until he reached a narrow dirt road meandering towards a structure drenched in shadow he could barely see in the low light of evening. Thick trees bracketed the structures, the first sign of substantial foliage he’d seen in a couple of hours which gave him a little hope that this hunch of his might just pay off.
There was a single free-standing building, a double-wide trailer sitting isolated and alone, bracketed by a wide circular group of trees. Phil cut the engines of his four-wheeler as Rhonda pulled hers up next to him on the left, while Greer skidded to a halt on his right. As Angel pulled up the rear, everyone dismounted from their vehicles and Rhonda tossed a long, metal flashlight to Phil, keeping one for herself.
Brad scanned the dimly lit horizon, then looked over at Max, who walked towards him.
“You doing okay, Brad?” he asked.
“Yeah, I’m fine,” Brad replied. “I can handle it.” He felt a little tense once again this far out in the open, but at the same time was feeling a little ganged up on. Everyone asking him how he was, reassuring him that they’d get him back to his parents. He was thankful for it, but at the same time, he felt a bit patronized.
“If you need help, just ask,” Max said. “I’ve still got this.” He held out his hand and showed Brad the revolver that the man at the storage facility had dropped. Brad’s eyes went wide.
“Max, I think you should give that to your mom or dad,” he whispered. “Those things are dangerous.”
“The world is dangerous, Brad. Don’t worry, okay?”
“I don’t like it,” Brad replied. “I don’t like guns. I don’t like any of this crap.”
“I get it,” Max replied, nodding. “Trust me, okay?”
Brad’s eyes darted to the gun, then darted back to Max, and he nodded, though he seemed somewhat unconvinced.
“You think this might be the place?” Rhonda asked Phil as she approached him.
“We’ve got a roof and walls,” Phil replied. “And it doesn’t look like anyone’s home.”
Rhonda walked around him, shining her flashlight along the ground. “Come here,” she whispered. “Look at this.”
Phil walked over with his light shining on the pale, dry ground beneath them. It wasn’t dark yet, but it was close enough to dusk to make it difficult to see without the light. Deep, carved grooves were scraped all throughout the dirt and rock on the ground in wide, sweeping gouges.
“Looks like a bunch of trailers were moved.”
Phil nodded. “The whole park cut and ran.”
Clancy walked over, ducking down into a low crouch, running his fingers over the trenches carved in the packed dirt. He looked east, following the path of the carved ground out towards the plains.
“Yeah, I think they took them all straight east. Avoiding the roads like the rest of us.” He looked towards the trailer and stood back up, sliding his Glock from the holster. He clasped two hands around the shaped handle and walked towards the structure, angling around the left wall, heading towards the front door. Rhonda fell in behind him, her own pistol removed from her belt and held in a firing grasp.
Greer curled around the corner of the trailer, sticking tight to the wall, his feet crossing as he moved towards the front door. It was a single level structure, flat and wide, with faux wood siding and a metal storm door. All the lights inside were off, and the house was a darkened shell—a black, featureless shape against the dim light of the indigo sky. Stars hadn’t begun to emerge yet on the horizon, and there was no moon, but the simmering, pink sun floated menacingly at the edge of the vast and flat horizon, glaring down at them, as if knowing that they were up to no good.
“What if someone’s in there?” Rhonda asked. “What if it’s a family?”
“Let’s hope it’s not,” Greer said, hooking his fingers around the handle to test the storm door. He yanked on the handle but found the door locked. “Sit back a bit,” he said to Rhonda, and she stepped down the short flight of stairs. Moving the pistol to his left hand, he coiled his right fist and drilled
it on the metal door four times in rapid succession.
They waited for a few moments while the metal echoes faded. Nobody responded. Greer stepped towards the door and slammed it again with the side of his fist, rattling the door on the hinges.
“Anyone there?” he barked.
Rhonda turned and looked towards where I-70 ran, anticipating a thrust of shambling forms coming running from where the cars sat packed along the interstate. She hadn’t gotten close enough to see if they were all empty or if roamers and drifters had taken up residence in some of them, but she tried not to think of that too much.
She’d been surprised at just how much she’d grown accustomed to over two long days of post-incident life. She didn’t habitually check her phone any more, and her eyes had started adjusting to the constant darkness. The motherly instinct of fight or flight had kicked in and she no longer felt comfortable without the cold, heavy steel of a pistol strapped to the small of her back.
It had taken her a very long time to peel herself away from that life, to remove herself from an existence that revolved around weapons training and preparing for inevitable combat, but she’d managed it. She’d made a life for herself as a suburban housewife, a mother of three, and a supporter of only the best Colorado non-profits. How easy it had been to slide back into the comfortable surroundings of her youth.
Part of her was glad she had that foundation. More than once since she’d heard of the detonations in California she’d silently thanked her parents for their relentless preparation for an event just like this. Would her or her family have survived to this point without it? Would Lance Cavendish have killed her husband then done unspeakable things to her and her kids? She thought it was likely that he would have. All too likely.
That was the kind of world they were dealing with now—a world where killers and psychopaths felt comfortable walking out in the open, carrying weapons and throwing their weight around. Law and order had already fractured, splintering and peeling away into scrapped fragments of what they used to be. If you wanted to survive, you had to carry your own weapon and be prepared to fight tooth and nail for anything and everything—including your life.
It had only been two days.
Cars stood abandoned, trailer parks vacated, private schools taken over and used as a refuge for ex-convicts. She’d fired her weapon in anger more times in forty-eight hours than she had in nearly forty years, and things were just getting started.
“Nobody’s here,” Greer reported. “Place is empty, I’m pretty sure.” Checking the door again to verify the door was locked, he turned the pistol around in his hand, holding it by the barrel, and swung it sharply forward, striking the top pane of glass in the flimsy, metal door. With a soft burst, the glass starred, shattered, and broke apart, dropping across the plastic staircase he was standing on.
Reaching in through the broken window, he unlocked the storm door, then checked the interior door and found that it, too, was locked.
“Man. They’re not making this easy,” he muttered.
Rhonda moved in and grasped the storm door, holding it open to give Greer some room to work. The ex-sheriff took a step down the short stairway, then surged upwards, using his shoulder to blast into the interior door. It banged and popped, the thin fiberboard door springing open as if it wasn’t locked at all. Greer nearly tumbled into the main living room of the house, his feet stomping on thick, red carpet. Recovering, he brought his hands up and clasped them around his pistol, snapping into a crouched firing stance. As he walked forward into the trailer, he swiveled, directing the barrel of his weapon around the small living room, then down towards the left hallway as he advanced. Rhonda continued close behind, trying to watch his blind spots. It was a typical trailer, with dark-colored carpet and pale off-white walls and faux wood furnishing. Greer walked the length of the left hallway, looking into each of the two bedrooms as well as the one bathroom while Rhonda shifted right and made the same motions in the opposite direction. They rejoined each other, ending up in the squat, tile-floored kitchen on the back half of the living room entry with a single back door leading to the flat, dead-grass yard out back.
“Clear that way,” Greer said, nodding towards the hallway.
“Same my way,” Rhonda replied.
The ex-sheriff lowered his weapon, though he still kept it clamped tight between two hands. “See anything strange?”
Rhonda shook her head. “I didn’t totally root through any of the closets or anything, but it looks like a normal place.”
Greer squinted towards a particle board entertainment center on the far wall, just to the right of the hallway, and advanced towards it. A wide flat screen television filled a center compartment and on the top of the piece of furniture were a few framed photographs. One of them was an eight by ten and showed a younger father with his apparent wife and son, sitting on a rock, most likely in the backyard. Nearly the entire horizon was visible behind them, though his wife’s wide, tooth-filled grin was certainly attention grabbing.
A second picture looked like a smaller four by six and showed a man in desert camouflage, standing on the rocky crag of some mountain range that neither Greer nor Rhonda recognized. They couldn’t tell if he was an actual soldier or just wore camouflage clothes. There was no other indication in the picture of other soldiers. There was a third frame on the entertainment center, but it was lying face down. Rhonda tipped it back up and noticed it was just an empty frame with nothing inside. Lights were dim inside the house, as they were in every house since the detonations, and as the sun continued its steady, determined trek towards the other side of the earth, shadows crept along the ceiling and corners.
They’d both left their flashlights outside, and Rhonda turned from the entertainment center.
“I’m going to go snag my flashlight. It’s getting darker in here.”
Greer nodded as she crept across the carpet and slunk out the front door.
“It looks clear inside,” Rhonda reported to the rest of the team as she stepped down off the stairs. She held her hand out towards Winnie. “Can I get my mag light, sweetie?”
Winnie handed the light over and Rhonda turned to head back in. “I think you’re good to come in. Phil and Max, can you guys stash the ATVs? Maybe out back? Brad, Winnie, and Angel, come on in if you want.”
Phil nodded and gestured towards Max to head to the four-wheelers and get them moved. In the wide open, dirt-covered plains there weren’t many hiding places, but Phil popped the four-wheeler in neutral and pushed it down the driveway, around the house, and tucked it close to the wall in the backyard. They repeated the motion for two others, but with the last one, due to the trailer, Max had to get the motor started and drive it around. It took about ten minutes, but soon enough all four vehicles were nestled in the backyard, safe from the view of I-70, and about as safe as expected given the current circumstances.
“Thanks, Max,” Phil said. “You’re getting pretty good at driving that thing.”
“Any time you want me to take the wheel, pops, just let me know.”
“You’re growing up a little too fast for me.”
“I guess it’s the way things are now. I’ve got to learn to defend myself.”
Phil looked at him. “What do you mean?”
The youngest Fraser didn’t like the stare he was getting. “Lots of bad stuff out there, dad. I can’t be running around out there not knowing how to protect myself.”
“We’ll protect you, bud,” Phil said, still not understanding where his son’s statements were coming from, nor fully understanding their context. “You’re not alone.”
Phil smiled and ruffled Max’s thick hair, then moved his hand to his back and eased him up the stairs to keep him moving. Light arced and flickered from behind the empty windows as Rhonda made another pass through the house with the light.
***
He saw the lights before he saw any individuals, but that sight was enough to make Jeremiah Schroeder pause and drop, haltin
g his approach towards the trailer. Across the wide plains, he could see for a long distance, and the splash of light from behind the windows showed him that someone was inside his trailer. His locked trailer.
His home.
Jeremiah crouched low in the dry dirt, reaching into a pouch on his thick, layered tactical vest. Prying the night vision goggles from their spot on his torso, he pressed the rounded edges to his eyes and dialed up the magnification. From a distance, through a pale green haze, he could just see two figures mounting the steps, a man and a child.
Staying crouched in the dirt, he reached over his shoulder and eased off the canvas strap, lowering his M4 Carbine semi-automatic rifle to the ground. He was gentle with it, taking care not to disturb the high-magnification scope bolted to the top, or the tactical grip near the front barrel of the weapon. A narrow laser sight was attached to the contoured grip, nestled just underneath the extended barrel, threaded for a silencer, though Jeremiah hadn’t brought one. He’d left for a simple quick supply run, hunting through empty vehicles to search for gas. He had been planning to go into town the next day to see if he could dig up a generator, and he figured there were enough cars out there to give him some lights and power for a good few weeks while he decided what to do next. The rest of the park had picked up and vacated when they heard what had happened in Utah, but not him. Not Jeremiah. He’d been in the desert. He’d seen all the nastiest stuff a man is meant to see, and he had no intention of running away from some invisible cloud that may or may not make him sick.
What did he have to live for, anyway?
Jeremiah slipped the magazine free of the rifle and double checked that there was a round in the chamber, then clipped it back home and advanced towards his trailer, walking low and quiet in his dirt covered swath of land in rural Colorado.
***
The low rumble of motorcycles echoed in the growing darkness, their single headlights casting sparse white light along the edges of the parked cars on Interstate 70, running west to east through the Colorado plains towards Kansas. There were ten of them in a single file convoy—low riders, motocross bikes, and Japanese crotch rockets. All sorts of makes and models, whatever they could get running.
