Bunker: Boxed Set (Books 4 and 5)

by Jay J. Falconer

  “Allison?” Martha said, hesitating until Allison looked her way. “Aren’t you forgetting something?”

  Allison pinched her nose, but didn’t respond. She looked confused.

  Martha leaned her head in the direction of the Sheriff.

  “Oh, right,” Allison snapped, her face blushing red. She sauntered to the Sheriff with a huge smile leading the way. “I’m sorry. I got so excited when I saw my son that I almost forgot to thank you.”

  When she brought her arms up for an embrace, Apollo stopped her with his hands. “That’s really not necessary, Allison.”

  “The hell it isn’t,” she answered with attitude, pushing his hands away. “You risked your life to save my son. I’m giving you a hug, whether you like it or not.”

  Her arms found his shoulders a second later, leaving him looking mortified, his arms hanging down at his side.

  Rusty held back a chuckle. It was obvious the Sheriff wasn’t comfortable with her sudden affection. Rusty didn’t understand why. It was just a hug, after all. The man had earned it.

  Right on cue, as if Apollo had been reading Rusty’s thoughts, he brought his hands up and put them on her back. He wasn’t giving her a hug, exactly. It was more of an awkward double pat on the back, but at least he responded.

  Rusty was close enough to feel the heat from their bodies pressing together. It felt weird to be standing so close. He took a step back to give them room. You never knew when a thankful mom might pick up a hefty Sheriff and swing him around.

  A few seconds later, she leaned back from the hug and stared into his eyes, her lower half still pressed into his.

  Apollo must not have expected it, pulling his hands free from her back. He held them in mid-air, about six inches away.

  Rusty figured the hug was just about over.

  Then, out of nowhere, Allison closed her eyes and tilted her head, kissing him full on the lips. It wasn’t a quick peck, either. It was an open mouth, vise-like smooch.

  Apollo brought his hands up and wrapped them around her back, as if he had given in to all of his most secret desires.

  It looked like one of those kissing scenes from the movies—their lips, hands, and bodies reacting to each other like some kind of choreographed play bursting with moans.

  Rusty looked at Martha to see what she thought of the kiss.

  The old woman’s eyes were a mile wide, with a smile showing all of her teeth.

  CHAPTER 25

  Early the next morning . . .

  Bunker pulled back on the reins to slow Tango to a stop, then unfolded the area map. The sun had just cracked the eastern horizon, showering his back with elongated rays of mostly yellow light. He turned sideways to give his eyes a better view of the path outlined in red marker ink.

  So far, it appeared Apollo and Burt’s waypoints had been spot-on, taking him exactly where he needed to go. He hadn’t seen any sign of the Russians, or anyone else for that matter. Only the occasional critter lurking in the bush.

  Tuttle’s night vision goggles had been a godsend, lessening his fear of relying on Tango’s ability to see in the dark. In retrospect, he probably could’ve saved the batteries since the amazing creature seemed to know exactly what to avoid and where to step to keep its rider safe.

  Bunker checked his location on the map to confirm what he already suspected—Patterson’s Meadow was only minutes away. All that remained was a hundred-foot climb over the rise ahead.

  After an extended yawn and an arm stretch, he tucked the map away, wishing he’d gotten more shuteye. The problem wasn’t the campsite he’d chosen on the ridge overlooking a stream. Nor was it the time he’d spent inside the lightweight sleeping bag.

  It was the endless deep-throated croaks and ribbits from the frogs. There must have been a thousand of them within thirty yards of his makeshift camp. They were everywhere, never stopping their vocal calls once the sun went down. He finally fell asleep sometime around midnight, but then Tango’s unexpected whinny at 4 AM put an end to his slumber.

  Yet, despite the final interruption, he wasn’t upset with the beast. In fact, he was thankful. If Tango hadn’t decided to be a twelve-hundred-pound alarm clock, he might still be asleep and behind schedule.

  Then again, he wouldn’t have complained if he was able to enjoy another hour or two in dreamland, where curvy women and cold beer were served in abundant supply.

  There’s something soothing about the constant trickle of water over rock. It pampers one’s senses, keeping your mind from dwelling on the shit you forgot to do the previous day. Or in his case, thoughts of all the crap he had to accomplish the following day, including scouting the town of Clearwater.

  Bunker continued on, conquering the hill ahead thanks to Tango’s steady feet and boundless energy. Each stride of the four-legged taxi sent a rocking motion into Bunker’s hips, gently stressing the muscles in his back. At least the saddle wasn’t as painful as it had been, meaning his skills as a rider were improving.

  Daisy would be proud, he thought to himself after an image of her beautiful face flashed in his mind. Stephanie might have been put together better in the figure department, but Daisy oozed her own brand of sex appeal.

  He smirked, thinking about the differences between the two women. They were polar opposites in almost every respect, but he knew deep down that either of them would make a weekend in Vegas memorable. The kind of memorable that would reinforce the adage: What Happens in Vegas, Stays in Vegas.

  The old Bunker would have entertained the idea of a three-way, taking both of them to bed together. Sure, it would have been an easy solution to the dilemma ahead, but it wasn’t who he was anymore.

  Stephanie was more about the here and now, while Daisy invested in the long game. He figured either of them could tame a wild man with nothing more than look, or a stroke of their hand.

  He’d sensed a growing connection with both of them, but he’d purposely avoided anything romantic. Not because of their history of torrid love triangles. It was more about his own sanity. He was still a work in progress—a reclamation project—trying to figure out who he was and what kind of man he wanted to be.

  The last thing he needed was to worry about the emotional needs of another person. Plus, he still hadn’t come completely clean with either of them, keeping the darkest of details hidden from those who cared about him.

  Chances were, once they learned of his culpability in the Kandahar Incident, they’d want nothing more to do with him. That day in his past was the single most important reason why he needed to keep his distance from everyone, and not get attached. Otherwise, it would make their impending hatred for him just that much harder, once his dark secret sent him packing.

  Bunker tugged the reins to have Tango bypass a thicket of scorched trees and protruding rock, all of it covered in the black of carbon. Lightning, he figured, searing off vertical streaks of bark, killing a good portion of the limbs.

  He craned his neck to the southern sky and noticed a massive thunderhead forming in the distance. The billowing cumulonimbus cloud rose to the heavens and flattened out like a mushroom of white, towering over the mountain peaks below it.

  Daisy would be pleased if the drought came to an end, as would the other residents in the area. Assuming, of course, anyone still occupied their homestead after the Russians marched across the county. He shook his head, realizing that he might be the only person dumb enough to be wandering through the area alone. With minimal supplies and firepower, no less.

  He took Tango thirty degrees to the left, guiding him down a natural path that led to an impressive string of mature pine trees bordering the clearing. Based on the straight-line nature of their position along the edge of the meadow, Bunker knew this clearing was manmade. Nature didn’t feature straight lines or many right-angled corners, both of which were present in the pasture before him.

  The thick trunks of the pines matched their soaring heights; lofty enough to reach the middle of the pasture, he calculated, if s
omeone were to drop them accurately with a chainsaw from either side. That chore had Dicky’s name written all over it.

  Pine trees were perfect for what he had in mind—narrow and tall, making them easy to rig after a climb. He nodded, storing the information in his memory, with the names of Rusty and Dallas attached.

  He hoped Albert was busy working through the items on the list he’d given him, with speed and efficiency. There wouldn’t be a lot of time to catch up once he returned from this scout.

  Bunker brought Tuttle’s high-end binoculars to his eyes to study the sightlines from his position. The scan started at one end of the clearing and finished with the other, carefully checking the tree line that stood beyond.

  No threats detected. Time to advance.

  The grass in the pasture rose up in a streaky mix of green and brown, its tips reaching above Tango’s knee joints. The horse stepped gingerly after a nudge of Bunker’s heels, taking them forward to the center of the expanse.

  All four corners of this rectangular-shaped meadow were now in view, as were the soaring mountains and endless trees swarming its exterior. He took out the map and studied it again, making sure the printed topography matched what his eyes were reporting.

  “Only one way in or out,” he mumbled in affirmation, noting the landscape and elevations on all sides. He took another minute to run through several tactical scenarios in his mind, deciding what would go where, and who would be assigned to the various stations.

  He smiled as the blueprint came together, visualizing himself running with socks in his hands, each covered in axle grease. “Just might work. But they’ll have to over-commit.”

  Bunker spun Tango around before sending him into a trot toward the closed end of the clearing. He swung his leg over the saddle and dropped to the ground once they arrived.

  “Stay here, boy. I’ll be back in a flash.”

  Tango flicked his head and snorted, then resumed his tail-flapping, fly-swatting duties with his head buried in the grass. Tango would soon need water to wash down the feast he’d just started. With any luck, the waterholes on the map hadn’t dried up, or else the rest of today’s trip might be shorter than anticipated.

  Bunker paced the width of the clearing from one edge to the other, counting the strides required. The final tally was more than he expected, leading him to wonder if his crew could complete the critical task he had in mind.

  The lack of rain in recent weeks meant the ground was harder than normal, and would slow the process. However, if the rising storm over the mountaintop did its job, then they’d have a chance to complete what he needed in time.

  A chance was all they needed. Something that would galvanize hope and lead them to victory. Yet it would take everyone, including Burt and his mechanical magic. Even the little ones would have to pitch in.

  It was obvious the strategy evolving in his brain needed a bit of luck to succeed, but that was all he had at the moment. Well, luck and a few friends who believed in him. Some of those same friends had a deep connection to God, or so they claimed.

  He smirked, realizing their faith had started to rub off on him and affect his decisions. God or luck, they were the same thing, he decided. After all, if God wanted to step in and lend a hand with a downpour, who was he to complain? He’d take it and any other help that came his way. Divine or not, he wasn’t picky.

  He went back to Tango and climbed into the saddle. “You ready, boy? It’s time to take care of a few errands, then head into the lion’s den.”

  Bunker leaned forward to rub Tango’s neck, sending the four hooves under him into a prance, almost as if a veterinarian had just shot a dose of adrenaline into Tango’s body.

  He tapped his hand twice before leaning back in the saddle with a squeak of leather. “Oh yeah. You’re ready. So am I. Let’s ride!”

  CHAPTER 26

  Dustin put a stack of boxes containing steel wool onto a portable table he’d just set up outside of Tuttle’s barn. Albert placed a dozen glass jars on its surface and Rusty delivered a few other household items they’d scavenged from Tuttle’s inventory.

  “Why can’t we do this inside, out of the sun?” Dustin asked, wiping a bead of sweat from his brow. “It’s frickin’ hot out here.”

  “We could, but this reaction will create toxic gas that I’m betting your lungs will hate. We’ll need proper ventilation.”

  “Okay, that makes sense. Good safety tip.”

  Albert gave him a handful of magnets he’d acquired from Martha Rainey’s fridge. “Put the steel wool into the jars, then secure it to the bottom with these.”

  “On the outside, right?”

  “Yeah. They’ll keep the steel wool from floating once we add the chems.”

  Dustin dropped the first piece of steel wool into the container, then lifted the jar to gain access to the bottom. He put the magnet to the underside of the glass, then set the assembly back on the table. He completed the same process with the other jars. “Now what?”

  “Pour in enough vinegar to cover the steel wool completely. But don’t go crazy.”

  Dustin took off the twist cap from a bottle of white vinegar and poured in enough liquid to soak the steel wool and cover it. “Like that?”

  “Perfect. Now the others.”

  Dustin filled the remaining jars with vinegar, then put the bottle down and secured its cap.

  “Now the bleach.”

  Dustin grabbed the plastic container of bleach. He removed the cap and held it near the opening of the first jar. “How much?”

  Albert pointed at the glass, aiming at a point about two inches above the steel wool. “Fill it to here, but hold your breath. The gas will start almost immediately.”

  Dustin took a deep breath before pouring the bleach, using a thin stream for control. He stopped when the level inside the jar reached the height Albert had indicated. He backed away, took another breath, then went back in to fill the rest of the jars. Once done, he put the bleach down, closed its container and stood next to Albert.

  He exhaled, using an exaggerated lip pucker for effect. “How long will this take?”

  “Couple of hours. Then we drain, filter, and repeat until we have the supply Bunker asked for in his notes.”

  “That’s all there is to it?” Dustin asked, watching the chemical reaction turn the steel wool a red color.

  “Yeah, simple, if you know what you’re doing.”

  “Huh. I never knew you could make rust this way. I suppose we could’ve used some old nails, too.”

  “They’d work, but this method is faster. Steel wool has much more surface area, accelerating the process a thousand-fold.”

  “I take it you’ve done this before?”

  Albert didn’t answer, turning his focus to the Mayor’s grandson. “Let’s get the aluminum ready.”

  Rusty nodded, opening a cardboard box that he’d hauled from Martha Rainey’s house. He unfolded its flaps and pulled out a black-colored device about the size of a lunch thermos.

  Dustin recognized it. “A coffee grinder?”

  “I hope she doesn’t mind,” Albert said, taking the lid off the machine.

  “You didn’t ask her?”

  “Nah. This was too important to waste time on politeness. Though we could’ve melted down a bunch of Tuttle’s empty beer cans and put them on a spindle for the lathe, to create the shavings. But then we’d also need to make a ball mill to grind them into powder.”

  “That’s a lot more work,” Dustin said after visualizing Albert’s alternative.

  “Absolutely. The coffee grinder is a lot faster,” Albert said, turning to Rusty. “Just need the foil.”

  Rusty took out a box of aluminum foil. “How much?”

  “Tear off a couple of six-foot pieces. One for both of you.”

  Rusty drew out two runs of foil and tore them from the roll, giving one to Dustin.

  “Now we need strips, gentlemen. Lots of them,” Albert said.

  “How small?” Dust
in asked.

  “As small as you can make them.”

  The two men started building a pile of foil strips, while Albert grabbed two handfuls and stuffed them into the coffee grinder.

  He put the lid on and secured it, then plugged the unit into an exterior electrical outlet near the barn’s entrance. The power light illuminated, thanks to Tuttle’s backup power.

  “First we grind them with the coarse setting.” Albert pressed the power switch and held the lid as the aluminum foil was ground into tiny flecks by the whirling blades inside. The high-pitched squeal of the motor was annoying, but it appeared the device could handle the process easily.

  Albert turned the unit off and opened the lid to add more strips. He repeated the process until all of the foil strips had been processed with the coarse setting.

  “Now, we run it all through on fine.” He flipped the setting, sending the flakes whirling a second time.

  Albert turned off the motor after another ten minutes of grinding. “Time for the moment of truth.” He removed the lid from the container, his eyes darting about the area. “Where’s that strainer?”

  Rusty went back into the box and pulled out an extra fine strainer they’d found in Martha’s baking cabinet.

  Albert held the wire mesh over the worktable and poured the aluminum shavings through it. The smaller fragments slipped through and landed on the table. When he was done, almost eighty percent of the powder he’d made with the grinder had passed the size test.

  “Is that enough?” Dustin asked, his eyes locked onto the modest pile of aluminum powder.

  “Not even close. We’ll need several more batches of everything. Once that steel wool is done cooking, we’ll filter it as well, then we’re good to go.”

  “That’s it? Just mix them together and we’re done?” Rusty asked.

  “Basically, though the mixture has to be in the proper proportions, depending on who you ask.”

  “What does that mean?” Dustin asked.

  “It means there is more than one answer to the mixture question. It depends on the purity of the components and some other goodies that we could add to the recipe.”