Bunker: Boxed Set (Books 4 and 5)

by Jay J. Falconer

  He tore down the newsprint that had red on it, then turned his attention to the area of drywall covered in blood and tissue. The gruesome mess covered about six square feet and had spread out in all directions.

  If he had a sponge and a mop bucket, this would have been an easy fix. Cleaning supplies were probably stored in the mobile home somewhere, but Bunker didn’t think he had the time, nor did he want to leave Megan in here alone. She was already running out of patience. If he left the room now, she’d almost certainly open her eyes too soon.

  He had a better idea. One involving the eleven pushpins remaining in the clear plastic tray that sat on top of the stack of papers behind him.

  Bunker grabbed eight of the pins, along with three full-sized sheets of newspaper, then put them on the wall to cover the splatter in large, overlapping squares. The sheets were from a section of the paper that featured dark-colored ads, obscuring the red splotches behind them. The pins slipped into the drywall without much pressure, making quick work of the evidence.

  After a final survey of the room, he believed he’d done all he could in the time allotted. He returned to Megan’s side of the bed and took a knee next to her, his heart still running in overdrive. “Okay, I’m finished. You ready?”

  Her eyes remained closed when she said, “Uh-huh.”

  When Megan’s hands came up for him, he obliged, slipping his arms under hers to pick her up.

  Bunker wondered if she was actually going to see this through. It wasn’t going to be easy, but not just for her. In truth, a big part of him hoped she’d ask him to turn around and haul her outside before she opened her eyes. “Last chance to change your mind.”

  “I’m okay,” she answered in a timid voice.

  He exhaled, letting the anxiety ease a bit before he stood her next to the bed, just beyond Franklin’s right side. “Open your eyes when you’re ready. But remember, we can leave anytime. Just let me know. I’m right here.”

  Her weight leaned into his as Megan took control of her balance. When her eyes opened, Bunker expected her to break down instantly, but she didn’t. Instead, the ebony skin across her cheeks held its solemn look as the tears came.

  Megan reached out for her father’s hand, her fingers shaking with tremors of grief. Unlike Cowie, Franklin’s arms were down along his sides, lying in wait next to his hips.

  Her grip looked soft when she made contact, almost as if she was afraid she might hurt Franklin in some way.

  “Papa? It’s me, Megan. I’m here now so you’re not alone anymore.” After a two-count, she twisted forward and took a seat on the edge of the bed, her injured leg angled away from the mattress.

  Bunker took a step back to avoid her knee brace and give the girl some privacy. It felt wrong to stand there and watch her torment, but he wasn’t sure what else to do. He hoped she’d give him a sign if she needed him.

  When she spoke again, the words were chaotic and uneven, gasps of air breaking up the delivery. “I’m sorry it took me so long to come in and say goodbye, Papa,” she said in a trembling voice, sniffing twice before she continued. “But I was really scared at first.”

  Megan picked up his hand and held the back of it to her cheek. “I know I’m supposed to be brave, but it’s so hard. I don’t know what I’m supposed to say.”

  Bunker sucked in a breath and held it, his gut twisting into a knot. He wanted to speak up and guide her along, but the words failed him. Nothing sounded right in his head.

  Her tears intensified, streaming down her cheeks and landing on Franklin’s hand. “I’m sorry I made you mad before we went to church last Sunday. I was gonna pick up my room, but I forgot. I didn’t do it on purpose, Papa, so please don’t be mad at me. I’ll do better. I promise.”

  Bunker turned his head away for a moment, hoping some newfound strength would find him. Megan’s words were killing him, even after surviving the bloody sands of Afghanistan and years of knock-down, drag-you-away-on-a-stretcher street brawls with The Kindred.

  He couldn’t believe it. This was who he had become—a giant, tattooed marshmallow, eaten alive by the words of a tiny young girl saying goodbye to her father.

  When he brought his eyes forward again, he saw her kiss the back of Franklin’s hand gently, holding her lips against his dark skin. A few seconds went by before she adjusted her grip, opening his fingers and putting his palm against the curve of her cheek.

  Her voice trembled, matching the shake in her hands. “It’s time to sleep now, Papa. Don’t be afraid. The angels are coming for you.”

  Bunker fought back the tears welling in his eyes, using a quick wipe of his fingers to usher them away. He was thankful nobody else was in the room.

  “When you see Mommy in heaven, tell her I miss her every day. I’m gonna miss you, too, Papa. You’ve been the best daddy in the whole world.”

  Just when Bunker thought Megan was going to get through this goodbye without a breakdown, it came. Not all at once, but in waves. Her stomach started to convulse and so did her sobs, the tears gushing out from somewhere profound.

  She looked up at Bunker, her face twisted in a full-on grimace. Her cries were silent at first, waiting for air from her lungs as her chest began to heave. When the sound arrived, it came with the volume of a wolf howl, her cries uncontrolled.

  When she reached out for him, Bunker flew to her side in a flash. He wrapped her in a hug and held her tight. “It’ll be okay, sweetheart.”

  “I’m sorry. I tried to be strong, Jack, but I can’t.”

  “No, honey, you’re being super brave. Just let it out until there are no more tears left. We have all the time in the world.”

  CHAPTER 4

  “That poor girl,” Stephanie said after hearing the wail from inside Tuttle’s place. Megan’s cries were not only deafening but heartbreaking, consuming every molecule of air in front of the trailer. “I tried to warn him.”

  “Bunker was just doing what he thought was right,” Sheriff Apollo said. “It’s all any of us can do at the moment.”

  “Maybe one of us should go in there?” Rusty asked.

  “I’ll go,” Dicky said, taking a step forward with his back straight and chin stiff.

  “Not until I’m done,” Martha said, straining to draw another suture through his check as he moved.

  “I’m sure that’s good enough,” Dicky answered, his hand stopping hers.

  “You need a couple more stitches.”

  “Nah, just cover it and I’ll be good.”

  “That’ll leave a nasty scar.”

  He lifted up his shirt, giving everyone in the yard a prime view of his six-pack abdomen and impressive chest. He pointed at a ten-inch scar along his torso, running vertically across his slender ribcage. “You mean like this?”

  “Yeah, like that. What happened?” Martha asked, her wrinkled hands cutting the suture with a pair of scissors.

  “ATV accident. It’s what happens when you’re not paying attention to the sand dune in front of you.”

  “What did we miss?” a new voice said from behind the group, its tone loud and laced with sarcasm.

  When Stephanie whirled around, she saw Albert Mortenson, the heavyset deputy she knew from high school. He was puffing noticeably. “Albert? What are you doing here?”

  “Trying to stay alive,” he said, pointing at the burly man walking next to him. “Not an easy feat when you’re walking with a guy whose sole purpose in life is to piss off the Russians.”

  Stephanie recognized the stocky man. It was Burt Lowenstein, the town mechanic.

  The third member of the new arrivals was the skinny deputy she’d met earlier when Albert and he broke up the argument with her ex in front of Doc Marino’s clinic. She thought his name was Dustin, but wasn’t sure. His hands were fiddling with a knapsack strapped to his back.

  “I take it you ran into them,” Apollo said.

  “Yeah, you could say that,” Burt answered, his grin looking forced.

  “Anyone hurt?”<
br />
  “Just their pride after we gave them the slip.”

  “Are they close?” Rusty asked, his eyes pinched and head turned slightly.

  “Doubt it. We took the long way around. Made sure they weren’t following us. I know a few shortcuts.”

  Albert rolled his eyes. “Well, I don’t know about that. They’re not shortcuts if we took the long way around.”

  “They got you here in one piece, didn’t they?” Burt snapped.

  “Barely,” Albert said, his lungs still working to catch up. He pointed at the skinny deputy. “Am I right, Dustin?”

  Stick boy didn’t answer.

  Before another word was uttered, Misty stood up in a flash of movement and pushed away from Daisy’s embrace. Daisy got to her feet as well, then the two of them took off in a rush, entering the front door to Tuttle’s place.

  “Was it something I said?” Albert said in a smartass tone, throwing up his hands.

  “I’m afraid a lot has happened,” Apollo said, his tone firm.

  “Obviously. Was it the Russians?”

  “No. Somebody else. We got ambushed by some lowlifes,” Victor added with a flip of his hair, his mom shooting him a piercing look after he spoke.

  “Misty’s boyfriend was the first to be shot,” Stephanie said.

  “Misty? As in Misty Tuttle?” Albert asked. “That was her?”

  “Yep. Back from her trip overseas apparently,” Stephanie said. “I feel for her. First her father and now her fiancée.”

  “Frank’s dead, too?” Burt asked, his face twisted.

  Stephanie nodded. “I’m afraid so. But he’s not the only one.”

  “Who else?” Dustin asked, his voice as thin as his shirt.

  “Franklin Atwater,” Apollo answered. “Bunker’s in there with Megan right now.”

  “Poor bastard,” Burt said.

  “The guy with all the horses, right?” Dustin asked Albert.

  Albert sent him a nod, then turned his focus to Apollo. “So, Bunker’s here? Cool. I’ve been wondering when I might meet the man with all the tattoos. And a big pair of balls, apparently.”

  Apollo didn’t react to Albert’s attempt at humor. “Well then, I guess today is your lucky day. But I’d suggest checking the attitude a bit. He’s been through hell, too.”

  Stephanie walked to Martha and Allison Rainey. “What about that food you mentioned earlier? We should all eat something, and I’m sure these kids need to rest. I’d suggest your place. You know, until we get things arranged over here.”

  “You mean more digging,” Martha said in a matter-of-fact way.

  Stephanie nodded. “Something tells me we’re going to be doing a lot of that around here.”

  Martha put a hand on her daughter’s arm, just below the elbow. “Allison, why don’t you bring Megan over when she’s done inside?”

  “Okay,” Allison said before turning her head and looking at her son.

  “I’ll watch Victor,” Martha said. “You go. Take care of the girl. I’m sure Bunker could use a break.”

  Allison turned her shoes and headed for the entrance to the trailer.

  “Jeffrey, come here,” Stephanie said, waving her hand three times until he responded.

  “You too, Victor,” Martha said.

  The other kid, Dallas, stood with feet frozen, looking as if he was waiting for his name to be called.

  Stephanie made eye contract with the quiet boy, then asked, “Are you hungry?”

  “Yeah. Starving.”

  “Then why don’t all you kids head over to Mrs. Rainey’s place? She’ll fix you something to eat.”

  Apollo pointed at Dicky. “You go with them and keep an eye on things.”

  “You got it, chief.”

  “If anyone approaches, notify me immediately.”

  Stephanie held Jeffrey’s hand as Martha led the group to her place across the road. Victor and the new kid, Dallas, were right behind Martha, chatting about something like old friends. Their voices were low so she couldn’t make out the words, but they were definitely excited.

  Dicky followed beside her, his hands holding a rifle flat against his bulging chest. He kept watch on the area ahead, scanning to the left first, then the right. He repeated the same process a few more times before she decided it was time to say something.

  Stephanie looked up at her escort, marveling at his sheer size. She knew Dicky from town, but had never been this close to him. Nor had she relied on him for anything before. Certainly not her life and that of her son.

  The threat of death changes a person’s perspective. And their awareness of anything new, she decided, noticing her view was about a foot shorter than his. Bunker’s stature was intimidating, but nothing like this guy.

  She motioned at the rifle in his hands. “Tell me you know how to use that thing?”

  “Yeah. Been hunting all my life. Shouldn’t be a problem.”

  She wasn’t as confident, but didn’t want to upset the man by questioning his skills. A different approach was needed to drive home her point.

  “I hope you’re right, because these particular animals can shoot back.”

  CHAPTER 5

  Mayor Buckley stood in the trampled grass of the town square, wondering how much worse this day would become. Bill King was on his left and Doc Marino on his right, both having a hard time standing still, as were the rest of the residents of Clearwater.

  Everyone was packed in tight, including Stan Fielding and his twin girls, who were huddled only a few inches in front of the Mayor.

  “Seriously?” Buckley mumbled, as another set of unmarked trucks pulled up, this time arriving from a side street that dumped into the center of town, directly adjacent to the Catholic Church and its soaring bell tower.

  Now that the Russians had taken over, he wondered if Pastor Green would ring the bronze-colored bell before service this coming Sunday. Then again, maybe Sunday Mass would be suspended altogether. He wasn’t sure. The Pastor might cancel.

  As expected, a flood of Russian troops scampered out of the arriving trucks, adding to the imposing force already occupying town. The additional military presence made the side of his neck itch, the sensation centered on the same spot where FEMA had injected him with their MH2 treatment. He scratched with vigor, digging his fingernails into the skin around the bandage, but not enough to draw blood.

  When Buckley turned his head to Doc Marino, he found the physician’s dark, inset eyes trained on him. It felt as though the healer was monitoring his actions for signs of derangement.

  Or maybe Marino was gathering vitals with his eyes. Hard to tell when you’re standing next to an ancient doctor who was content with small town medicine, despite his Harvard education. The man was an enigma and always on duty, even while stuffing his face at the annual Forth of July picnic.

  “It’s not your fault,” Doc said in a whisper, his Italian accent evident. Even after all his years as a naturalized citizen, he still sounded like a foreigner—an overly slender, mild-mannered Italian who stood only 5’ 5” tall. His one vice: homemade brew—the kind with double the alcohol content and a sugar level sure to give steady drinkers chronic liver disease.

  “Yes. It is his fault,” Bill King added, looking at Doc. “Buckley screwed the pooch, big time.”

  “You don’t have to remind me, Bill. Nobody feels worse about this than me. Though I do remember you being there with me. I know you won’t admit it, but it wasn’t just me who got fooled by the FEMA rollout.”

  “Hey, I raised concerns—a couple of times. Especially after the Wal-Mart trucks showed up. But no . . . as usual, nobody listens to me.”

  “At this point, it doesn’t matter, gentlemen,” Doc said, the words heavy in his accent. “We need to stay focused and work together. All these people will need leadership.”

  “Let’s just hope this doesn’t get any worse,” Buckley said.

  “Any worse? How is that even possible?”

  “That’s how,” Doc Ma
rino said, pointing to an eight-wheeled transport pulling up, its diesel engine grinding to a stop in front of the crowd. The camo-green vehicle featured a massive gun with a cannon that seemed to stick out a mile. A squad of men shot out of the transport and scampered to the raised platform that had been erected at the head of the square.

  Most of the new arrivals were outfitted like the others already in town, heavily armed and wearing tactical gear. All except one. The lone exception carried only a sidearm and was smoking a cigar with vigor. He had the forearms of a bodybuilder, though the rest of him looked slender.

  “Must be their leader,” King said after a twitch of his eyes. “Looks like a real asshole.”

  Another soldier moved across the stage and gave the Commander a megaphone, his steps measured. The cigar man turned the unit on and held it up to his mouth, while a brigade of Russian flags doubled as a backdrop behind him.

  After a momentary squeal from the speaker, the man’s voice rang out in English, though the words carried a heavy Russian accent that obscured the crispness of the syllables.

  “Citizens, my name General Yuri Zhukov. This town under Russian control. Follow orders and you not be harmed. Food, water, supplies are here. More coming. You are safe, but must follow orders.”

  Buckley’s shoulders relaxed a bit. “Okay, at least they’re not here to harm anyone.”

  King shook his head before he spoke in a whisper. “Yeah, until we hear his demands. You heard him. We have to follow orders. God knows what those are going to be.”

  “Quiet!” Doc said in a sharp whisper.

  Zhukov continued, the device amplifying his voice louder than before. “I repeat. This is Russian territory. Disobey and we shoot you.”

  The crowd buzzed after the last statement, mumbles and whispers erupting in every direction. The tension in the square rose, everyone moving closer to each other, as if huddling provided some form of sanctuary against the great red menace.

  Buckley’s mind turned to a conversation he’d had earlier with Bunker about the coordinated, high-tech attack. Bunker used his theory to explain why US troops hadn’t made an appearance, or the National Guard, and now it appeared he was right.