by Rounds, Mark
“That fits the pattern we have seen. They seem to have a real need to capture those in remission,” said Terry. “We don’t really understand that need or the nature of ‘The Call’. But if you are in need of biddable henchmen, an infected person who knows ‘Slash’ keeps him or her sane is very helpful. We discovered it the hard way when we had a remission case here that became known first to family members and then to the public. The ‘Slash’ users tried to take the young lady in question. We were ready though and captured or killed most of the bad guys.
“We interrogated those who remained, but what got these folks talking is the fact we didn’t allow ‘Slash’ in the detention center for obvious reasons. They panicked and blabbed everything they knew, which wasn’t much, after the first of their number went psychotic and attacked his cell mate.”
“So is ‘Slash’ a good treatment then?” asked a hopeful Chad thinking about Phil and Margaret. “Can we actually cure folks with it?”
“It’s a palliative as I said earlier, it doesn’t even reduce the infection; it just calms the symptoms. Once treatment is suspended, the brain chemistry gets weird fast and they exhibit neurological symptoms within four or five hours. Once we figured that out, we have been using controlled doses of ‘Slash’ as a treatment for those infected inside the wire. It keeps them calm and controllable, but we make sure they know where their supply comes from.”
“How long does it work for?” asked Chad. “The treatment I mean.”
“Well, we don’t really know,” replied Terry. “The dose keeps ramping up but the effects stay the same. It’s not hard to make the stuff so we have used it pretty indiscriminately. The downside, at least for some, is that the drug gets you high, which is why people are addicted to it. It also means that for longer and longer periods, the folks we give the drugs to, are out in the ozone.”
“So Terry, while I am grateful for the information,” said Chad, “Is there anything I can use or anything you know that can help us prepare?”
“We believe they are coming for Amber again,” said Terry after a moment, “and this time, we think they have an armored car. They have found the MRAP that the Walla Walla Police Department in the area tried to disable, but apparently, Macklin, who by the way is missing and wanted for the possible bombing of a federal building, and his friends were able to get it running again. It was seen leaving the Walla Walla area and satellite imaging has tracked it to your area. It’s parked near a biker bar called Roban’s that this gang has apparently taken over as a headquarters. I wish I had better news.”
“What should we do?” asked Chad worriedly. “What are its weaknesses? Can we defeat it in anyway?”
“I need to get someone who knows about this stuff on the line,” said Terry. “I will be back in ten minutes.”
“Before you go,” said Chad quickly, “we have another case here that maybe you should hear about. There is a young lady here who has been fully infected but never exhibited all the symptoms, especially the psychotic ones. She has lasted far longer than the average sufferer. Is there anything we can do for her?”
“That is something we have seen as well,” said Terry. “There is a subgroup that stops short of full involvement. They are carriers but have varying levels of rationality. Some are bat shit nuts but just don’t die. Others exhibit physical symptoms but seem normal mentally, but we have no real therapy for this. We also don’t know how long they will stay in this condition, whether they will deteriorate or improve. I am sorry.”
Chad glanced over at Phil but he was looking out the window at his wife. Margaret was standing the backyard. Gone were the dirty, baggy clothes. In their place she was wearing yoga pants and a tank top as the temperature was already close to eighty. It was clear that before the Plague, she had been a nice looking, fit young woman. The window was open and it was clear she had heard it all.
“Hi, this Captain Whipkey,” said a bright voice on the line. “Remember me?”
Chad looked at the young man with very old eyes that stared back at him. He was thinner with circles under his eyes from too little sleep.
“I remember,” said Chad. “I thought you were an Air Force officer, Captain, why are you the expert on MRAP’s?”
“I am still an Air Force officer but I and a couple of other officers and a few retired NCO’s command a company in General Buckley’s new army. As it turns out, our new unit uses MRAP’s as Fort Lewis was in the process of disposing of a number of them. I still also do double duty as an aid for Colonel Antonopoulos. I was in the building and have the most current knowledge about de-milled MRAP’s.”
“So one of them rolls down my street intent on doing me and my family harm,” said Chad, “what can I do?”
“What kind of explosives do you have?”
Chad waved Dave over to the chair and left the camera cone.
“I am Major David Tippet, USMC Retired,” said Dave with more than a little pride. “I graduated from the improvised explosives course at Quantico. I can make some pretty big booms with household stuff but nothing very high energy.”
“It’s what I was afraid of,” said Captain Whipkey. “Unless you can make an EFP, the best you could probably do was blow a wheel off and maybe flip it over. The crew inside would probably be fine. More likely, they could drive it in your front door.”
“What’s an EFP?” asked Chris from off camera.
“Explosively formed penetrator,” said Dave without missing a beat. “I put a concave metal surface in front of a directed explosive charge that is big and hot enough. When I set it off, if I have fused it right, it turns the concave metal into a high velocity jet of molten metal. If I had some good explosives, I could take out an MRAP at a couple hundred yards, but I can’t make anything nearly energetic enough with what I can get at a hardware store.”
“My best advice then is to not be there when it shows up,” said Captain Whipkey.
“What about a raid?” said Dave. “I could whip up some thermite pretty easily. If we could get it into contact with the beast, we could melt holes in it pretty much anywhere.”
“Our satellite imagery shows that the bikers and other less desirables have taken over an area downtown maybe three blocks square,” said Captain Whipkey. “It looks like former special agent Macklin is living like a feudal king. Major Tippet, I have called your record up while we have been talking. You have been to all the right schools and I think you have the training to get close. Before your accident, it would have been a fifty-fifty shot, now, I am not so sure. They have roving patrols and someone is always in the vehicle.
“The turret was demilled and has no weapon in it but the latest photo shows that they are trying to install something. We don’t know what. I will reiterate that you probably ought to leave.
“There is someone else who would like to talk to you before you get off the line,” said Captain Whipkey. “Could you please put Dr. Strickland back on the line?”
Chad and Dave did musical chairs and when Chad got where he could see the screen, his old commander and friend Colonel Andy Antonopoulos was on the screen.
“I thought this call might be coming,” said Andy, “and we worked this through the brass. We will welcome you here at Fort Lewis, Dr. Strickland. Major Tippet, you will be more than welcome at your old rank. We can work out any details on other dependents later but they can all come and be part of the team.
“The downside is, we can’t come and get you. We have had a major issue with POL and until we get that worked out, fuel is scarce and what we do have, we are keeping for generators. If you can get to within twenty miles, we can send a convoy out for you. I am sorry it’s not more.”
“Thanks, Andy,” said Chad. “We need to think about our options. I will get back to you somehow on this.”
“I suspect it will be a bit before we see each other again,” said Colonel Antonopoulos, “so I would just like to wish you God speed. We will be waiting for the call.”
The screen went blank. Cha
d started at the empty screen with the Skype logo on it for a few seconds and then looked over at Phil.
“I think we are done here,” said Chad. “I’d like to thank you for letting us use your setup. Is there anything we can do to repay that?”
“Well,” said Phil, “do you have any ammunition to spare? We haven’t had any serious firefights but we have used our guns a few times to scare off some infected and such, and we have very little ammo. Heck, even the pistol my wife found has only six bullets.”
“What do you need?” asked Dave.
“Well, it’s mainly pistols we have,” said Phil, “Anything in .45 or 9mm would help.”
“Just a minute,” said Dave. “I need to talk to my friends here.”
Dave, Chris and Chad walked out of the house and as soon as they were out of earshot Chad spoke up.
“I’d really like to help them out,” said Chad. “Phil didn’t have to do this and he could easily bring Macklin and his stooges over here.”
“My thoughts exactly,” said Dave. “I thought this might be the case. It so happens that 9mm is something we are long on. Both Chris and I have them but don’t shoot them much and I thought we might be having this discussion so I packed some things.”
Dave walked back to the truck. His limp was noticeable, but evidently Heather was making him rest and as a result he was getting around better. He opened the back door of his truck and pulled out some boxes and a long gun case and brought them over to the group.
“I have a box of .45 here,” said Dave as he showed the boxes. “It is usually the one I keep in the truck for hard times but they clearly need it more. I also brought a hundred rounds of 9mm as that is the most popular hand gun cartridge in the world. I suspect at least one of the pistols I saw in there was a nine. I also have here the shotgun my dad gave me when I was twelve. It is an old Remington break open single shot shotgun. It’s got a 30 inch barrel and was only good for duck hunting. I had been thinking about selling it because it’s been hard used and so not collectable. If Phil cut the barrel down, it would certainly add some firepower.”
“It was a gift from your dad,” said Chad, “I can’t ask you to give that up.”
“You aren’t asking,” said Dave with a smile, “I am offering. We have plenty of guns with the additions of Chris’s battery, and this thing is really of limited value. I would probably have had to leave it behind if we really do leave so better it goes to a friend. I will throw in twenty rounds of 12 gauge. We can spare that much.”
They walked back to the door and knocked. Phil, who had obviously been waiting right behind the door, opened it immediately. Dave handed him the gun case and the boxes of ammunition.
“Guys, this is too much,” said Phil. “I can’t put you guys at risk. I heard what you are dealing with.”
“The shotgun is my old duck gun from when I was a boy,” said Dave. “I haven’t fired it in twenty-five years. If you cut down the barrel, it would be fearsome at close range. The ammo, well we load our own. You’ll need it to keep that baby safe.”
“I am not turning it down,” said Phil with a look of wonder on his face. “Meg, did you see this?”
From around the corner of the house, Margaret peered around to corner with the first smile anyone had seen on her face.
“I saw,” said Margaret in a quiet voice, “thank you, gentlemen.”
“You are an impressive lady,” said Chad wonderingly. “It’s got to be hard, being that close to your child but not being able to hold her and then to go out in and among the infected to try and help. Others would have left or well … you know.”
“Not my Meg,” said Phil with more than a little pride. “She is as stubborn as they come and is the best mother little April could have. I would miss her terribly if she left. I am glad she stayed. We will make this work, I promise.”
At the end, Phil wasn’t looking at Chad and his friends, but into the eyes of his wife and soul mate.
May 31st, Sunday, 11:24 am PDT.
Macklin finally got his wits together enough to stir out of bed. He had to take more and more Slash to keep the infection at bay and he had begun to take a rather large hit before bed as well as several smaller ones during the day. It helped keep his head clear during the day but he was sleeping later and later which was not good as he had to keep a bunch of fractious bikers, druggies and other ne’er do wells from destroying each other and sometimes, doing what he was ordered to do by his handlers. Even though his new ‘clan’ was not long on hygiene, Macklin took the time to wash and shave before leaving his room, which had once been the honeymoon suite in a cheesy motel.
The new guys had arrived late the night before last and they were trouble of a different sort. It was bad enough when Macklin was the only functioning adult in his little fiefdom; the new group had brought another with whom he was going to meet now.
“Hey Macklin,” shouted Kevin Erwin, who had brought the MRAP over from Walla Walla with two other guys who could loosely be termed technicians. Both were often strung out on Slash and so work on the MRAP was going pretty slow.
“What now!?” said Macklin irritated. “You are always short of something, tools, Slash, beer, whatever. What is it now?”
“No call to get all riled up,” said Kevin with an accent that seemed put on, like most of the rest of him. Kevin, unlike Macklin, had been a Slash user before the plague while he was a failing professional football player. Had there been another season, he would have been out of the game. As it was though, he was a tad over six foot six inches tall and a tad under three hundred and fifty pounds of mostly fit muscle which gave him a very intimidating appearance. That appearance and his willingness to crack heads had moved him to the head of his little group of users who were all either current or former athletes. When their supply stated to dry up, Macklin’s employers stepped in.
After the collapse of law enforcement, Kevin and a couple of drug users who claimed some mechanical expertise were ordered over to Walla Walla to get some police vehicles going. They had managed to get the SWAT van that Macklin was currently using both in his recent attempt to retrieve Amber Hoskins and now as a drug van and potential living quarters, in running order, and now had shown up with an MRAP.
Now Kevin was ordering people around like he was running the show and it was apparent that he intended to do just that. Right now though, Macklin had the keys to the drug locker in the van so he was still nominally in charge.
“It’s done,” said Kevin smugly.
“Are you shitting me?” asked Macklin with a trace of incredulity. It had seemed to him that all Kevin’s ‘technicians’ did was drink beer, get high and chase biker girls.
“There is an M1919A4 machine gun in the ring mount on top the MRAP, courtesy of a gun collector in Walla Walla, and we have also unblocked all the rifle ports so folks inside can shoot too.”
“When can we roll?” asked Macklin.
“Well now, I was about to talk to you about that,” said Kevin smiling. “You know, me and the boys, we worked pretty hard on this rig. We figured we earned a little down time. We was hoping that we could get maybe a couple of balloons of Slash so we could maybe …”
“A couple of balloons?” said Macklin. “That’s enough to keep you and those women you hang with high for a week!”
“Hey man, no need to get all riled up,” said Kevin placatingly. “It’s not like your targets are going anywhere. They will be there. Why don’t you take a chill pill or better yet, you can come party with us.”
“I’ll give you one,” said Macklin, “and we have to be ready to roll in two days.”
Inwardly, he knew that getting this motley collection to hit the Stricklands again would be an uphill battle and most of the guys that went with him would be high as there were lots dead bikers and hangers on from this already. He had to stay on their good side to get anything done.
“Wait one while I get the Slash,” said Macklin with resignation.
Chapter 22
&n
bsp; May 31st, Sunday, 12:12 pm PDT.
After Chad, Dave and Chris returned from Phil’s, Chad called for a full house meeting. Everyone came, even eight year old Ginger. Everyone had to decide. First he related what they had learned from their conversations with the people at Fort Lewis. There was anger and surprise over what they had to face.
“OK, folks,” said Chad after everyone had settled back down. “I don’t like this anymore than you do, but we have to at least consider the option of moving on. Maybe we go to Fort Lewis or to Moscow where my brother is.”
“Are you sure we can’t fight them?” asked Mary.
“Well,” said Dave, “We can always fight, but our options are limited. I have a day or two at most to concoct some explosives and plant them where they would do the most good. Everything I can think of is pretty low energy.”
“What do you mean by that?” asked Amy. “I thought explosions were explosions, you know, like in the movies?”
“Oh, I can make a pretty big bang,” said David, “just like in the movies with lots of flame and bits of metal flying around. The problem is that the MRAP is designed to take that kind of thing. If I get them to drive over just the right spot, I may be able to blow off a wheel, but I would have to make a pretty big divot in the road and they would likely just drive around it.
“The issue is the amount of energy and velocity that you can generate with explosives. When the Tsarnaevs set off those bombs at the Boston Marathon back in 2013, they had a target with lots of people closely packed together and many of them were hurt pretty badly, but only three were killed. They were limited in the type of explosives they could use. In the end, it was found that they used the contents of commercial grade fireworks in a pressure cooker. Trouble is, that stuff actually burns pretty slowly, relatively speaking for explosives, so the pressure cooker exploded before it could build really high pressures. All the really cool stuff like an EFPs require something like C-4 or Semtex at a minimum and I can’t make that stuff in the kitchen.”
