by Bradley West
“Some women, too,” added Marsh.
“We’re lovers, not fighters,” said Andrew. “Can’t we give them money to go away?”
“Let’s hear what that woman has to say about the cure,” said Ryan. “If would be good to have a vaccine on hand if they’re telling the truth. Maybe we could even hire them to train our people.”
“What are you talking about?” asked Marsh.
“See if Carla’s telling us straight,” said Ryan. “If she really can make a Covid cure, that’s worth at least the supplies we stole. We also could use more armed protection: we barely have six men who’ve ever fired a rifle before. Anyone who knows about this place will try to get in just like those two we shot at last week on the south side. That crate of AR-15s that Bob handed out made for good website photos and not much else.”
“Steady, Ryan,” said Andrew. “We’ve all played a lot of paintball: we know how to handle weapons.”
Ryan fixed his younger brother with an incredulous look. “Those people outside the gate have M-4s that fire ten bullets a second and you think our paintball experience means shit? You’re a retard if you believe that. Let’s watch them while they sit through quarantine them for a few days and, if they’re incompatible, we can get rid of them.”
“How?” Andrew asked.
“A lot of different ways, starting with poisoning their well,” Marsh said.
“That’s one,” Ryan said. “There are others.”
“So you’d murder them if they’re incompatible?” Andrew asked. “I can see why Bob didn’t name either of you as his successor. If they have a proper leader, maybe I’ll ask him to take over Spice Land.”
“Drive on, little brother,” Ryan said. “And stop talking out of your ass. Family is all we got, including Marsh.”
Marsh stayed quiet, still stinging from Shorty’s rebuke when he suggested he take over Spice Land now that Dear Leader had passed.
CHAPTER TWENTY-FIVE
Couplings
Saturday, July 18, 2020: Spice Land, Idaho; Las Vegas, Nevada; Route 95, Idaho; midday.
The day promised to be a hot one as the three surviving senior Spice Land leaders met with Carla, Travis and Sal. Two hours later, there were elbow bumps and masked smiles all around, the gate was open, the Spice Landers’ 4WD had driven off and the 3M convoy resettled next to the well and pallets.
Travis and Sal homed in on Carla. “You agreed to attend their leader’s cremation ceremony tonight with seventy-five fucking strangers? Travis asked.
“It’s a way to show respect, we can check out their operation and maybe meet people or find resources useful to us. At a minimum, Arkar will make sure our missing supplies are there before we share the Dark Cure steps.”
“This place could be a Covid vipers’ nest,” Travis said. “And you gave them our PCR test results? Why?”
“The 3M population is immune. If Covid had penetrated this compound, most of them would be dead. Covid-20 won’t be a problem as long as they keep new people out, which they swear they’re doing. Did you see that look in Ryan’s eyes when you challenged him on security? Once their medical staff clear us, we won’t have to wear those scary hazmat suits when we visit.”
Sal interrupted as temperatures rose. “There are two problems with Carla’s assumptions. If one of them gets sick, regardless of the reason, they’ll blame us. The bigger issue is that we only think we’re immune. We’ve relied on an untested vaccine and an unproven convalescent plasma antibody treatment for our safety. And even if we’re immune, we could still be carriers.”
“I’ll take that chance,” Carla said, immediately regretting her word choice.
“You don’t get to make that decision unilaterally,” Travis said. “If you insist on going to the Viking funeral tonight, Arkar and I will be packing even though you promised them otherwise. It doesn’t mean that we’ll be able to save you, but it might give them second thoughts before they try anything.”
“All right,” Carla said, tired of the harping.
In the distance, Jaime and the team moved to erect the camo netting. It was three hours after first light and Travis had been scanning the skies and listening hard for drones. Until now, they’d been fortunate, though Ryan had said to expect low-altitude Spice Land surveillance around the perimeter at random intervals.
“I know you’re committed to waiting for Greg and Steph,” Sal said. “But if we don’t hear from them for three days, we have to assume they’re not coming in time and we’ll plan accordingly.”
“Fair enough,” Carla said. “Why bring that up now?”
“If you’re hellbent on making more of the Dark Cure, start on the next batch today. We’ll clear out the hospital RV, and you and Kyle can disinfect it and set up the equipment. You already promised to show their medical team our setup, but I don’t understand why. If they don’t have equipment, you’ll just make them covet ours.”
“What do you suggest?” Carla asked. “It’s hot and I’m tired.”
“Keep the real lab’s location secret. Set up a dummy facility in a spare tent apart from our people. We can run cables from our generator and put Tien in there to mix decoys. If the Spice People’s intentions are good, it only wastes a little of our time. If they’re up to no good, they’ll try to steal the dummy treatments and surplus equipment.”
“All right, we’ll start after lunch. I need to shower and eat.” She put her mouth to Travis’ ear. “And maybe count tattoos on a retired SEAL.”
Mindful of Sal, Travis stifled a grin. He’d set up the solar heater and camp shower, and could clean up for the first time in days. After that, the world was his oyster.
* * * * *
Greg and Steph sat maskless in the breakfast nook while Meatball Matt puttered about providing bacon, eggs, toast and strong coffee. The couple wolfed down the food. “Las Vegas seems much better off than where we came from,” Steph said. “When we left home four days ago, Marin County had been out of fresh food for at least a week.”
“The Covid-20 no-hopers looted the grocery stores,” Greg said. “Any store with food turned into a war zone and was either sacked or burned.”
“The same thing that happened around here,” Matt replied. “I’m fortunate to have clients who maintain private food networks, and I tapped into those. I took a delivery yesterday that should hold me for the next few weeks. If you like veal, I was thinking of whipping up a parmigiana or a marsala for dinner.”
“Did you reach the specialist?” Steph asked.
Meatball dabbed at the corner of his mouth. “I did, but I wanted to finalize our terms before I fix an eleven o’clock appointment and CT scan.”
Steph and Greg exchanged a look, and she nodded. Greg launched the rehearsed lie that conflated the 896MX and Dark Cure treatments. “There’s a Covid-20 cure and vaccine rolled into one. A scientist traveling with us worked in the government lab where they made and proved 896MX’s efficacy. She thinks there are only enough chemicals for ten thousand doses nationwide and the government has a monopoly, except for a tiny batch she brought with her. We vaccinated our people, and Steph and I have the last four doses in that cold box.”
“How do I know it works?”
“It’s already saved Steph and Tyson’s lives. A priest read her the last rites, but she was out of the hospital in less than two days after the injection. The doctor we meet can sample Steph’s blood for Covid-20 antibodies. There are instant tests for those, and her count will be phenomenally high. He’ll see she’s not sick too. Surely that’s enough proof?”
“Maybe,” Matt said. “Let me make a call and see if my candidate bites.”
“Before you go,” Greg said, “can you help us get online? We have a long how-to video that needs to be uploaded to YouTube in segments with episode numbers.”
“I’ll log you on in the den. A lot of websites are down, but I think YouTube’s still kicking.”
“Almost the entire internet’s down and you’re still online,” Steph
said. “It’s a miracle.”
“There are no miracles in Vegas, just solutions greased with dollar bills. If your vaccine works, you won’t have problems making friends.”
Matt put them online and Steph worked on uploading the files on batching the Dark Cure. Greg had spare time and snooped. It seemed Matt’s leisure reading started with voting machine programming manuals and ended with online poker strategies, player profiles and income statements. He appeared to be a successful gambler.
Steph couldn’t concentrate. There was no way they were waiting days for a specialist to see Tyson. The secondary problem was that they didn’t have an extra dose, either. “Honey,” she said, “we need to talk.”
“I know, I know,” Greg said. “I’m having the same thoughts.”
* * * * *
Back at the management trailer, the Spicer brothers continued their conversation. “Why would you invite them to Bob’s wake?” Ryan asked. “They could be infected.”
“I have swabs and test results for all three of them,” Andrew replied. “I’ll pass them over to Doc Hicks and he can re-run the PCR tests. If they’re not clean, they stay away. Besides, Carla is hot. I wouldn’t mind bumping uglies with her.”
“She’s taken, you zero EQ dolt,” Marsh said. “And by a dude who could rip your pecker off and feed it to you.”
Their foreman Shorty burst into the trailer. “A drone spotted two men cutting the fence in the south quadrant. What do you want to do?”
“Shoot them,” Andrew said. “We told the townies last time that we’d kill the next person who cut their way into the compound.”
Shorty looked at the other men. Marsh broke eye contact. Ryan was angry, his gaze boring right into Shorty’s eyes. “These people either don’t respect private property or they have a death wish. If one Covid-infected person gets inside, everyone could die. Send Glenn and John and tell them to shoot to kill. Once it’s over, use a backhoe to dig a grave out of sight of the fence. Make sure the maintenance crew wears hazmat suits when they repair the fence.”
“We’ll need constant patrols at night even with the infrared video cameras,” Marsh said. “Two-man shifts running from eight p.m. to one a.m. and then one a.m. to six a.m. with four sectors gives us sixteen men to roster. That’s almost every man in the camp, including us.”
“We’ll only need twelve men to pull sentry duty,” Ryan said. “Let the 3M convoy look after themselves out west.”
Shorty pulled out a walkie-talkie as he scuttled out of the doublewide.
“I’ll drop the visitors’ test samples off at the clinic,” Andrew said as he followed Shorty out the door.
* * * * *
At a rest stop outside Homedale, Idaho, fevered Norris and aching Burns slept in the XLT’s back seat. Muller and Katerina dozed under reflective blankets after a furtive coupling. Screwing in the back of a pickup truck did nothing for Katerina other than reinforcing her distaste for sex unless she was under the influence of something stronger than Vikes. Bails and Dirty Pete were burning off their meth buzzes by popping wheelies up and down a side road off Route 95 when three more Twisted Souls Motorcycle Club members rode up.
After man-hugs, Souls brothers Kurt, Boner and Stenner described how they’d found Zax dead and Worm dying at the Mountain House, as well as Norris’ instructions to seek Bad Betts in Winnemucca. Dirty Pete had apparently left Betts hot and bothered because, before she sent them on their ways, each of them had pumped her full of whoopee juice. “She always had the tightest pussy of any fat broad I ever fucked,” Boner noted.
“Pussy?” Kurt roared. “I ain’t poked that snatch in a dozen years. That hole’s no better than third choice for this love machine,” he said as he grabbed his crotch.
More guffawing ensued until a pissed-off Dirty Pete broke up the hilarity. “How’d you find us this far up? Anyone see a big RV?”
“Out of town along the highway there were locals standing around that shitshow,” Stenner said. “We counted seven bodies—six real people plus a cop—and figured you’d done some serious business there. Turned out we was wrong ’cause one local said that a bleach-blonde Daniel Craig-type had asked him to tell anyone wearing a TSMC vest to find them up 95 North. We rode hard and here we are. Where’s Norris?”
“‘How’s Norris?’ is a better question,” Bails said. “He has the Covid and is burning up. We have to catch up to that RV and get that Dark Cure tonight.” The three newcomers swore colorfully in agreement.
“What about Scarface? What’s that motherfucker’s story?” asked Kurt.
“Until Norris is back on his feet, that motherfucker calls the shots,” said Muller who’d walked up behind them, tucking in his shirt and buttoning his trousers. The five bikers turned and stared at him, then switched their attention to Katerina, who stood topless in the Ford’s bed fiddling with her bra.
“We needed rest, but we’re ready to move out,” Muller said. “There’s a map in the pickup. Follow me.” He walked over and the bikers followed, glancing at Katerina as she squatted to pee on the far side of the XLT.
“We need to check all the roads almost as far east as Nampa and Eagle,” Muller continued. “They won’t drive all the way into Boise or south on I-84 because too many people would try to jack their motorhome. Between here and Weiser, there’s fifty miles and ten side roads to check out. We’ll meet south of Weiser off 95 at three o’clock. Travel in three pairs: if you see something, one man follows the RV, and his partner rides to Weiser to get the others. We’ll team up and hit them from all sides by surprise.”
“Might work,” said Kurt.
“Mount up!” said Dirty Pete.
“I think we already done enough mountin’ for one day,” said Stenner to sniggers from two others.
* * * * *
Melvin had come to terms with the paradox of being a God-fearing warrior. This world had an End Times feel, certainly in the eleven days since he’d sat in a surveillance van while two other rogue Black Ice operatives kidnapped baby Tyson. His life path had shifted from being an evil man doing harm to a bad man declining to hurt anyone else, to what he had concluded was his final state as a Christian, a penitent protecting the Lord’s flock. On this hard road, non-combatants needed protection. Pat Maggio’s prayers and her assertions that he was a man worthy of forgiveness had led him to find a sense of inner peace, even though he’d killed again just last night.
Sergeant Robinson had served combat tours in Afghanistan, been awarded medals for bravery, wounded in combat and yet had never experienced the mood swings and doubts of the recent days. In the 101st Airborne he’d strayed from his faith, hardened his heart and slew wicked people without remorse. Of late, most of the people he’d killed hadn’t been inherently sinful. They were souls lacking core beliefs to sustain them in bad times. Their short-sighted selfishness permeated most of society and led many to claim what wasn’t theirs.
The civilians in the 3M convoy needed protection, and he accepted he’d have to guard them until the threats ceased. Once they arrived at Thunderdome, Melvin vowed never to harm another living thing bigger than a rabbit, grouse or salmon. Until then, he’d place his faith in the Lord and man the battlements.
He’d organized a training session on the SAW as Yonten’s only try had proved disastrous. Tien, Tom, Derek and Yonten would meet him in fifteen minutes for a compressed session on the loading, unjamming and, crucially, aiming and firing of their most important weapon. He had completed the pre-class prep and admired the weapon resting on its bipod legs on a plastic ground cloth on the mound outside the west gate. Around it were ammo boxes, a spotting scope, and gun oil.
His right shoulder wasn’t as stiff, and his right ear no longer throbbed constantly. His left leg felt much better too. He leaned back, closed his eyes and relaxed. Life will become better soon. Lord, just give me the endurance to last the journey.
* * * * *
Jaime luxuriated under a hot camp shower cascading from a two-inch hose suspended from
the only tree near the well. A pair of shower curtains hung from a square constructed of plastic water pipe, preserving modesty so long as the wind didn’t blow or the cord suspending the contraption from a tree branch didn’t break.
A week ago, a sniper’s round had carved a furrow between his helmet’s lining and the top of his skull. The resulting wound had been a bloody one, but not life-threatening. Today it was completely scabbed up and no longer painful to the touch. He dispensed with his filthy bandage rather than wash it again. His inventory of other aches and pains was limited relative to most of his peer group. At twenty-six, his superior physical conditioning, training and reflexes had seen him skate through trials that had battered his older companions.
As a peace offering, Barb joined Jaime unannounced in a string bikini that left little to the imagination. She slipped into the shower and dropped her top. “Want some company?” she asked. Her hand was already inside her bikini bottom rubbing herself as she filled her other palm with shower gel.
He could smell the pot on her. Distraught Barb self-medicated with wine and weed, becoming Horny Barb until that mood passed and she assumed another persona. He’d had enough, and if he truly wanted to free himself, he couldn’t succumb to her old tricks. Despite those sincere sentiments, he hardened as her slippery hand fondled him.
“Suck my breasts until I come, and I’ll finish you off.”
It took every inch of discipline to remove her hand. “No, I can’t do this.”
“What? Why?”
He didn’t know where the words came from, but he heard his disembodied voice say, “Barb, I don’t love you. I don’t know if I ever loved you.”
The spell broken, he grabbed his towel hanging off the overhead branch and ducked out of the inquisitor's booth. A stunned Barb began to cry quietly, cut to the core.
