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

by Zack Finley

  Their inaction did not bode well for the future. While I never saw a military response plan for this scenario, I suspected the strategy was to do nothing. Certainly not until after the initial die off. Without power or transportation, there was no way to feed 330,000,000 people. A handful of hurricanes showed how limited we were to even help a small subset of that.

  The military didn’t have the manpower to accomplish a lot. There were less than one million active duty military personnel stationed in the United States when I resigned.

  I had no idea how much food each post or base stored to feed their soldiers, airmen, marines, or sailors. I’m sure some logistics hubs were better off than others. There might even be secret strategic reserves. At what point did the post or base commanders release his or her personnel? Or, would they begin actively raiding nearby civilian sources?

  I hoped individual commanders chose, instead, to use their personnel to help nearby cities and towns. Places like Clarksville. Fort Campbell had a solid core of seasoned troops, and many had their families nearby. While I hoped the post had enough food stored to feed the soldiers and their families for an extended period, I feared they weren’t much better off than the civilians living around them. Except they had access to weapons and already had a chain of command to maintain order.

  Clarksville had seven times the population of Fort Campbell. While I suspected mobs of hungry people could easily overwhelm the sprawling Army post, we hadn’t really seen the predicted hordes. Maybe it was the cold weather. Or we just hadn’t gotten close enough to the cities to see it.

  One way to reduce the threat was to block all roads leading to the post, forcing any attackers to approach on foot. This was why I expected roadblocks to be a problem limiting travel around northern Clarksville.

  The only reason I believed the two bridges over the Cumberland River might be passable was they weren’t near Fort Campbell.

  Farther south toward Nashville, the combination of stalled cars, crashes, and locals likely rendered the southern bridges impassable. If we had to, we could ferry the ninjas and trailers over the Cumberland on our dive boat. We’d face that prospect if we had to, I was reluctant to leave any of our equipment behind.

  The two on the first watch smoothed the gravel area where we entered Port Royal park to disguise our presence.

  It was only 04:00 when we made camp, but I expected the next 20 miles to be a bitch.

  Those not on watch slept until 15:00 when we gathered for a map review. Clarksville was a sprawling city bounded by the Cumberland River to the south, the Kentucky state line to the north, and Fort Campbell to the northwest. The Red River forks split the city into thirds.

  While Clarksville had thousands of streets, it only had two bridges across the Cumberland River. For the post-crash residents of Clarksville, I suspected the Red River was probably a more significant challenge for anyone trying to escape. Only three bridges inside the city limits crossed the southern fork of the Red River. I felt the sheer volume of traffic trying to get across town would have blocked these routes. They had probably been bottlenecks during pre-crash commutes.

  We finally agreed to try TN-76 into Clarksville first, at least until we crossed the interstate. We identified four other crossings on side streets south of TN-76 if it was too congested.

  If we took any of these crossings, we’d go on side streets to TN-12 instead. We’d already agreed that TN-12 posed the best option to reach the Cumberland River crossings.

  If the railroad bridge was in a closed state, we might even consider using it to cross, although I doubted the semi could make it across.

  We expected abandoned cars and crashes would make the next stretch of our journey one filled with false starts and U-turns. This called for four scouts. Two to lead, and the second to find a new route if the first one was blocked. The noisier and less nimble trucks would only follow once we had a clear path to follow.

  The point scouts would check for obstacles, and the back two scouts would be the radio link to the convoy. Our convoy would stop in a safe spot and wait to be moved up, depending upon whatever the scouts discovered. Of course, if the scouts ran into trouble, the rest of us would converge on the problem location.

  While our pickups weren’t loud, they were orders of magnitude noisier than the ninjas. With the semi-truck running, no one would hear the pickups. The scouts would either find a way through or call up the reinforcements to push or pull things apart.

  Our first detour occurred where TN-76 attempted to cross under I-24. Our scouts reported the pile up there couldn’t be cleared, even to create a single passable lane. They speculated the pileups happened first on the northbound lanes with fender-benders at the Red River bridge. Then cars crossed over going north in the southbound lanes where the horrific crashes occurred.

  The scouts located a clear road under I-24 without a ramp. The convoy slipped under I-24 and staged at an elementary school. When the scouts reported back, the convoy proceeded through a mix of city and rural streets to TN-12, with the scouts pacing in front.

  As we re-entered the Clarksville city limits, the convoy staged in a parking lot filled with portable buildings just after TN-12 turned left.

  “The TN-13 bridge is blocked. Looks like someone put up a roadblock on the far end and a lot of cars piled on the bridge anyway. Cars have clogged the entire span. No way we are getting through here,” came over the radio. “Off to check the Zinc Plant Road bridge.”

  My stomach clenched as our options narrowed by half.

  A few minutes later, “Convoy, stage at the event center.”

  I pulled out moments after acknowledging.

  We still had several delays to push cars out of the traffic lanes. While some were crunched together, most were just left where they ran out of gas. Several had Nashville plates. It might only be 50 miles between Nashville and Clarksville, but I suspected it had been stop-and-go traffic as everyone tried to leave.

  Maybe the drivers were joining family in Clarksville. Most of the abandoned cars were packed with suitcases and boxes of personal effects. Had they delayed their journey to pack these items just to abandon them before reaching their destination? Most didn’t leave the keys in the car. Was this just habit or did they expect to come back for it?

  It just reminded me how much we owed Jules for his early warning. So many Breckinridge Valley families made it back before the roads were closed and the gas stations shuttered. Before the blackout. Most of these people got stuck away from their destination when their gas ran out.

  In Huntsville just after the crash, people pulled together, and most were upbeat. Only after weeks passed without any word did the mood shift towards desperation. I wondered whether these people had that period of grace or whether once they got on the main roads, it was every person for themselves.

  When the main roads got clogged, it wouldn’t help that no one had paper maps anymore to find alternative ways through. Once the bridges over the Red River closed what did most people do?

  By the time the convoy made it through to park at the empty event center, it was nearly 01:00 hours. We spotted the semi-trailer blocking Zinc Plant Road when we drove by. It should be easy for our semi to pull it out of the way, either by hooking up or by using our chain. Someone must have placed the trailer soon after the shit hit the fan; otherwise, the crossing would look more like the TN-13 bridge.

  “Should Razor move the trailer off the road?” I radioed.

  “We’ve got bigger problems than that,” Craig radioed. “We have at least two men standing guard at a barricade on the far side of the bridge. I can’t tell if they had NVGs, but I don’t think so. They have clear sight lines to nearly half the bridge length. The bridge has a slight bow in it but not enough to sneak very close without getting shot.”

  “They will definitely shoot,” Joel added. “There are a lot of bodies on the bridge, though most are just skeletons at this point. A few more recent kills but most look to have occurred at around the time of
the crash. Some women and children, too.”

  “The dead don’t seem to have been looted, and most weren’t armed that I saw,” radioed Craig. “Someone put up a hand-lettered sign, ‘Trespassers will be shot.’ They clearly mean it.”

  This sounded like my nightmare scenario. Hungry unarmed people trying to get across the Mecklin River bridge to get to our Valley. Condemning the shooters without more information was hard.

  “How are we getting across?” I radioed.

  “If we had the Humvee with a Ma Deuce, it would be easy. But we don’t really have a good approach from this side of the river,” radioed Joel.

  “We could try for the two guards,” Craig radioed. “But while I can guarantee one, getting the second one without raising the alarm looks dicey. They don’t spend much time with their heads over the barrier. They probably have a few spyholes, so don’t have to expose themselves to keep watch. The roadblock is a set of concrete lane barriers and what looks like stacks of sandbags. I don’t know why but I bet they have a SAW or something similar set up there.”

  “That would match with the piles of dead people,” Joel radioed.

  “Does it look vulnerable from the other side of the river?” I asked.

  “Don’t know,” Craig radioed. “But it will be easier than attacking from this side. It’s the only way I see to take them quietly. I want to avoid dealing with reinforcements.”

  “I’d like to do this without killing people defending their families if we can,” I radioed. “We have a boat, and I noticed there is a marina a few blocks from here. Could you see their roadblock from where the trailer is blocking the road?”

  “No,” Craig radioed. “The crown on the bridge is too high. But, if you try to move the trailer with the semi, they probably hear you.”

  “Maybe the sound will keep them watching this way, not behind them,” I radioed. “When you are in position, Razor and I will move the trailer. Once the roadblock is secure, send back Allie and someone with the boat. We’ll bring the winch truck first, then the rest of the convoy when you are ready; unless you want the semi first. It’s quieter to use the winch and a snatch block if you think it will work. See what you can learn from the guards. I want to move through this area quickly before anyone has time to react.”

  Craig assumed tactical command of the boat crew, while Razor and I determined our best bet at moving the trailer. A locked gate into the recreation center gave us the access we needed. Razor picked the lock, and a heartbeat later had the gate open.

  Now we waited. When the assault team needed the distraction, we’d start the semi and move the trailer to block Zinc Plant Road closer to the main highway. Our vehicles could still get through the now unlocked gate and cross the bridge. Our last person through the now opened gate would lock it, and that should limit others from trying to cross the bridge after us. No need getting them killed, by leaving the road open. If they rammed the gate or took down the road barriers, then they would have to take their chances on the lethal roadblock.

  The river current was too strong to paddle the boat upriver, so they needed to get the dive boat’s engine started. That was Joel’s job.

  Everyone but Allie was an experienced operator. I was kicking myself for not going on the boat ride. My reasoning for staying behind was valid, but I always wanted to be in the thick of things. Such second-guessing was part of my nature and something I had too much experience with during my Army career. Especially as each promotion took me farther and farther away from the point of the spear. It was different now; my team was more an assemblage of equals.

  To counter the distraction, I refocused on the tasks in front of us. In this state I became hypervigilant, and the nagging in the back of my mind receded.

  Razor and I moved the two pickups near the open gate. I could barely hear muffled sounds from the marina.

  “No intact boats are left in the marina,” Tom radioed. “The place is looted, with a lot of waste. A few bodies. Not everyone left peacefully. Pulling out now.”

  Razor was back in the semi-truck cab, waiting for the signal to begin our activity. I stood by the semi-trailer to help guide him or adjust the trailer landing legs if needed.

  I caught the faintest sound of a motor on the river.

  I didn’t expect to hear anything more from our attack team until they were ready for Razor to start the semi-truck.

  “Ready,” Craig radioed, what seemed like hours later.

  Razor didn’t need to be told twice, he had the semi started and in gear within seconds. He didn’t rev the engine or do anything to attract more attention, but he wasted no time backing into position. I had to crank the nose of the trailer up a few inches because the edge of the trailer was too low for our semi to fit under. I gave Razor the hand signal to back in. Seconds later the kingpin slipped into place and the lockjaws clanked shut.

  I cranked the legs on the trailer up and moved out of the way. Razor pulled forward slowly, trailer attached. He drove around the event center and back onto the road while I jogged to the gas station entrance where we planned to leave the trailer.

  I only got there a tick before Razor backed the trailer into new position. He unlocked the jaws while I cranked the legs down to take the weight. The trailer didn’t need any brakes because its backside was snug against the guardrail.

  I spared a minute to look inside the gas station. Its windows were smashed, and there seemed nothing usable left unspoiled. I suspected the gas tanks might still be okay, but we didn’t need any fuel bad enough to take the time.

  While I scouted the station, Razor drove the semi back into the event center parking lot. Finding nothing to salvage, I jogged back to my pickup. To wait.

  “Bring the winch pickup, but leave the semi, for now. We’re going to try to winch this to one side,” Craig sent. “Sending boat driver plus one back to the marina.”

  Razor turned the semi’s engine off and acknowledged he’d stand by.

  I drove the pickup slowly onto the bridge span. There was nowhere to go except over the human remains. I tried to avoid the larger lumps, as my truck didn’t have high enough clearance. It was a traumatic and slow drive. I stopped as I neared the barricade, waiting for directions. Two men jogged over. One immediately unloaded a ninja, the other approached my window; it was Craig.

  “They had an M240b SAW, which we now have pointed the other way,” said Craig in a low voice. “We captured two men. They say ‘the colonel will make us pay,’ though I’m not sure what that means. They are ex-military, but if they spent any time in combat, it didn’t show. Reinforcements are sleeping in the house directly downriver from the bridge. These guys expect to be relieved at dawn. No need to hurry, we just shouldn’t make enough noise to attract attention. Ben took the ninja to scout ahead.”

  Craig, Tom, and I hooked the cable to the concrete barrier and slowly winched it toward the bridge. Every sound felt amplified. The sandbags actually helped, once we emptied a few out. The sand acted like mini-ball bearings easing the concrete barrier over the pavement.

  Once we had a way through, we tucked the SAW and its boxes of ammo into the back of my pickup, along with all the weapons and ammo stored at the roadblock. The two guards had M4s, sidearms, and knives. No NVGs. We left them tied to two separate trees with gags. Hopefully, they could breathe adequately through their noses.

  I expected we’d be back through here on our return trip. The first scout team had already verified we should exit downhill via River Road. Allie was driving the pickup hauling the boat. We advised her to drop back to next to last. I emphasized the importance of following the path used by the pickup in front of her. I didn’t want the boat trailer to get hung up on the bodies.

  I was alone in my pickup as I eased past the former blockade and coasted downhill on River Road. I waited at the bottom of the slight grade for the others. Two scouts on ninjas remained at the roadblock, prepared to cover our retreat.

  The second pickup followed my path reasonably well, making
minimal noise. By the third pickup, most of the high points were flattened, and the sounds even dragging the boat were muted.

  Once Allie made it past the roadblock, Razor was given the green light to follow us across the bridge. No matter what he did, the semi would be louder than all the rest.

  We must not have been as stealthy as we thought. Three automatic rifles fired in the direction of our semi-truck, as the rest of the pickups bugged out down River Road. The scouts laid down suppressive fire, allowing Razor to make it around the bend. I’m not sure what gear Razor was in, but the scouts reported he came around the barricade on only half his wheels.

  The scouts peeled off after him, shooting toward the earlier muzzle flashes until they dipped below the crest of the hill.