Redaction: The Meltdown Part II

by Andrews, Linda

  The boxes wobbled when something hit the door.

  Or someone.

  “Take it down, Marine.”

  Fuck. Trent jogged to the receiving doors. Bracing his hand against the rolling door, he pushed up. It didn’t budge. Damn. Metal clinked. He blinked at the chains. Excellent. Grabbing hold with both hands, he yanked.

  Pulleys screeched. The door rolled up two inches. Three.

  Wood splintered. Two boxes tumbled over. Dress shirts in clear plastic vomited across the floor.

  “Halt!” A shot slammed into the cinder block wall near his head. Jagged chips sprayed around him.

  Hand over hand, Trent yanked on the chain. Faster. Must move faster. Four inches. Six.

  More shots dug into the wall. The boxes crunched and slid.

  The Marines were getting in.

  At ten inches, Trent dropped to his belly and wormed underneath, pushing snow aside. Footsteps pounded behind him.

  “Shoot the chain. Crush the SOB.”

  Trent gripped the ledge.

  A pop echoed inside. Metal clanged.

  Trent slithered free just as the door rattled down. Ha! He dropped to his feet and ran up the ramp. Snow crunched underfoot. His knees throbbed as he plowed on.

  A shadow crept across the snow.

  He glanced up. No! A military truck blocked the ramp.

  Trent fell to one knee and reached for the gun. His fingers touched wet wool. Shit. Why did this always happen to him?

  Metal screeched behind him.

  The fuckers were coming through the loading dock.

  The truck door popped open.

  Jake stared back at him. “Hurry up.”

  It was about time the asshole showed up. Trent lurched to his feet and sprinted up the incline. He leaped on the running board just as a bullet thumped into the canvas.

  The truck rolled forward, picking up speed across the parking lot.

  Trent threw himself onto the seat and pulled in his legs. The door slammed close behind him. “Thanks. They’re trying to kill me.”

  “You and me both.” With one hand, Jake opened the right flap of his jacket—a neat hole burned through the layers of denim and fleece. Letting it go, he gripped the wheel as they jumped the curb, taking the shortcut back to the freeway.

  “Where did they come from?” And how did they get here before me? Did he have a traitor? Dirk Benedict. It had to be that fat fool. Payment, no doubt, for the fatso being left behind that morning.

  “They were parked on the other side.” Jake swerved around two tractor trailers advertising dog food on its sides. “I blended in while carrying blankets but Dirk noticed me when I bent down to tie my shoe.”

  Trent stared at the man’s boots. “You don’t have laces.”

  “I know.”

  Rage roiled up through Trent. He was surrounded by incompetent fools. Next time, He would have to pick his own minions. His hands curled into fists.

  “I think I disabled their trucks. Both of them.” Jake sat up in his seat. “They won’t be following us.”

  Well, that was something. Trent settled into a simmer. He checked the mirror. No one seemed to be behind them. But he’d thought that once and the military had gotten ahead of them.

  “Where to?” Jake tapped the steering wheel.

  “The convoy.” They had no one, nor very many supplies. The convoy and the bitch in charge had plenty of both.

  Jake stopped his tapping. “Isn’t that risky?”

  Trent uncurled his fists. Blood on his hands made his skin sticky. “Not really. You did take care of all their headsets, didn’t you?”

  “Sure.” Jake licked his lips as the truck bumped onto the freeway’s exit ramp.

  “Then we have nothing to worry about.” Trent wiped his hand on his damp slacks, blood streaked the dark fabric. Unless, of course, Jake was the traitor. Then the man had everything to fear.

  And this time, Trent would take his time and savor the execution.

  Chapter Thirty-Nine

  “How did the fuckers get around us?” Papa Rose punched the steering wheel then the dash. His knuckles popped and pain zig-zagged up his arm. He glanced at Falcon. The ex-Green Beret deserved a sock to the jaw too. Where was his Spec Ops mojo when they needed it?

  When Jillie, Olivia and Toby needed it.

  Papa Rose’s throat closed. If anything happened to the munchkins…

  Outside the truck’s windows, the desert flew by and the reactors of Palo Verde blazed white against the black clouds. So close, yet too damn far away. The bastards that had killed the kids’ parents could already be there, doing God knows what.

  “We had to travel off the main road to reach the second well.” Falcon adjusted the bandage on his thigh. Blood trickled through, staining the seat cushion. “They could have snuck past us then. Can’t this rust bucket go any faster?”

  Papa Rose checked the speedometer. One-forty-five. The truck vibrated with the motion but he doubted he’d get any more juice putting the pedal through the floorboard. He banked the truck as the road curved. “We were out of sight of the street no more than twenty minutes.”

  Falcon wiggled on the seat then checked the cartridge of the M-4. “That was all it took.”

  “What time was that?” Polo Shirt leaned forward from the back seat.

  Time? What did that matter?

  “We left about daybreak and spent an hour at the first well.” Falcon scratched his whiskered cheeks. “I say eight-thirty, nine o’clock.”

  Polo Shirt shook his head. “Couldn’t have been then.”

  The red-hair kid behind Falcon bounced in his seat. “We chased the last one off about nine-thirty.”

  Papa Rose eased off the gas. Something wasn’t adding up here. “We would have been on the main road by then.”

  Falcon set the rifle across his lap. “In and out of the ditches, but we would have noticed if anyone approached.”

  “And Glen was alive up until half an hour ago.” Papa turned toward the entrance to the power plant. “With all these cameras around the place, he would have noticed any new arrivals.”

  The nuclear tech had seen them coming miles up the road.

  “So where are they?” Falcon glanced out his window.

  “Could they have gotten lost?” Papa Rose pried his fingers from the wheel. Despite being a straight shot, it was possible. The idiots had driven their vehicle into a brick wall.

  Falcon straightened on his seat. “We’ll have to hunt them down. We can’t have them breaking into the plant and undoing all our hard work.”

  “Yeah.” Especially since they still had to get the munchkins to safety. Papa Rose coasted to a stop where the entrance forked, to the right lay the guard’s station, to the left another road circled the station. “Or we can let them come to Papa.”

  Falcon’s white teeth shone brightly against his ebony skin. He jerked his head toward the tank near the entrance. “The soldiers left behind some of their toys.”

  “You think the main gun is loaded?” Papa Rose angled the truck across the left road and killed the engine.

  “With missiles?” Falcon rolled his eyes. “No, but there’s usually some of the fun stuff packed by the turret.”

  Ripping the keys out of the ignition, Papa Rose shoved open his door.

  A cowboy in the bed tipped back his white Stetson and raised his shotgun. “I think they’re coming.”

  Papa Rose glanced at Wintersburgh Road. Two oversized trucks barreled down the two lane street. Weapons bristled from the back and cab while the occupants hooted. He punched his palm. Oh, yeah, it was going to be fun killing the mother fuckers.

  Slamming the door, he turned to Polo Shirt. “Think your boys can hold ‘em off until we can get a few toys?”

  Polo Shirt glanced at the six men in the back of the truck then flashed his eye teeth. “Won’t be much left for you boys to do when we’re finished with ‘em.”

  Papa Rose tugged his Sig-Sauger out of his waistband and of
fered it to Polo Shirt. “One full clip.”

  Polo Shirt shifted his shotgun into one hand then accepted the gun. “I’ll give it back when I’m done.”

  “No need.” Papa Rose waved him away. Without bullets, the thing was about as useful as a paperweight. “I’ll find something.”

  The men in the truck jumped over the side and landed with a thud on the asphalt. Two stationed themselves at the front and tail of the truck. Two more trotted left and lay belly down in a landscaping dip. The two that jogged right, hunkered down in a shallow ditch, dug their elbows in the mud and aimed at the turn-off.

  Skirting the front of the truck, Papa Rose met Falcon by the bumper. “Need a hand?”

  Bloody handprints smeared the hood. “Never would have felt it if I was younger.”

  Yeah, cuz a bullet through the thigh meat was a flea bite when you’re twenty. Papa Rose ducked under Falcon’s arm. Adrenalin deadened his own aches and pains. They raced for the gate. “What kind of toy is Santa going to bring you?”

  Falcon snorted. “I’m looking for an M203 and some rounds. Two should do it.”

  “What’s an M203?” Keeping pace with them, the red-haired kid ran backward and aimed his shotgun down the road.

  “Grenade launcher that fits the M-4.” Papa Rose increased his speed. Twenty yards to go. He wouldn’t be upstaged by the little twerp.

  Falcon kept pace but sweat ran down his cheeks in rivulets. “I want two, one for each truck.”

  “Why not use the cannon thingy?” Red pointed to the turret.

  “You mean the main gun?” Papa Rose clarified. He’d rip off his own testicles before admitting he’d never crewed a tank. Maybe if he had a little more time, he could have improvised. He was good at improvising.

  “Yeah, the main gun,” Red agreed.

  Falcon chuckled. “It’s gotta be running for anything to work. And we’re pretty sure it’s out of gas.”

  “Plus there’s the fact that no one would leave the keys in the ignition.” It did have keys, didn’t it? Papa Rose shrugged off the thought. “You think there’s any SAWs left?”

  “Don’t know if the Army or Marines guarded the plant.” Falcon glanced over his shoulder.

  The Marines always got the good stuff. Papa Rose headed for the exit gate and the tank stationed there.

  Gun shots sounded behind him.

  Red fired his shotgun; the blast bounced off the small guard shack.

  “Save your ammo until they’re within range.” Was the kid that gung-ho or stupid? Papa Rose slowed to a walk. A brown tarp covered the equipment stowed on the turret.

  Red clamored up the side and dropped into the main hatch. “Ooh, this is so cool!”

  “Kids today.” Falcon braced his hand against the side of the tank. “Hand me a round, will you?”

  “Sure.” Papa climbed up the rungs, edged around the turret and whipped off the tarp. He scanned the boxes of 50 mm shells and two empty cannon rounds. “No good, they’re all for the tank.”

  “Check the shack and cover your mouth.” Straightening, Falcon raised the M-4. “Looks like they ate their burgers inside.”

  Great. All he needed was a side of anthrax. Papa Rose pulled up the collar of his teeshirt and hung it on his nose.

  The bastards’ trucks turned onto the road leading toward the plant.

  “Looks like we’ve got incoming.” He sprinted around the gate to the other side of the building and threw open the door. Miniature plush animals sat around the computer. A screen saver threw nets of color over the monitor.

  A soft whirring noise slipped through the windows.

  Ah, fuck. The kid had gotten the Death Whisperer started. Papa Rose scanned the room. A small desk, two office chairs with butts imprinted on the seats and… His heart leapt with joy. And four M-4s complete with grenade launchers and scopes. Two duffels sat next to them. Crossing the room, he dropped to his knees and unzipped the bags.

  Hot damn!

  Gold tipped rounds lay in a neat row. He lifted one up and grabbed a rifle, loading it as he walked. Just as he reached the door, the fifty millimeter machine gun spat rounds.

  Falcon grinned from the open hatch. “That’s for Jillie and Olivia, you bastards!”

  Well, shit they were gonna have all the fun without him. Papa Rose slammed through the door and knelt on the road. Using the optic, he sited the first truck.

  Puffs of smoke burst from the ditches. Two men fell out of the bed. The truck kept coming. He pulled the trigger. With a hollow thunk, the projectile rocketed across the distance. It hit the shiny grill off center then exploded.

  The burst shoved the truck backwards. Glass sprayed everywhere in a twinkle of light. Flames licked the vehicle’s hood. Three men in the bed bailed out the sides, only to fall under Falcon’s spitting gun. Neither figure in the cab moved.

  “That’s for Toby!” Papa Rose pushed to his feet, emptied the casing.

  The second truck veered around the first.

  Falcon’s bullets pocked the hood.

  The bastards kept coming.

  Fine with him. Papa Rose had one for them, too. He loaded the second High Explosive round and raised the carbine.

  The M1 coughed; a missile whistled through the air.

  God damn it! Papa Rose lowered his rifle. Falcon had said the stupid thing wouldn’t be loaded.

  Color fled the faces of the men in the truck. Their eyes widened as their jaws dropped. Then the missile hit, penetrated the radiator and detonated. Doors, body parts and the hood blew in all directions. The engine block landed with a splat twenty feet away. Black smoke billowed from the wreckage.

  Falcon’s gun fell silent. He ran his hand across his forehead and wiped off the sweat. “Well that sucks.”

  “Yeah.” Papa Rose hitched the M-4 on his shoulder. He missed his chance to fire the damn cannon.

  Red popped up through the hatch behind Falcon. A toothy grin split his face. “Did you see that! That’s so much better than the video games.”

  “You did good kid.” Bracing his hands on both sides of the hatch, Falcon levered himself out.

  The kid got lucky. Papa Rose swallowed the bitterness. “Nice job.”

  An engine rumbled.

  A truck broke through the smoke. He raised the M-4 and settled his finger on the trigger. A red dot tracked across the pocked windshield and stopped on Polo Shirt’s forehead. Papa Rose lowered the rifle.

  Steam hissed from the engine as Polo Shirt pulled it along side the guard shack. Bullet holes burrowed into the sides. “Sorry about the condition.” He threw it into park and slipped out the door. “It should run long enough to get you to your children but not much farther. Pity. We could have used it to get some of us to safety.”

  We? Some? If these survivors went, was there a need for him and Falcon to survive? Papa Rose lowered the truck’s gate then entered the guard station. Yes, there was. Toby, Jillie and Olivia needed them. A white box with a red cross hung on the wall. He lifted it off the screws and carried it outside.

  Falcon limped around the corner, heading for the truck bed. “There’s plenty of other trucks.”

  “And a van.” Papa Rose set the first-aid kit on the gate and popped open the lid. Sifting through the assorted contents, he selected some butterfly bandages, packets of antibiotic cream, sterile gauze and white tape.

  Polo Shirt eyed the kit and licked his lips. “Yeah, but they won’t do much good without gas.

  The back dipped as Falcon climbed on. “I think we can help with that.”

  “You can?” Hope glittered in Polo Shirt’s eyes; he quickly banked it.

  “Yep.” Damn. This new world sucked the big one. Papa Rose shoved the items he’d selected at Falcon then closed the case. “We’ll be safer if we travel in a group, share the load. People going it alone don’t last long.”

  He held out the first aid kit to Polo Shirt.

  The man hesitated before grabbing it and clutching it to his chest. “Thanks. If you can get gas,
we’ve got our own vehicles already loaded and ready to go. My wife is a nurse, she can take care of that injury for you.”

  “Nah. It’s just a flesh wound.” Falcon had scooted near the cab.

  Papa Rose slammed the gate and winced as it jarred the graze to his shoulder. Flesh wound his ass. Falcon needed stitches. And his wound could use a little TLC if the nurse was pretty.

  “We’ll be back in ten.” He jerked his head. “There’s three more M-4s and two bags of ammo. Cover your mouth when you go in. It’s contaminated.”

  “Will do.” Polo Shirt stepped back.

  “Red,” Papa Rose shouted to the kid. “Can you drive?” He eased behind the wheel and laid his rifle across the seat. His ear throbbed and his shoulder burned. Maybe he wouldn’t have felt it at twenty. Maybe pigs flew.

  “Yes, sir.” Red grinned.

  “Get in.” After the kid climbed in the back, Papa Rose shifted into gear and pressed the gas. Red warning lights flared on the dash. Fuck that noise. He didn’t have far to go.

  Peering through the steam, he rounded the corner. The bat-shaped admin building wavered up ahead. The munchkins had to be fine. Had they heard the firing? Were they scared?

  The engine sputtered, then shuddered. He gunned it. The momentum slammed him against the seat.

  Falcon swore.

  Serves Mr. Flesh Wound right. Papa cranked hard on the wheel and pulled off the side of the road in the lot across from the building. The tanker would need the room to turn. He turned off the engine. Leaving the keys in the ignition, he grabbed the rifle then backed out of the vehicle.

  Falcon crawled over the side of the bed and slid to the ground.

  Red gawked at the buildings, his head swiveling on his neck so much, he might unscrew it.

  Papa Rose caught Falcon. “No resting.”

  “Why didn’t anyone tell us getting old would hurt so much?” Falcon leaned on him for a moment, then nodded.

  They limped across the street. “Cuz they were afraid we wouldn’t join the old codger’s club if we knew.”

  “Codger.” Falcon shivered. His normally black skin was pale and sweaty. “Does anyone use that word anymore?”