by Bradley West
Sal nodded. “Pack plenty of food, water and bedding. Travis will supply a weapon and ammo.”
“Steph made a list before she slept. I’ll work through it as fast as I can.”
“Travis’ people will leave when they’re ready. If that’s before you’re packed, I’ll find someone to drive you out. Confine your search for cars to the north so you don’t run into the militia by accident.”
“Once Tyson’s better, we’ll drive back by night until we rejoin the convoy,” Greg said. “How will we be able to contact you, or find out where you are?”
“I expect the internet to go down for good any day. It’s a tribute to cloud servers and giant battery farms that it’s working at all. I know Travis picked up two ham radios yesterday. Speak with him about the frequency to monitor and time of day to share information. Last month I assigned codewords to towns and roads between home and the Thunderdome. Pull out one of those from the Horizon’s glove compartment. You can take one of the shortwaves.”
“You know we wouldn’t leave the group under normal circumstances. You’re right about our sticking together as the best way to ensure our mutual survival. It’s just that Steph, well, she’s just not herself and Tyson’s hurt and—”
Sal rescued his son-in-law from these unfamiliar emotions. “I understand. You need to wake Steph and get a move on.”
Greg shook Sal’s hand and held onto his father-in-law’s fingers for an awkward extra moment, searching for more words. Teary-eyed, Greg silently turned and walked to the sleeper ’Bago to find his wife. He passed Carla on the way and the two nodded.
Carla wondered what was wrong with him but stayed on course before another 3Mer jumped in front to seek Sal’s advice. “Kyle and Jeanie are awake and super-excited to be part of the adventure. How do I tell them that they’re substitutes and not really part of the 3M?”
“Tell them they’re in,” Sal said.
“What, you changed your mind?”
“No, I think twenty people is full capacity. Greg and Steph are hellbent on taking Tyson to Las Vegas for treatment. They’ll leave sometime today.”
“And they’re not planning on rejoining us when they’re done?” Carla asked.
“They’re planning on rejoining the 3M, but the odds are stacked against them.” Sal looked Carla in the eyes. “Not a word about this to anyone, particularly Pat and Barb.”
“You’re letting your eldest daughter throw her life away?”
“You’re still young, but it’s time you learned that no one ever ‘saves’ anyone. Everyone must save themself, be it from drugs, alcohol, food, jealousy, hatred or any other obsessive trait. Steph and Greg have decided they’d rather perish than do nothing and watch their baby die or grow up disabled. Who are we to try to persuade them otherwise?”
“That is some fucked-up thinking.”
“Mine or theirs?” Sal asked.
Carla turned and stormed off.
* * * * *
Nails pulled his small Uzi machine pistol as Norris followed him down two flights to the basement. “Stop!” Norris said. Nails halted behind the steel fire door. “Other than Pete, anyone out there?”
“No one but me,” Nails replied. “I was on guard duty when Pete rode in with a cop on his tail.”
“Put the gun away. You shoot that fucker and we’ll have the National Guard up our asses. No interruptions until we finish the cook. I’ll handle it.”
Norris pushed the door open and propped his shotgun and box of shells against a pillar. Nails stuffed his Uzi inside his vest and followed. A police cruiser sat at the bottom of the ramp, lights flashing and an officer on his radio. The two bikers couldn’t hear what he said, but the young cop broke off his conversation when he spotted them.
“Pete! What the hell happened?” Norris asked. “You caught riding without your face mask?”
“Sir, stay where you are,” the officer said. “This is police business.”
“Seeing as how you have the sergeant at arms of the Twisted Souls Motorcycle Club in cuffs, and I’m the president, I’d say it is my business,” Norris said as he took a step closer.
“Norris, tell this pig to let me go. He said I didn’t come to a complete halt at a stop sign. There isn’t any traffic. It’s harassment.”
“Sir, you refused to stop even when I sounded my siren. I ran your plates, and there’s an outstanding bench warrant for spousal abuse. I’m taking you in.”
“Locking someone up is a death sentence. Why don’t we work something out?” Norris used his reasonable voice as he took another step.
The policeman stepped away from Dirty Pete and drew his sidearm. “Sir, stay where you are. Unless you want to be arrested, you and your friend must step well away from me. And what is a biker club doing on Berkeley’s campus in a pan—”
Dirty Pete used his cuffed hands as a cudgel and clubbed the cop at the base of his neck. The policeman went down in a heap and the three bikers were on him in a flash. He was unconscious after the second or third blow, but they each struck him several times more for inconveniencing them . . . and for being a pig.
“Did he call in his location?” Norris asked.
“No,” Dirty Pete said. “But they have my name, so if he doesn’t come back, they’ll add a kidnapping beef. They have trackers in their cars too.”
“I know that,” Norris said. “We have to keep them off our asses just until tonight, then we’re gone. Cuff and gag Johnny Law, strip him of comms and lock him in a janitor’s closet. One of you drives this car at least twenty miles away and dumps it. Double up and watch your tail.”
“What are going to do, boss?” Dirty Pete asked.
“You’ll see.”
* * * * *
Up in the hotel room, Muller searched his phone in vain for the uploaded usernames, passwords and account numbers. After fifteen minutes of fruitless scrolling, he realized that his scheme had failed. He’d have to pull the key information off the laptop directly. Burns was in the bathroom irrigating his facial wounds with hydrogen peroxide and applying fresh bandages. Screw it. Muller took the laptop and left the room without a word to his on-again, off-again partner.
Down in the hotel lobby, Muller followed in Burns’ footsteps and paid the same reception clerk five C-notes to power up the Wi-Fi router and put him online. From there, the resemblance to Burns’ predawn session ended when the laptop yielded no secrets. Muller looked for evidence that his malware had been uninstalled but saw none. What on earth had Burns done to negate the hack? A Google search turned up several sophisticated virtual keyboard apps, but he couldn’t find any of them listed under the laptop’s recently installed programs. Did that half-faced Brit have the savvy to best him? It seemed scarcely possible. He logged into Tor and paid for a new keylogger, NetBull. It would contact him via emails instead of Bluetooth. He needed to give Burns a reason to get back online so he could steal his data once and for all.
Upstairs, Burns had dawdled in the bathroom to give Muller the opportunity to vanish with the laptop. He took the six tubes of Super Glue that he’d paid the lobby clerk an extra hundred dollars for and dragged his bad leg down to the end of the hallway. If this partnership was to survive beyond sundown, a come-to-Jesus talk was in order and he needed Muller’s full attention.
CHAPTER SEVENTEEN
Karma Chameleon
Friday, July 17, 2020: Berkeley, California, and outside Winnemucca, Nevada; morning into afternoon
Tom, Derek and Tien wrestled a barrel of gasoline into the back of the Silverado. Melvin spoke with a recovering Johnny in the Horizon and the former Marine told him where he’d hidden the best of the rest of his arms cache. Travis raised his eyebrows when Melvin returned with an M320 grenade launcher and a dozen projectiles. “I also found two bricks of C4 plus det cord and a pair of remote triggers,” Melvin said as he handed over the launcher and the “golden eggs”—slender M40 high-explosive grenades.
The fast reaction team loaded up on water and energy bars
and slapped on sunscreen. Barb came out of the sleeper RV and made a beeline for a jocked-up Jaime, his ballistic helmet signaling serious intent. “Where are you going?”
“We have to ditch the semi because it’s too big to hide here. Our friends from Gardnerville could be hunting us and we need to take precautions.”
“That’s bullshit! I think you’re out looking for more people to kill. What’s wrong with you? We elected Carla because she didn’t want to shoot first. We are for the peaceful path. There’s always a—”
“Peaceful path?” Jaime scoffed. “I have to go. While you’re loading your bong, consider that we weren’t the aggressors yesterday—we defended ourselves in a way that returned our people unharmed. And ask flower power Carla how we saved that vaccine that Tina jabbed into your arm last night. And we’re not looking to kill anyone today, just dump the semi so those rednecks can’t start another fight.” Barb stood confused and watched a purposeful Jaime walk over and climb up into the semi’s cab. Warmonger or not, he sure had a great ass.
Sal and Carla came out of the Forza with a small Coleman ice box and a Mylar blanket. “I want you to leave these eight Dark Cure doses in the semi along with the last of the instructions, a copy of the recording Kyle made yesterday and my walk-through of the final quarter of the process,” Carla said to Travis. “Sal’s convinced me we can’t tip them off without divulging our location. I guess we just hope they find them before other vandals do or the ice melts.”
“I’ll spray paint ‘Covid corpses!’ on both sides,” Travis said. “That should discourage scavengers who don’t recognize the truck.”
“It’s a good idea. I hope it’s enough,” she said.
“It’s more than they deserve,” Sal said.
“Amen to that,” Travis agreed.
Jaime wheeled the big rig onto the road out with Yonten up front, Arkar’s M-4 at the ready. Following the semi, Tien drove the Telluride with Travis riding shotgun and Melvin in the back seat. They had the second row of seats down and the SAW up on its bipod, strapped in place and ready to rock- and roll once that hatchback swung open.
The plan was to drive south and find a runaway truck ramp or pullout. Traffic was nonexistent, and they drove hard down I-80 until they were almost thirty miles from the Oasis. They left the semi on the berm of a side road one hundred meters from the main highway—frightening advisories painted on the sides—and the cold box containing the Dark Cure wrapped in a reflective blanket.
* * * * *
Carla’s touch on Greg’s arm startled him. She pressed a plastic memory card case into his palm. “These are two recordings which in combination show how to make the Dark Cure. When you get to Las Vegas, promise me you’ll upload them onto YouTube and email me the URL.”
“Will do. What were you saying to Travis just now? Did we keep the Dark Cure doses you created?”
“Last night I did. I was angry that those people kept trying to kill us even though we were trying to help them. I made a mistake. Travis will leave eight doses in the semi. I hope they find them before they spoil.”
Greg shook his head in admiration. “Steph’s almost done packing. I need you to distract Pat and Barb before we drive off. Tom’s taking us in the Silverado.”
“I can convene a social justice subcommittee over herbal tea while you make your escape. Are you sure you’ll be able to find us again?”
“Travis gave me the shortwave frequency and timing, and Sal gave me the codewords. With enough gas and a little luck, I’ll see you in a week.”
“Wait here,” Carla said. “Let me grab four doses of the Dark Cure. I’ll pack them in ice and seal a small cooler. Trade it for a neurological exam and whatever else you need.”
Greg drove the Silverado since Tom was adequate with a long gun and could better inspect vehicles given that he lacked a bullet wound in his thigh. Like many things in life, abandoned cars were plentiful when you weren’t seeking one, but now that the Fergusons were desperate to get away, they couldn’t find anything suitable. Predeparture, Sal’s last piece of advice had been to stop prospecting once they were within fifteen miles of Winnemucca. The town of eight thousand might have enough still-mobile inhabitants to complicate matters if they were seen boosting a car. Greg erred on the side of caution and they pulled into the Cosgrave Rest Area twenty miles outside. Out of sight of the road, they saw an RV, two vehicles, and a multi-person tent. No one was visible.
“What do you think?” Tom asked, sweaty palms caressing the still-unfamiliar stock of an M-4. Until yesterday morning, a .30-06 Springfield bolt-action deer rifle was the most powerful gun he’d ever held. Now he had a military weapon with three magazines of thirty rounds of green tip ammo that left the barrel at three thousand feet per second.
Greg answered by pulling to a stop forty yards short of the closest vehicle, a Japanese sedan of middling vintage. “I can’t move well so I’ll cover you from here. Walk at an angle and check it out. I doubt anyone’s alive or they’d have come out.”
Greg felt even more awkward playing soldier than Tom did. He was scared half to death on several counts. Steph was awake but wasn’t feeling talkative. She just stared at her injured son, concern etched on her face. That was enough for Greg: He pulled the door open and took out the M-4 he’d accepted only under protest. By the time he was leaning against the stovetop-hot hood, Tom was at the car.
Tom opened the sedan’s door, leaned in and then reeled back as the odor of rotted meat overwhelmed his mask. A swarm of insects exited and Greg gagged on the stench.. Next up was an old gray pickup truck, the body a mixture of rust spots and putty. Tom walked around it and didn’t bother to try a door. The third vehicle was an RV of some description. Tom opened and shut two doors, then gave a “so-so” wiggle with his hand. Greg didn’t know what to make of that. His young colleague jogged over to the tent. Ten feet short, he did an about face and walked back to the Silverado.
“Dead people everywhere, but still should be okay,” he said as he gulped water and wiped sweat from his forehead. “The only question is whether we can jumpstart the Sierra with the tools we have.”
“Let’s drive over and give it fifteen minutes. If I have to, I’ll search the bodies for the keys,” Greg said.
* * * * *
Burns buried the sticky latex gloves in the bottom of the bathroom wastebasket. Two more Percocets rendered tolerable the formerly unbearable pain of his wounded cheeks, teeth and palate. The National Guard doctor had warned him not to take more than four a day, and here it was mid-afternoon and he’d hit his quota. Hah. The facial swelling had subsided enough to speak in complete sentences. That was a good thing, as he had no intention of logging onto the laptop Muller had returned to their shared room.
The platinum blonde with the attitude slammed open the hotel room door. “You spend more time in the bathroom than a teenage girl.” Muller chided.
Burns mentally rehearsed his lines one last time. In telegram-style diction, he spoke to his partner in crime: “I know you added software to steal logins and passwords. Bad idea. If I die, they won’t work and there is no money. I also have no reason to get you a vaccine.”
“I agree. No more tricks.”
A past master of insincerity, Burns recognized it in others. “I want a new laptop that only I use. You keep that one. If you tamper with my computer again, our deal ends.”
“What do you have of value to buy a computer? We’re down to a few thousand dollars and by next week a hundred dollars won’t be enough for a ham sandwich.”
“I have one hundred thousand in Bitcoin. I’ll pay what it takes for a laptop.”
“Hold on,” Muller said. “Katerina said you had to give all the Bitcoin to Norris as part of your deal.”
“I hand over ninety thousand and keep ten thousand to cover medical and other expenses. What will Norris do, shoot me?”
“Maybe. I wouldn’t give him an excuse. There will be plenty of computers abandoned on campus. Can you move on that bad leg?
If so, let’s take a walk and steal one fast.”
“I’ll start with the business center and back office,” Burns said. “If the clerk doesn’t have what I want, she can ask around while I wait. I’ll be back in one or two hours.”
Muller shook his head as Burns hobbled out the door. The Brit really was a commonsense cripple—there was another set of stairs at the other end of the hallway. Muller stood in the hotel room’s threshold and held his ear to the gap in the cracked door. From down the hall came a metallic clunk as the stairwell door swung shut and latched. That was his cue to move. With Burns slowly descending, Muller would run—stitched-up side be damned—down five flights, bribe the desk clerk and head back upstairs before Burns even made it to the lobby.
Muller sprinted to the hallway’s far end and thumped into the fire door, right hand firmly on the knob. The door refused to yield and his hand wouldn’t come free either. The acrid cyanoacrylate smell told him that someone had recently used Super Glue to coat the fire door’s lock and other metal surfaces. No one could open that door with anything less than an industrial drill. By accident or design, there had been enough wet glue on the doorknob to freeze his fingers and palm.
Goddammit! With his left fist, Muller pounded on the door in frustration. “Burns! You bastard!”
* * * * *
Never in Greg’s life had he done anything as disgusting as go through the dead man’s pockets. Flies buzzed, maggots swarmed, and facial features oozed. Greg vomited soon after escaping the pickup and then used half a bottle of hand sanitizer and a half-dozen disinfectant wipes on hands and forearms. He really should have worn gloves, but they hadn’t brought any. He did, however, have the Sierra’s key fob.
Under different circumstances, Tom might have seen the humor in Greg’s theatrics, but it was over 100˚F (38C) and the camp full of corpses gave him the creeps. Tom had always been susceptible to ghost stories, perhaps as a result of more or less raising himself after his mom died when he was eight. Working at double speed, he uncoupled the dead man’s trailer from the pickup. Filling the Sierra’s near-empty tank and moving the barrel from the Silverado to the Sierra ended Tom’s obligations. He breathed through his mouth to avoid gagging.
