Bugging Out

by Noah Mann

  Eagle One...

  “You have to tell us,” Jennifer pleaded. “If you can hear this, or see this, tell us where you are.”

  I noticed then that something lay on the desk in front of her. Where an anchor might place notes, or a script of the broadcast in case the teleprompter failed. It was a single sheet of paper, rumpled, and it had not been there when I watched the man walk off camera, the last moments of life spilling from his wrist. Every few seconds, as she continued to beg for this enigmatic Eagle One to provide them with more information, the hand not holding the microphone would pinch at the edge of the creased paper, nervously, either some tic, or some more profound hesitation.

  ‘Now. Do it,’ the unseen party to the broadcast urged.

  Jennifer looked past the camera and nodded, her gaze then dipping to the paper that had caught my attention. She hesitated, then lifted the paper so that it faced the camera.

  “What the hell...”

  It was all I could do to dial back my reaction and avoid some more vulgar profanity as punctuation.

  “This is what we can bring,” Jennifer said, then glanced down at what she held.

  It was not just some piece of paper bearing writing, as I had supposed without seeing it. It was a photograph, in stark color, of a man’s chest opened up, surgical instruments and wires holding the skin back and keeping the ribs spread, revealing a glistening heart, presumably beating. Blue-gloved hands were just visible in the image. A doctor. No, a surgeon. Some sick specialist who had opened up a living, breathing person for...

  For what? What the hell did this mean? Who was the person in the photo? Who were Jennifer and her unseen companion?

  And what the hell was this Eagle One thing?

  “Tell us where to come,” Jennifer said, thrusting the picture forward, closer to the camera, so that it blocked most of her face.

  The transmission began to falter.

  ‘We’re losing power!’ the warning came from off camera.

  Static began to drizzle over the image like snow.

  “Please,” Jennifer said past the gruesome image.

  I stared at the open chest and the bloody muscle within as the picture turned fully to electronic noise.

  * * *

  “That’s...disturbing,” Del said.

  I’d left my house and walked to his, reaching it just after dark, sharing what I’d seen and heard on the Denver station.

  “First you hear someone mention an Eagle One, and now I see this. It’s not just an isolated coincidence.”

  Del nodded. He tipped his wrist and looked at his watch. The rugged old timepiece, with its manually wound mechanism, would probably be ticking when the two of us were worm food.

  “What time did you see this?” Del asked.

  “Had to be no more than an hour ago.”

  “That fits,” he said, then read my quizzing expression and explained further. “I heard that same child broadcasting, and they signed off with the Eagle One thing. About two hours ago. I did a little direction finding by rotating the antenna. Signal was strongest when I was turned west.”

  “Two hours,” I repeated, thinking. “Before the Denver people went on the air.”

  “Yeah,” Del said. “And that picture you described, the one I called disturbing...”

  “What about it?”

  “In the transmission I heard, that kid read off a whole list of things. No context given, just one thing after another. But they were all medical related. Scalpels, IV tubes, stuff like that. And vascular clamps.”

  Vascular...

  “That’s for the heart, right?”

  “If I remember correctly,” Del said.

  I stood and paced across Del’s living room, shaking my head, beyond puzzled.

  “Hey...”

  I looked back to my friend.

  “This is not our concern,” he said. “We don’t know what the hell it is, or even if it’s anything. All we do know is it’s a helluva long way from us. We have issues right here. And getting closer.”

  Closer?

  “What’s up?” I asked, walking back toward Del.

  “Layton’s men were talking back and forth about getting supplies ready for the outpost.”

  “What outpost?”

  “Not sure. But they mentioned the highway where the firefight was.”

  “They said that?” I pressed. “They talked about the firefight?”

  Del nodded. The only firefight they could have possibly referenced was the one I’d witnessed from a distance months ago. At a specific point on the map. One much closer to us than Whitefish.

  “We need to put eyes on that spot,” I said. “Was there any mention of a timeframe?”

  “Yeah,” Del answered. “Tomorrow.”

  Thirty Four

  The column came up the highway and settled in the precise spot they’d mentioned on the radio, setting up what could only be described as some sort of forward observation post. We watched them from the wasting knot of fir trees two miles away, passing the binoculars between us, scanning their numbers, in groups gathered around one of their three vehicles and entering and exiting the tents they set up beside the highway. Each and every man was armed, though they seemed unconcerned with their immediate surroundings. The sentries they’d stationed at the perimeter of their camp were focused north. In our direction.

  “Twenty,” Del said, adjusting his body where he lay on the rocky ground. He grimaced quietly. The pain was worse today. Yesterday it was worse than the day before.

  “I got the same count,” I said. “That’s a good portion of his forces.”

  He lowered the binoculars and nodded. When he’d first spotted this band near Whitefish a few hours earlier, they’d been offloading equipment from a larger truck. Now they were settling in, most certainly sent by Major Layton to seek out those who’d done continuing damage to his force.

  “I get the sense these are not individuals of high moral character,” he said, appraising the distant collection of men armed and ready to bring the fight to us. After a moment he sniffed a laugh. “I’ll be damned.”

  “What?”

  “The one in the blue coat, looking like he’s leader of this squad...I recognize him.”

  “From where?”

  “Your place,” Del said, lowering the binoculars to look at me. “He’s the guy who fired at me when they were raiding your barn.”

  “You sure?”

  He lifted the binoculars again and confirmed his identification.

  “I’m sure.”

  Again the binoculars came to me and I zeroed in on the man Del had described.

  “Shoulda put a bullet in him,” Del said, to himself mostly. “But you kill when you need to, not just because you can.” He quieted for a moment and glanced to his backpack lying on the ground next to him. “When you need to...”

  The last words were mostly whisper, most definitely between Del and something within. Some deeper understanding.

  “Stay here,” Del said, and slipped into his backpack as he scooted back from the thinning copse of fir trees and stood.

  “What are you doing?”

  “Moving for an advantage,” he said, then nodded toward my AR. “You be ready on that thing. Give me ninety minutes.”

  “You want to fill me in on the plan?”

  “You’ll know what to do when the time comes,” Del assured me, smiling as he slung his bolt action and headed off down the back slope of the rise.

  I puzzled at the quickness of his departure, and the cryptic manner in which he was executing some action, wondering what benefit there would be to keeping me in the dark until...

  ...it happened.

  A sickly feeling swelled instantly within and I looked behind into the grey woods, but Del was already gone.

  No, I told myself. No way he would do that. But still the worry nagged at me, and continued to as I waited. I’d expected it to take the ninety minutes Del had asked for, but that time passed, and then two hou
rs. Finally, nearly two hours and fifteen minutes after I’d last seen my friend, I glassed the scene in the distance, movement in a gully to the west of the outpost alerting me that Del had finally neared them.

  “What the hell are you doing, Del?”

  I had no answer as I watched him creep closer along the shallow depression, the whole thing playing out in an eerie silence, like a movie robbed of the texture that was sound. He drew within twenty feet of their position before I noticed something.

  He didn’t have his rifle. Not slung, and not in hand. Just the backpack strapped to his shoulders.

  “Shit...”

  I uttered the word even before seeing what he did next. He stood and stepped from the cover of the gully, approaching the group casually. They sprang into action, bringing weapons to bear, all aimed at Del, his own hands held upward. Demonstrating that he was no threat.

  I suspected there was little truth in the gesture.

  They motioned him closer, then down to his knees. The group huddled close, a pair of younger men stepping closer still, one reaching to Del’s pack, still strapped to his back. Fingers gripped the zipper and pulled it to reveal the contents.

  That was when I saw the flash. A bright white pulse erupted around Dell and those who had subdued him, a dusty halo of dirty brown bursting outward an instant after that, billowing upward, some mini-mushroom cloud rising.

  The sound reached me next, a sharp BANG and fleeting rumble, the sound echoing across the valley, bouncing off hill and mountain, until it was gone. Like my friend.

  I lowered the binoculars for a moment, not wanting to see what lay there as the smoke and dust cleared. But I had to look. I had to see what Del had accomplished. Had to know if the sacrifice he’d crafted in secret had played out as intended.

  What I saw would have made him smile.

  Twenty men had come from Whitefish to hunt us down. Through the thinning smoke I now saw only two that moved, both on the ground, one writhing, the other furiously working some handheld radio. The rest either lay still alone or heaped together, or in pieces strewn about surrounded by red streaks upon the ground.

  I could see nothing of my friend. He was simply gone.

  Thirty Five

  The door was unlocked. I entered and stood in the quiet for a moment. A quiet I’d become accustomed to since the hum of refrigerators and the whir of a vacuum motors ceased, along with virtually all who had enjoyed their convenience. Even in a strange place the quiet welcomed me. Soothed me. Surrounded me as I mourned.

  Forty years Del had lived in the simple, comfortable cabin. A few rooms. Out back, a work shed. An equipment barn. About the only thing even remotely modern in the whole place was his amateur radio setup. He was a proud Ham. Or, as he’d called himself, a ‘voyeur of the airwaves’.

  I turned the radio equipment on. The frequency was dialed into the one on which Major Layton’s orders had been broadcast from Whitefish. That very station was transmitting, the operator seething, some auditory equivalent to foaming at the mouth.

  “You will be hunted down, and you will be killed! All of you! Anyone who aided, or knew, or even laid eyes on the terrorist who attacked our protective patrol today will pay with your life!”

  The threat continued. I listened, and I began to smile. Del would be enjoying this immensely. His selfless act had hit the Major, and hit him hard. I wished that it was the man himself unleashing the tirade, but I had no way of knowing.

  That wasn’t quite correct, I told myself, eyeing the handheld radio in its charger next to Del’s base station. I picked up the radio and turned it on. Del had it set to some frequency distant from that which Layton was favoring. The small speaker spat silence, and silence only. Next to the volume knob was the squelch control, setting a limit on how much static would be heard, leaving the channel quiet until a signal strong enough came over the airwaves. I adjusted the squelch down and the grating static leapt from the speaker.

  Adjusting the frequency and pressing the transmit button on the side of the radio with my thumb would take no effort at all. I could call out to Layton. From right here. Just as I could from the base station. I could let him know that what Del had done was only the beginning.

  But that would be a mistake. There was every possibility that the signal would lead them right to me. That was an unnecessary risk.

  Still, Layton needed to hear from me. And he would.

  * * *

  “I want to talk to Layton,” I said, holding the transmit button on the handheld down.

  Silence was the response I received. I checked that I had set the correct frequency and shifted my position, to the full crest of the hill now, one of the tank cars visible below, the last one in line and closest to Whitefish. The town itself was mostly dark, just a few open fires visible across dim distance, and, maybe, a splash of artificial light filling the windows of some building. Some important building on generator power. We were nearing the point where stored gasoline and diesel would be losing its ability to reliably combust, putting the usage of generators, and vehicles, and locomotives potentially on shaky footing. I imagined Major Layton knew this as well. He wouldn’t be able to send patrols as far as he had attempted. Wouldn’t be able to move tank cars around to place them for maximum effect. His plan to cleanse the land would, presumably, require the expenditure of fuel. Using locomotives to shuttle tank cars east, west, and south. Vehicles would have to bring men to set charges to blow the chemicals within the steel cylinders. He was going to wait for summer winds, as his man had shared, but he couldn’t wait too long.

  “Major Layton, are you out there? I can hear your broadcasts. You should be able to hear mine.”

  The half-moon drizzled weak light over the dead landscape. It was still odd to not hear an owl hoot, or a coyote howl. The nights were quiet. As quiet as the day.

  I didn’t have to suffer the silence very long.

  “This is Major Layton.”

  The voice came clear over the radio. Strong, confident, collected. This was not the person who’d spat the threats earlier. This was a leader.

  I had to remind myself that he was also a monster.

  “Hello, Major.”

  “Who am I communicating with?”

  I’d already decided how I would answer this question if asked.

  “Me? I’m the man who’s going to end you.”

  “That’s a fairly arrogant pronouncement.”

  “Call it what you want,” I said. “Call me what you want. Tell what’s left of the world I’m a terrorist like your lackey on the radio earlier. The end will be the same—you’re going to die.”

  The frequency was quiet for a moment. I could imagine Layton on the other end, smirking at my bravado, conferring with associates, maybe attempting to determine where my signal was coming from.

  “It seems to me that you should be the one who worries about being taken out,” Layton said after the silence. “The numbers aren’t in your favor.”

  “They’re less in your favor after the damage we did to your men.”

  “I’m far from being out of troops. While you, well, one of yours had to blow himself up to take my people out. Wouldn’t that make this ‘we’ you mentioned a ‘you’ now?”

  He was still playing cool. In the distance I saw vehicle lights come on. Two, three, four, the convoy speeding away from a single point downtown. Roaring west toward the highway.

  They were onto me. My signal had given me away.

  “Enjoy the time you have left, Layton,” I said, taking the last word for myself before switching my radio off.

  Nearly eight miles I’d traveled from my refuge to put distance from it and the signal. A three hour walk lay ahead of me as I headed home.

  I could not have guessed what I would find waiting for me there.

  Thirty Six

  It leaned against my front door, butt on the floor of the porch, muzzle touching the old wood slab next to the lock.

  “Del...”

  I ha
dn’t returned home since witnessing his sacrifice, having gone straight to his house, then off to speak my piece to Layton over the radio. Standing at my house finally, I understood why the ninety minutes Del had requested me to wait had extended beyond two hours. He’d hustled back here to leave me his rifle before setting off on his last trek. His last act.

  The simple bolt action wasn’t much to look at, weathered, scratched, its scope twenty years old and showing wear on the lenses. I climbed onto the porch and picked it up. The old weapon felt heavy in my hands. Much heavier than its mere weight. It bore the spirit of the man who’d carried it. The man who wanted me to have it.

  But it was not just a gift Del Drake had left me. I believed he was speaking to me with the gesture. He was telling me not to continue the fight—he was telling me to finish it. In as much as I’d voiced my intent to bring an end to Major James Layton, Del, my friend, was simply reinforcing what, I suspected, he already knew I would do. The rifle was his vote of confidence in me. His blessing of me as a good man unwilling to simply do nothing.

  The truth, though, as whole as my intent was, the how of my promise had not coalesced. For certain I could wage a one man guerilla campaign against Layton and his men, picking them off by ones and twos. In that scenario I would likely be taken out before ever getting near the man. To get to him I’d have to get through the others.

  Or take them all out at the same time.

  I looked to Del’s rifle. He’d left his weapon of choice behind in favor of a way to do maximum damage. Could I do the same?

  There would be no sneaking into Whitefish as some human bomb like my friend. We...I had four sticks of TNT left. Not enough to level a town.

  Or was it?

  Maybe, I thought, if it had some help. It could work, I told myself. I could make it work. There were pieces to put in place, but nothing seemed insurmountable. Even the way to initiate it I could manage. I slipped my small pack off and took the handheld radio from it, switching it on. Layton’s man was haranguing the world and me specifically over the airwaves again. Turning it off would quiet the annoyance, but, instead, I turned the squelch up until the signal was not strong enough and the speaker quieted. Then I adjusted it down a hair and the screaming man was back. Up slightly, and he was gone.