To the Rescue; Surviving the Black--Book 2 of a Post-Apocalyptical Series

by Zack Finley

  Our portable pumps were rated at 10 gallons per minute. It still took nearly 30 minutes to fill up both tanks on the semi. We put one of our two pumps on the semi-truck, then used the other to fill up the boat’s two 25-gallon gas tanks and our empty five-gallon gas cans we used to top off the pickups.

  We drained the pump tubing then switched it to top off the other diesel tank for the semi-truck.

  It still took almost 45 minutes for the fuel stop. Other than the fuel the service station was empty. The lack of broken glass and waste suggested careful salvaging rather than the looting we saw in Oneida.

  Two scouts on ninjas led the parade out of the gas station. Allie and I followed in our pickup. We tucked the pickup hauling the boat behind us. Razor driving the semi was tail-end Charlie.

  We got nearly 30 miles on TN-52 when the scouts alerted us to a roadblock on the bridge over Long Fork. This blockage was placed, it didn’t happen randomly. The scouts backtracked while I flipped a U-turn and backtracked to the road they headed down. I didn’t like this location at all. For nearly a mile before the blockade, the road was carved into the local rock. The rock walls were at least 30 feet high in places. A perfect venue for an ambush.

  Thermal sights spotted no threat, and once the scouts radioed for the rest of us to proceed along the backroad bypass, we came on. We did not get back on TN-52 immediately, choosing to come into Lafayette via more backroads.

  The rural roads eventually pushed us back onto TN-52. The terrain might be gentler than on the Cumberland Plateau, but the territory still had plenty of rolling hills, hollows and creeks to make cross country roadbuilding a challenge.

  As we approached the area’s main population center in Lafayette, population of 5,000, a lot more cars were parked in the traffic lanes. They left a serpentine path for us all to follow. It was nearing 22:00 hours.

  Unlike the more rural areas, in these neighborhoods, fewer homes showed signs of life. Not very many chimneys, either. Reminded me of Oneida, a lot.

  We stayed on TN-52 westbound, and it expanded to five lanes with wide shoulders. This left a lot more room to get through. From the signs, we learned the town had a Walmart on the south side of the highway. After Oneida, none of us wanted to deal with that.

  We were lucky, the Walmart was nearly a mile south of TN-52, and we could avoid it easily.

  The west side of Lafayette was open, and we faced few delays. Several times the scouts warned us to switch to the right or left shoulder to avoid abandoned vehicles, but that was the main issue. The various blockages slowed us down to a sedate 35 mph.

  I was shocked when we got to the overpass over I-65. There were no cars on the freeway at all. In either direction. There were a few abandoned on US-31. We didn’t linger.

  Not what I expected.

  Orlinda was where we finally left TN-52, sending the scouts ahead on TN-49. Older homes appeared inhabited, but, as we saw elsewhere, the new homes in town looked deserted.

  The area had a lot of farmland, some fields had stubble from corn planted last year, but the rest I wasn’t sure. The Red River snaked through this area. Most of this area was flat and arable. Given stability, seeds, and hard work it could probably feed much of Tennessee. We were better off than when my ancestors came to Tennessee. We now had a lot of farmland not covered in trees and tree roots. This should give this area an evolutionary advantage.

  The region was more forgiving than the Cumberland Plateau. Most of Mecklin County was steep and forested, with clearings limited to valley areas. Meckln County’s thin rocky soil, especially on the hills and ridges, limited our food production to the valleys. Even our Valley lacked the fertility evident in this area. The growing season was longer on the flats, too. Given time to retool, this area could support a significant population.

  I dragged my thoughts back to our current plight.

  Allie found us a series of back roads bypassing most of Springfield’s residential areas. The route put us onto US-41 until we turned south toward Clarksville at TN-76 in Adams. We’d driven 100 miles and had not encountered any issues caused by refugees from Nashville. The roads still required a lower speed and extreme vigilance to avoid crashing into abandoned vehicles.

  Despite the excellent progress, I felt it was too close to morning to attempt Clarksville tonight.

  Allie recommended stopping at Point Royal State Park on the Red River. It wasn’t much of a park, but in some ways that would reduce the chance, it was inhabited. We left TN-76 to take more back roads.

  “Stop, don’t come any closer,” radioed one of the scouts. “There is something ahead. Give us a few minutes to check it out.”

  We pulled to the side of the road and turned off our engines. I rolled down my window to listen.

  “Something really suspicious here,” Ben radioed. “We have a roadblock across Sulfur Fork Creek. No one is at the roadblock, but the bait shop looks like a used car lot.”

  After 10 minutes we got an update.

  “The roadblock is three vehicles, side by side. I’m going to try to push the middle car out of the way. There is a hand-painted sign that says, ‘pay toll or get shot,’” Ben radioed.

  “Do you need backup?” I radioed.

  “Wouldn’t hurt, but come quietly,” Ben radioed.

  Within seconds Craig and Joel left on ninjas to join the forward team.

  “If you’ll watch the bait shop,” Ben radioed. “We’ll clear the roadblock. Let me know when you are in position.”

  Those in the convoy prepared to race in if needed. I doubted I was the only one double checking my automatic rifle. My ruck was in the back of the pickup, but my plate carrier was stuffed with magazines for my M4.

  “In position,” Craig radioed.

  “Roger, moving the first vehicle,” Ben radioed back.

  Razor wasn’t the only capable car thief. Razor gave the entire team a detailed lesson, after the SHTF. None of us were as talented as Razor, but all of us honed our skills on a variety of makes and models in the used car lot in Huntsville. We now considered it one of the new essential survival skills.

  The sound of gunfire echoed through the night. Despite my desire to rush in, we waited for our scouts to report. Rushing into an active war zone was a good way to get shot, by your own team.

  “At least two tangoes firing at the roadblock area,” someone radioed, the sounds of semi-automatic gunfire making it hard to tell who was talking.

  “Do you need the QRF?” I radioed.

  “Move up to the perimeter, then hold,” came the response.

  Razor abandoned the semi, and all three pickups moved in toward the firefight.

  The loud, distinctive thunder of AK 47s was answered by the muffled sounds of three-shot bursts from M4s.

  “QRF in position,” I radioed.

  “At least three tangoes at the bait shop. Unclear if they have NVGs. Appear dug in,” Ben radioed. “Mike and I are pinned down at the roadblock.”

  “Where do you want us?” I radioed.

  “Sweep the tangoes from your side, while we keep them distracted,” radioed Joel. “Craig and I are in the wooded area between the creek and the bait shop. Craig is climbing a tree to get a better angle on the tangoes.”

  The road on our side of the bridge was oriented east to west. The bait shop was on the north side of the road just east of the bridge. Hayfields bounded the bait shop from the north and east. According to our map, Sulfur Fork Creek on the west side of the shop flowed into the Red River on the far side of the hayfield to the north.

  The three of us would be approaching the shop without cover across a hayfield. It wasn’t ideal. Cars parked in rows on that side of the bait shop provided a limited amount of protection from that direction.

  I assigned Allie to stay with the vehicles. Her mission-critical skills and lack of experience made that an easy call. I approved of the way she accepted her orders. I could tell she was eager to take part in the assault, but she choked back any argument and acknowledged her sup
port assignment.

  “We are coming in along the south side of the road at the edge of the woods until we get near the first row of vehicles,” I radioed. The cars wouldn’t stop the AK 47 rounds, but they should mask our approach. If nothing else just getting them in a crossfire should allow Ben and Mike to pull back from the roadblock. “I’ll ask for suppressive fire when we are ready to cross the road.”

  The people in the bait shop kept firing toward the roadblock. They either had a lot of ammo or had poor firing discipline. An occasional sharper crack from Craig’s sniper rifle encouraged them to keep their heads down.

  “We are on the far side of the bridge, we can’t see them, so I doubt they can see us. Don’t know what they are shooting at. We can’t provide supporting fire from here,” Ben said.

  “Stay put, until we make our move, then slip back in and back us up,” I radioed.

  “Roger,” Ben radioed.

  We were ready to cross into no man’s land. “Crossing the road in five. Start laying down suppressive fire,” I radioed. We still could only see three tangoes, their bright glow showing up well on the thermal sights.

  The faint staccato of M4 fire broke out from Joel and Craig. I approved of Craig switching to his M4, we didn’t need them to spot his muzzle flash.

  “On the move,” radioed Ben.

  My team moved steadily toward the objective keeping the parked vehicles between us and the tangoes.

  Ben’s team must have found better cover this time because within minutes the number of M4s firing into the bait shop doubled.

  Those inside the bait shop must have had some sense of survival tactics because the lines of parked cars ended about 50 feet from the bait shop. This left them a clear kill zone.

  And then I spotted him. “Craig, there is a sniper on the roof.”

  I didn’t know how long he’d been there and not much of him was visible above the sandbags in his fortified nest. Even with thermal sights, he was hard to see.

  “I have him,” Craig said. “I need someone to make him poke his head up, so I have a shot.”

  I wouldn’t be shooting at the sniper, I wanted him to believe he was invisible. Instead, I had my team crouch behind the car while I poured a magazine into the three tangoes on the ground level. A threat coming from a new location should make him curious.

  The crack of a sniper rifle came within minutes. “Sniper down,” Craig radioed.

  We could hear shouting from the bait shop, but couldn’t make out what was being said.

  Craig switched back to his M4. He and Joel started suppressive fire to persuade our three tangoes to keep their heads down. The team from the bridge added their share. This allowed my team to cross the open field to the side of the building without getting drilled.

  A light breeze from the north brought the unmistakable stench of decomposition. I suspected we’d find a body dump behind the shop. But we had to deal with the shooters first.

  “Flashbang in five,” I radioed, pulling my grenade and tossing it into the bunker with the three tangoes. We hit the dirt covering our eyes and ears.

  Even with my eyes closed, the brightness of the flash had me seeing spots for seconds afterward. The blast didn’t disorient me, but I wasn’t going to hear any butterfly kisses anytime soon.

  “Moving in,” I radioed, my two teammates hot on my tail.

  We had the three men in the bunker secured quickly. “Craig, Joel on overwatch. Bridge team move in,” I radioed. Tom tossed the tangoes’ weapons over the sandbags, watching our prisoners. Razor and I prepared to enter the shop.

  I considered waiting for Ben’s fireteam, but determined speed was a better course. Speed and another flashbang.

  “Flash in five,” radioed Razor. Razor tossed the grenade into the shop, and we hunkered down against its fury of light and sound. My ears were still ringing from the first one, but this time I shielded my eyes better from the flash.

  I followed Razor through the door, sweeping my side of the room, with Tom on my heels.

  Supplies were stacked haphazardly inside the room, providing many places for a lurker to hide. We needed our thermal sights to verify the room was empty of heat sources, other than a potbellied stove.

  By then Ben and Mike reached the front door, leaving Mike to monitor our prisoners. Ben joined the clearing team, as we searched the backrooms for more tangoes.

  “Climbing up onto the roof,” Razor radioed. He waited for the acknowledgment before climbing the ladder we’d located in the side building that had once held aerated minnow tanks. The minnows were dead and decomposing in a layer of scum floating on the putrid water. Clearly, these men had no sense of smell left.

  Razor radioed that the man on the roof was dead and then rolled the body off the roof onto the ground. He came down the ladder carrying a rifle and an ammo can.

  We split up. Mike volunteered to stay with the prisoners. Joel wanted to check out the supplies. Tom and I planned to locate the source of the smell of decomposition. That left three guys to go back to the convoy to move it up.

  Tom and I went on a walkabout to discover why the disgusting stink of decomposition overwhelmed the area.

  The body dump was farther from the bait shop than I’d expected. It was at the edge of the hayfield near the trees bordering the Red River. I suspected, in the beginning, the smell barely reached the bait shop. As the body count grew, the foul odor grew. The freezing temperatures just extended the time it took for the bodies to breakdown. There were signs of scavengers, but they hadn’t kept up with the body count.

  We didn’t get very close. I estimated more than 50 bodies were there, all stripped and in various stages of decomposition. It reminded me of pictures from Nazi concentration camps. I was glad it wasn’t light enough to see in technicolor. The greenish tinge of our NVGs was terrible enough.

  We heard our convoy arriving and jogged back to the shop to get away from the macabre scene.

  I did not want to spend any more time at this site. Mike relayed what he learned from our prisoners. They left Clarksville a few days after the power went down. Some guy tried to shake them down for bridge toll, and they shot him. They originally planned to move on but realized they were sitting on a gold mine. They swore they only killed those who didn’t pay the toll, but I suspected that was bull shit. They were stone cold killers.

  I executed them on the side of the road. While I was doing that, my team hauled the weapons and ammo we’d acquired to the pickups. There wasn’t a lot more we found worth taking, although the canned food might be a welcome addition to our freeze-dried meals.

  We topped off our tanks and left for Port Royal park after pushing a second car off the bridge and tossing the toll sign into the creek. I wanted to get the bitter stink of death out of my nostrils.

  The far side of the bridge was the start of the Port Royal Park, but I wanted to get farther away from the bait shop. We continued over the Red River bridge and into the graveled parking lot on the other side. While the scouts searched the trails for danger, Allie practiced her lockpicking skills on the chain across the park service road. Once it was unlocked, the convoy drove on the bike path to park deep in the trees.

  Before the crash, I could imagine spending a quiet afternoon with my girls hiking along the river. The terrain was much different than the Cumberland Plateau. Flatter definitely, but the difference was more profound. This was an area of rich soils. The Red River was muddier and lazier than any river near Mecklin County.

  We were about five miles from the interstate and about 15 miles to the Zinc Plant bridge over the Cumberland River. This would be the first urban area we couldn’t skirt. I felt it was a better choice than Nashville. While part of me really wanted to find out what the Army was doing in Fort Campbell, but I feared that might delay us from reaching Andy. I couldn’t allow that.

  Everything we saw so far suggested the government’s primary response to the crisis involved encouraging people to shelter in their homes. In the absence of a co
ordinated strategy, I suspected how each Army unit reacted depended upon individual commanders.

  I had never seen Army plans for a massive EMP attack on the homeland, but I knew there was one. The CME was a kinder gentler version of that, lacking the acute threat of invasion. Most non-hardened electronics still worked, we just lost power.

  Had our armed forces hunkered down, waiting to repel an imminent attack? Had they disbanded, sending everyone home? Were they attempting to reform the government?

  Months after the shit hit the fan, we still hadn’t heard from any official source. This was beyond puzzling. The government had enough warning before the grid went down to do something. The long-lasting series of solar storms following the CME wrecked all radio communications for nearly two weeks. After that cleared, the different military posts and bases around the world should have reestablished contact and formed a plan.