They flew past the Fowlkes-Tigrett Exit, and Jessie stared at the map on the center console. “Looks like we’ve got about ten minutes to Dyersburg, then another fifteen to the bridge.”
Bryant nodded.
“Can we save some time and cut straight through town?”
The soldier glanced at the screen. “Best bet is to take 412 all the way around. We’ll connect up to I-155 west and cross the bridge into Missouri.”
“Sounds good to me.”
Jessie put her socked feet on the dashboard above the passenger controls. She watched out the window as the town of Dyersburg came up on their left. She tracked the city’s location on the GPS.
Dark warehouses appeared on the right, and a power plant rested off to the left in a vast spread of buildings. A few steakhouses and fast-food restaurants dotted the main strips.
“The plant is on fire.” Jessie nodded to her left where white billows of smoke rose from one of the tall ventilation shafts.
“That’s not from a fire,” Bryant stared. “That’s from it operating. That means people.”
Jessie caught more movement as they crossed a bridge. “Looks like there’re folks in the restaurant parking lots.”
Bryant glanced to his left and nodded. “I see pickup trucks and people.” He turned his eyes back to the road and announced to no one in particular. “Nothing to see here, folks. Just a big black RV coming through.”
Jessie chuckled uneasily and kept her eyes peeled.
They arrived at the I-155 junction. The soldier guided the bus carefully around a long, sharp curve until they joined the expressway heading west.
“Almost to the bridge,” he announced.
Jessie nodded enthusiastically. As they approached the Dyersburg exit ramp, she grew nervous. Off to their left sat a collection of restaurants, hotels, and stores.
“They still have a JC Penney department store,” Jessie commented. “I thought they went out of business ages ago...Wait.” She narrowed her eyes. Some places were in use. Cars openly drove around the lots, and workers hauled supplies and other equipment.
“Are you seeing what I’m seeing, Bryant?”
“I see it.” The soldier glanced repeatedly at the businesses and bustle. “They have respiratory gear.”
Their stunned reactions encouraged Dex to leave his seat and stand between them, blinking out the left window at the activity.
The RV suddenly slowed, causing them to lurch.
Jessie threw her eyes ahead. A dozen men and women were stepping away from vehicles parked in the emergency lanes. They held rifles, the barrels pointed at the ground as they watched the incoming RV.
Bryant gripped the wheel and hit the gas. “You say this thing can take small arms fire?”
“I think so,” she replied. “But I‘ve never tested it. I’m assuming we’re about to find out.”
One man raised his hand, waving it up and down as if requesting them to stop. Bryant kept right on driving. The other townsfolk retreated from the onrushing RV, one lifting her rifle barrel slightly before backing away.
Jessie stared at the lead man as he watched them fly past, shaking his head as if annoyed. She tensed, expecting a hail of gunfire to rip into them. But none ever came, and they soon left Dyersburg behind.
A trio of motorcycles zipped up the entry ramp and joined them on the expressway. They caught up quick, pulling within fifty yards but staying back.
“We’ve got three motorcycles on our tail,” Jessie said, her voice tense with fear.
“I see them.” Bryant kicked up the RV’s speed and tried to pull away, but the bikes stayed right with them.
“We’re getting close to the bridge,” Dex said as they passed another exit ramp for Great River Road.
Jessie confirmed with a glance at the GPS screen. Her eyes fell on the bikers again, noting one of them waving at them. “What are they doing?” She twisted her face up in confusion.
“Are they trying to warn us about something?” Dex asked.
“Yep,” Bryant said, his voice suddenly surly.
Jessie took her eyes off the side mirror and looked ahead at the upcoming span. The metal and concrete structure arched across the wide Arkansas River, lifting them higher above the trees to provide them a magnificent view in either direction. To her right, the river flowed north before breaking westward. On the left, the brown waters curved south.
The lanes on both sides were blocked with cones and rails indicating vehicles could not enter. Torn plastic sheeting and orange tape clung to the steel girders, blown sideways by the wind. Paving machinery crowded the lanes. Dark patches of corpses sprawled around the equipment, eaten through with Asphyxia.
Bryant pulled the bus to a stop. “It must have been under construction before the spores hit.”
Jessie swallowed. “We can’t cross.” She glanced in her side mirror to see the motorcycles had stopped at the foot of the bridge. “I think they were trying to warn us.”
“Likely.” Bryant began turning the big RV around. “Our best bet is to head back south. We have to go through Memphis.”
“Agreed.”
The soldier edged them back down to the foot of the bridge at a steady twenty-five miles per hour. The bikers had split to both sides of the highway, watching the RV with rifles resting across their handlebars.
“Just some friendly folk passing through,” Bryant said in a nervous tone, waving as they went by.
As silly as it felt, Jessie followed his lead. She raised her hand, smiled, and nodded. She was pleasantly surprised when one man gave a slight wave in return. The bikers fell in behind them, keeping a respectable distance for a quarter mile.
Once they reached Great River Road, Bryant turned down the entry ramp and drove right onto Highway 181, heading south. She kept her eyes on the bikers in her side mirror, sighing with relief when they didn’t follow.
Chapter 9
Moe, Santa Fe, New Mexico
The Bell UH-1Y Venom cruised through the sky like a prowler. Its engine thrummed with power, churning the rotors beneath the hot desert sun.
Moe stood by the crew door and peered out the window as New Mexico rolled by. They’d been in the air just over two hours, and he’d seen nothing but dirt and red rock.
Melissa was flying them to the Santa Fe National Guard Hangar. While she’d not been able to get the facility on the radio, she hoped the airport was still under military jurisdiction.
“We’re cutting it super close,” she said, her voice sounding thin through his helmet’s speaker.
“Will we make it?” Moe asked.
“Yes, but if we can’t refuel there, we’ll be stuck. We’ll have to find another way to Arkansas.”
It would be a devastating blow to their efforts. Driving from Santa Fe to Arkansas would be a monumental task. They could find a vehicle no problem, but the long-distance drive through hostile territory, and back to Chinle, would take extra days.
They passed over a quarry of bright red stones like a bloodstain on the landscape. On the other side of that, Moe saw the first signs of the Santa Fe Regional Airport.
“Okay, people,” Melissa ordered. “Look sharp. Get on those weapons.”
Moe got out of the way as the captain’s remaining two soldiers stood and moved to the doors. They unlatched them and threw them open, letting in the screaming wind.
He pulled the visor down on his helmet to keep from getting blasted in his face. The soldiers unlocked the Browning .50 caliber machine guns on their mounts and swung them around, pointing them toward the ground.
Moe checked his own weapons where he’d stowed them in a compartment in the rear. He wore a Ruger pistol at his side and would carry the same AR-15 he’d used back in Las Vegas.
He settled in his seat, resting his rifle across his knees.
The soldiers were Specialist Maria Hicks and Specialist Jim Trainor. Hicks had guarded the helicopter back in Chinle while Trainor had travelled with them to Las Vegas.
; Both were stoic soldiers and good friends to each other. Hicks was a golden skinned “beach girl” from Boca Raton, Florida. Trainor was a tall, light-haired man of German descent from Cincinnati, Ohio. Their stories of how they’d ended up in California with Captain Melissa Bryant were long and involved. Both had accompanied her on countless missions since the spore outbreak.
Moe repositioned himself in the seat as they did a full turn around the air base’s south side. The terminal rested east of two dust-swept runways that crossed in the shape of an X.
“I can’t reach anyone on comms.” Melissa swooped the aircraft around to the east. “The place looks deserted.”
“Overrun is more like it,” Moe said. “Look, signs of fighting by the National Guard buildings.”
Across the airstrip squatted a separate landing pad with hangars lined up behind it. An administrative building stood farther north, its pale sides scored with small arms fire and blasts from rocket-propelled grenades.
A helicopter lay crashed in the middle of the landing pad, too burned to tell the type. Two jets sat stalled just outside the hangar, their sides marked with bullet holes. One’s fuselage had been ripped in half by something, the two pieces collapsed inward.
Four Humvees sat in a line on the west side of the lot, seemingly forming a defensive perimeter for the jets. Two vans and several sedans lay in the armored vehicles’ line of fire, chewed up by the mounted guns.
At least three dozen bodies lay strewed across the lot, leaving dark, dusty parts of themselves scattered.
“A lot of the forces stationed here were deployed east when the spore outbreak started,” Melissa said. “They probably had a skeleton crew left. With the breakdown of everything...”
“The people in town wanted answers,” Moe finished for her. “Or maybe they thought the government was responsible and wanted revenge. Pick your reason.”
“Frightened and angry. I get it.”
“By now, they must know we’re here. And if they’ve raided the armory, they’ll have weapons galore. We should fuel up and exit fast.”
“You read my mind,” the captain said. “I’m going to swing over to the aero service bay on the south side.”
The helicopter changed direction, turning and leaning forward in an aerial dash to the refueling and maintenance buildings. Moe bent over and gazed back toward the city, trying to spot any vehicles racing their way.
The roads appeared clear, and the suburban sprawl of Santa Fe lay quiet, another ghost town brought by Asphyxia. Not the fungus itself, but as a symptom of the unrest affecting the country.
Shutdown. Panic. Violence.
He imagined Santa Fe as a prelude to what might happen in Las Vegas. But Vegas would be a bloodier affair, amplified by hundreds of thousands more people and a jittery colonel at Nellis Air Force Base.
Moe retrieved his rifle from where he’d stowed it, balancing carefully on his feet as he checked the chamber and prepared to exit the craft.
Melissa set the chopper down with a bump. She’d parked them outside a building with four small hangar bays attached. A sign on the side read Aero Services, and three single-engine planes were nestled inside.
“You’re with me, Hicks,” Melissa said. She threw open her cockpit door and hopped out. Then she ducked and sprinted toward the hangar.
The remaining trio exited the craft. Moe and Trainor spread out on the north side of the lot to keep an eye on the main roads while Hicks followed the captain inside.
The vehicle parking lot lay to the north of the service building, and the tall soldier gestured for Moe to tailgate him over. They jogged across a thin patch of dirt with Moe favoring his injured ankle. The lot was only a quarter full, with a handful of corpses strewn around. Some vehicles bore the scars of the attack. Bullet holes peppered doors and side panels. Dead people leaned over in the driver’s seats, hands holding the wheels, windows splattered with blood.
Trainor leapt onto the trunk of a Ford Taurus and put one foot on the roof, gazing up the main road into town. Moe gave him a dry look and placed his rifle on the front hood of a Honda Civic. He climbed up slower, feeling like a grandpa. Once aboard, he scooped up his rifle and straightened to appreciate the higher vantage point.
While many more white hangar-type buildings stood between them and the city proper, one primary road wove around those and connected to the main strip into town. He turned in a circle and looked back toward the south where a low set of maintenance structures sat near a small offshoot of runway. Beyond that stretched dirt and hills and desert vegetation as far as he could see.
“If anyone comes for us, they’ll be coming from there.” Trainor pointed back toward the main road.
Moe nodded and glanced across at the carnage in front of the National Guard building. His mind raced as he imagined the violent spectacle of citizens as they overwhelmed the remaining army forces.
He shook his head and blocked out the flying bullets and screams. It reminded him of what had happened in Flagstaff. A pair of .50 caliber machine guns with a crowd of restless citizens standing between them. The crossfire had left a bloody mess. He focused on the wind rising out of the south and turned his face up into the sun.
He lifted his radio from his belt and put it to his lips. “How’s it coming, captain?”
“Good, here,” she replied. “We activated the pumps and pulled the hoses to the aircraft. Proceeding to refuel. Give us thirty minutes.”
“You got it.” Moe replaced his radio and leaned his weight on his left foot. He stared at the back of Trainor’s head. “Hey, man. I want to thank you for coming on that Las Vegas trip. You risked your life for my people.”
The soldier flashed a friendly smile over his shoulder and shrugged. “It was an honor, man. To serve and protect the citizens of the United States. That’s what we’re here to do. Doesn’t matter what race or creed.” He chuckled. “Doesn’t even matter that there isn’t much of the country left. I figure the good people need to stick together.”
The man’s sentiment stirred Moe’s heart for reasons he couldn’t fathom. “Thanks,” was all he could think of to say.
“Plus, Bryant gave us a direct order,” the soldier snickered with good humor.
“Right,” Moe laughed, holding his gun relaxed. “That probably was a big part of it.”
The tall, Viking-looking guy turned back toward the city, eyes scanning the roads and sprawling tarmacs. Moe changed positions, staring west as the minutes passed in the sunny quiet of midday.
It was only when he shifted his gaze south again to the offshoot runways that something caught his eye. A squarish truck with a boxy back end swerved onto the tarmac and raced toward the refueling hangar.
“Trainor,” Moe growled as he leapt off the car’s hood and landed on his good foot in the dirt.
Head down, he hobble-ran, reaching to snatch his radio from his belt. The taller soldier sprinted past him, long legs carrying him toward the potentially violent clash in a hurry.
Moe fumbled with his radio, eventually raising it to his lips. “Melissa, you’ve got company. From the south. White truck.”
After a pause, the captain replied. “We’re on it.”
He kept running, crossed the thin strip of grass, and rounded the back of the building.
The truck had whipped into the lot and come to a screeching stop fifty yards away. The back door rolled up, and eight people jumped out and spread across the lot. Eight rifle barrels aimed at the helicopter.
Melissa stood on the left side of the aircraft, invisible to them and protected by the fuselage. She held her rifle at the ready as she leaned against the still-fueling chopper.
Hicks sat inside the crew area behind one of the .50 caliber guns, a thin plate of metal protecting her from the weapons pointed at her. The helicopter engine droned on, blades whipping the air into a frenzy.
A long-bearded man stepped away from the main group and waved his hand, shouting something they couldn’t hear.
Moe an
d Trainor kept the chopper between themselves and the truck group. The tall soldier shifted to the aircraft’s nose while Moe climbed into the crew cabin to stand behind Hicks.
“I can’t hear what he’s saying,” the gunner shouted. She’d locked the barrel on the bearded man and held her hands on the triggers.
Moe scanned the group. They wore jeans, windbreakers, and boots in a variety of colors. None of them looked particularly frightened to have a .50 caliber machine gun pointed at them. Still, they’d halted their approach, wearing cautious expressions.
The bearded man was burly, and he appeared neighborly, though Moe couldn’t explain why. Before bloodshed could erupt, he stepped out of the chopper, raised his hand to the man, and waved it in the friendliest way he could.
Tension drained from the burly man’s face, and he gestured and pointed to the space between them.
“I’ll be back,” Moe said, and he jogged twenty-five yards to meet the man.
“Zack Smith,” the bearded man shouted, holding out his hand to shake.
“Moe Tsosie,” he replied in an equally loud tone.
They shook hands and stood back, sizing each other up, total strangers in a world falling to pieces.
“Where you folks from?” Zack asked. His gray eyes shifted from Moe to the helicopter where it whirred loudly behind them.
“Just flew in from Chinle, Arizona,” Moe explained. “I’ve got a Captain and a pair of soldiers with me. One of them is on that .50 caliber weapon there.”
“I noticed that,” Zack say with a wry grin. “How good of a shot is she?”
“Care to find out?”
“Not really.” The burly man gave a belly laugh that carried over the chopper noise.
Moe grinned back at him, but he wasn’t about to let down his guard. If any firing started, he planned on falling straight to the concrete and wishing for the best. But he didn’t think it would come to that.
“Judging by the mess in the National Guard lot,” Moe said, “you folks have already run into your share of military hardware.”
Spore Series | Book 5 | Torch Page 8
