“Maybe I should check it first, then. I can replace the patch I rigged with something better from my toolkit,” I rubbed the bridge of my nose and scowled to myself. I hated missing things, especially when they were obvious. There was no way a .50 caliber round hadn’t punched clean through that tank and probably lodged someplace in the truck’s undercarriage.
“When you’re done there, we’ll get on that,” Bruce said with a smile.
“I’ll use epoxy and a metal patch,” I said, thinking out loud. “It’ll take about twenty-four hours to dry. Then you should be about as good as new.”
“Sounds good,” he said.
I looked up at him and smiled, then nodded and drained my coffee.
“Well,” I said as I got up. “Day’s wasting.”
We went out to the big green truck after getting a square of sheet aluminum, cutters, and the two tubes of epoxy mix from my truck along with some rubbing alcohol. I peeled off the old patch and carefully used the alcohol and an old cloth to get the glue off of the metal around the hole. Once I had it clean, I cut a square of aluminum, mixed some epoxy, and fitted the seal over the hole, pressing it down.
After that, with Bruce’s help, I took a light and squirmed under the truck. It wasn’t hard to find and fix the second hole, which was larger and at a lower angle than the first. Fortunately, the heavy round from the machinegun hadn’t blown out half the tank like I’d almost expected. I couldn’t find the actual bullet anywhere, either. Still, though, we’d been really lucky.
I worked my way back out and grinned up at Bruce, silhouetted against the blue sky.
“All done,” I reported. “If you’re still game to go requisition a SWAT vehicle, then I’ll drive.”
A drone hovered silently behind him, and he must have noticed my eyes flicker to it. The old survivalist whirled around surprisingly quickly, swatting at the device, which was, thankfully, out of reach.
“Dammit!” he swore loudly as the drone popped up about ten feet and zipped off around the building.
“Give me a hand up?” I asked.
“Fine,” he growled, turning back and offering a hand to me. Bruce helped me to my feet, and I shot him a smile.
“Let’s get this show on the road,” I said. “First, though…”
I walked off around the building after the drone and waved to Gene and Penny. He said something to the girl, then walked over.
“Morning,” he said with a nod.
“Think you guys will be ready to leave this evening?” I asked.
“Should be,” he replied. “Sure, you don’t want to make it a morning run?”
I shook my head.
“I really have been turning into a homebody,” I admitted with a wry smile. “I don’t like being away for too long.”
“Be nice to make a home for ourselves, I think,” the big man said, glancing back towards his granddaughter. “I’m kind of worried the only other kid her age is a boy, but I reckon we’ll cross that bridge when we come to it.”
“Virgil’s a good kid,” I said, based on first impressions and knowing what I did about his family. “I’m sure they’ll be fine.”
“Hope so,” he said. “She wants to fly with me out to your place.”
“That’s entirely your call,” I told him.
He grinned and nodded.
“What’re you and Bruce up to today?” he asked.
“We’re going downtown to raid the police station,” Bruce butted in. “Care to join us?”
“Nah,” Gene replied, shaking his head. “Think I’ll take it easy and make sure Penny and I are packed. You want me to tell the others to be ready?”
“I’d appreciate it,” I told him.
“Your loss.” Bruce grinned and turned away to start towards where my truck was parked.
I shrugged at Gene and followed.
The GPS in my truck worked, and I’d updated it a bit more recently than Bruce had, so we didn’t take that long getting downtown. There was only a minor snag since apparently, a winter or spring storm had taken down a large tree that blocked one of the more direct routes. We cut around and bypassed it, then made our way through the streets with only a minor delay.
We passed the courthouse and the detention center, then turned up Peachtree Street. A driveway opened into a parking lot behind the police station proper, and I bumped the truck up over the curb and into it, parking in front of, surprisingly, a black SWAT panel van, and the very vehicle we were here to look for.
Bruce and I just stared at it for a long moment. Leaves and other crud caked the roof and windows, but otherwise, it looked okay. We exchanged glances, and he said, “Well, I’ll be damned.”
29
“If that didn’t look like it had been here since the beginning,” Bruce observed, looking out of the windshield at the parked BearCat. “I would suspect this was a trap of some kind.”
“Let’s not look a gift horse in the mouth,” I said as I slowly got out of the truck. My right hand rested on the butt of my Les Baer .45 as I approached the silent vehicle.
Behind me, Bruce Gassler disembarked as well, his boots scuffing through leaves as they hit the concrete. I could see a human shape slumped behind the wheel through the armored and dirty windshield of the armored car. Like the semi-truck Jackie and I found early on, it looked like someone had died in the cab of the BearCat.
I circled around to the driver’s side, took a deep breath, and tried the door. It clicked and swung open smoothly to reveal the mostly desiccated corpse of a former member of Atlanta’s finest, dressed in combat gear and helmet. For a long moment, I stood there, looking things over.
Like almost every body we’d found that the Reaper virus had killed, this one was eerily well-preserved. Taking a deep breath and steeling myself, I reached in, grabbed onto the corpse’s uniform, and hauled it out as carefully as I could.
Fortunately, it came along in one piece. There was a surprising creak and crack of dry tendons and flesh, but I managed easily to get the dead police officer from the driver’s seat of the bearcat to the ground.
Bruce moved up alongside me as I stood back up. He’d taken off his hat, revealing a mostly bald pate with a ring of close-cropped hair neatly running from in front of his ears to the back of his skull.
“Poor bastard,” was all he said before he put his cap back on and peeked into the inside of the vehicle. “Let’s open all the doors and let it air out while we go looking for a battery.”
“Why does it need a battery?” I asked, not thinking.
Bruce reached in and turned the key back to off, then looked at me with a faint, amused smirk.
“You’re the mechanic,” he teased. “You tell me.”
I snorted and rolled my eyes.
“You didn’t have to move the body,” I said, emphasizing the ‘you.’ “I would have figured it out.”
“I know,” he said. “I just have to poke you when I get the chance.”
We did a quick pat-down of the body and retrieved the dead man’s gun and utility belt, which I tossed into the Silverado after unclipping a ring of keys from it. One of them was sure to fit at least one of the doors into the station proper.
A crow cawed from the top of a light pole, and I glanced up at it. The glossy black bird flapped its wings and settled down, watching us with beady eyes. Overhead in the bright blue sky, a few white clouds hung like cottony wisps far above.
I took a deep breath and put on my headlamp.
“Well,” I said. “Let’s go in.”
Bruce donned his own light, and we headed for the nearest door. I checked it first and found it locked, but after trying a few keys, one clicked, and we headed inside, following a dark, vinyl-tiled hall into the building.
There were more bodies than we expected occupied offices and side rooms. Much like the fire stations and hospitals, police stayed at their posts until it was too late. Sobered, Bruce and I searched for and eventually found a SWAT ready room. Still, no luck on a new batter
y, but we did take some riot gear and body armor, along with boxes of flash-bang, stinger, and tear gas grenades. We added more weapons and ammunition to our growing hoard, gathering several CAR-15s as well as a couple of automatic shotguns.
I had just loaded up on 5.56 ammunition when Bruce let out a long, low whistle.
“Have a look at this,” he said.
I sighed and set down my burden before walking over to the locker he’d jimmied open. A large, rotary grenade launcher of some kind was tucked neatly inside. He’d already found ammunition for it; tear gas only, unfortunately.
“M32A1?” I asked.
“Damn skippy,” he said and reached for it, then paused and looked at me with almost a guilty expression. “Do you want it?”
“Do you have one already?” I asked.
He nodded slowly.
“Then, yes, please,” I replied. “Have you got any HE ammo for it?”
“About eighty rounds,” he answered.
“Could I cut a deal with you for twenty of those?” I asked. It occurred to me that I should bring the girls something, and this seemed right up Angie’s alley. As close as we were to the High Museum of Art, too, I had a definite idea for Estelle.
That left Jackie, and I was drawing a blank for her.
Bruce sighed and nodded as he reluctantly said, “I’ll give you some.”
“You’re a good man,” I said and clapped him on the shoulder. Then I reached for the grenade launcher before he could change his mind and hurried outside to stow it in my truck. Bruce followed with the tear gas and 5.56.
“I’m going to go ahead and try to jump this thing off,” I said. Although if it had been sitting for months with fuel in the tank, chances were pretty good that it might not start, and even if it did, it wouldn’t run well. Still, it was a diesel, which upped my chances for success. If Bruce was right, and the BearCat had idled until its tank was empty, then that was even better. Still, the idea of a small-scale refinery definitely had its appeal.
“I’ll keep retrieving equipment,” he said with a nod. “Good luck.”
As he disappeared inside, I opened the BearCat’s door and climbed up into the driver’s seat. A lot of vehicles like this had backup batteries. If those weren’t drained, I might be able to get enough juice to start the thing, especially if there was fuel.
I looked over the instrument panel. Turbo, diesel fuel only. Good. I took a deep breath and turned the key.
Click.
“Well, damn,” I said aloud and reached for the hood release.
With the big vehicle’s hood up and propped open, and the battery boxes open to reveal the two large 12-volt batteries, I went to my truck boxes to get my jumper cables. The Silverado had a built-in plug for them, like many towing vehicles. It was another reason I’d had my eye on this particular truck over at the Montgomery Chevy dealership.
I went through all the hoops you had to jump through to hook up a diesel, started my truck, and waited a couple of minutes while Bruce brought out another load.
“Cleaned them out, yet?” I called after him as he started back in.
“Not yet,” he answered. “But I’m working on it.”
Much as I hated to admit it, having lots of weapons and ammunition wasn’t a bad thing. We could use pretty much any caliber for hunting, despite what some people wanted to have you believe. Sure, bigger bullets made a bigger mess of smaller game, but 7.62 or 5.56 was good for critters the size of deer.
I hopped out, went over to the BearCat, and clicked the ignition just far enough to check the fuel. Bone dry, which was pretty much what I’d expected. I turned the key back to off and went for the five-gallon jerry can of diesel I kept stowed.
A few minutes later, I got back into the BearCat. This time there was a positive readout on the fuel gauge. As I turned the ignition key, I held my breath. The engine turned over slowly, then faster, then caught and let out a deep rumble as it idled up and then down, settling into a steady RPM as a broad grin pulled at my face.
“Good job,” Bruce said, almost causing me to jump out of my skin.
He laughed as I shot him a glare.
“Maybe a little warning next time,” I protested.
“Sure thing,” he said, smirking behind his mustache.
“You’re a shitty liar,” I told him, and he just smirked more.
I shook my head and moved to get down out of the cab. Bruce stepped aside.
“We need to fuel up,” I told him. “At least it’s diesel.”
“Good. Have you got one of those powered siphon pumps?”
I nodded. Ever since he’d showed that particular gizmo off in the gas station of a Kroger grocery store back near the CDC complex, I’d been sold. I found one of my own after getting the Silverado and added others to the kit of every vehicle we had at the farm, from the tractor and the Nissan truck to Angie’s Corvette and Jackie’s Jeep.
“Well, my arms are getting tired,” he said. “Mind if I drive the RV?”
“RV?”
“Yeah,” he patted the BearCat’s fender. “If this ain’t a recreational vehicle, I don’t know what is.”
I let out a long-suffering sigh and gestured into the cab.
“Be my guest,” I told him. “Just give me a minute to pack up my cables and button her up.”
He nodded and did just that.
Unfortunately, the cop service yard was nowhere near the main precinct and didn’t show up on the GPS. That meant finding a gas station in downtown Atlanta. We managed, though, even though it was a pain in the ass to get both of the large vehicles parked.
It took a bit more finagling, but we managed to fuel up the BearCat, and I went ahead and refueled the Silverado.
“What now?” Bruce asked while we waited for the little electric pump to do its duty.
“I want to make a side trip,” I told him. “Figured I’d pick up some things for the girls and the kids. We aren’t far from the High Museum and the Center for Puppetry Arts.” Tommy had mentioned the Center at some point, and I hadn’t forgotten.
“The what?” Bruce looked at me like I’d gone mad. “Give them guns or ammo, or both.”
I shook my head.
“Estelle isn’t into guns,” I said. “And I want to find something cool for Jackie and the kids.”
He made a disgusted sound, then squared his shoulders and regarded me.
“Well,” Bruce said. “Lead on.”
“You don’t have to come along,” I told him.
“I don’t think it’s a good idea for anyone to go alone out here,” he said firmly.
“Thanks,” I said, and meant it.
Since the Museum and the Center weren’t terribly far from each other, we just started with the closest, which happened to be the High. Once again, the lockpick gun turned out to be my very special little friend. We entered through an employee entrance, then managed to get briefly lost in the back halls before making it out into the exhibit halls.
The place had lots of glass to provide maximum natural light for the viewing of the painting and other works of art. Even Bruce seemed almost reverent as we walked the galleries, taken in by the many paintings and sculptures even as we searched for the exhibit that held the painting I wanted for Estelle.
Fortunately, it wasn’t the largest piece, even with its frame intact. Bruce kept wandering while I went to the gift shop in search of wrapping paper, which I found, and proceeded to do a fairly shitty job wrapping up the painting. I’d never been good at Christmas or birthday gifts, either. At least the nice wooden frame wouldn’t get scratched up, and maybe the glass wouldn’t break, either.
When I met up with Bruce again, he had grabbed a painting as well. I just raised an eyebrow. It was another one from the Shaheen collection, an impressionist depiction of some swans on a lake in front of a tower. I couldn’t remember what it was called.
“I figured that if you were getting culture, I could afford to, too,” he said defensively, misreading my look.
“I’m not saying anything,” I said. “That’s a nice piece.”
“Yeah,” he mused, holding it up to regard it. “It kind of called to me.”
We loaded our art up, closed the door behind us, and set off with me in the lead to the next stop.
The Center for Puppetry Arts actually kind of depressed me, and I suspected it hit Bruce, too. We walked through the displays of Muppets, gawked at the Dark Crystal puppets in their plexiglass cases, and finally walked into the darkened gift shop feeling rather subdued.
“The actual Muppets look a bit too fragile for a ten-year-old,” I mused thoughtfully as I browsed the shelves of puppets and stuffed replicas of the many creatures and wonders displayed in the museum.
“You’re right,” Bruce said quietly. “He probably couldn’t play with them for long.”
“But he’s sure to like a Kermit, right?” I picked up the stuffed green frog. “Damn. I should get something for all the kids.”
The old survivalist nodded. He was barely paying attention as he examined toys and other items as well.
“Well, I’ll be goddamned,” he said.
I had a Kermit and a couple of other stuffed Muppets already in my hands when I turned to see what he was on about. The old survivalist held up a fuzzy, dark brown figure in a winter coat.
“They’ve got Emmet Otter,” he exclaimed happily.
30
Estelle practically knocked me off my feet as she slammed into me with a combination hug and body check. She had just gotten enough paper torn open on her gift to realize what it was, let out a happy shriek, and whirled on me.
A happy kiss followed, then she pulled back and adjusted her clothing, looking a bit nonplussed that she’d let her self-control slip for just that moment. I smiled at her.
“Good choice?” I asked.
“Very,” she replied. “Thank you so much, Henry. I’ll find a nice place for it once we get back to the homestead.”
“We should get a move on,” I said, then. “This took a bit longer than I expected, but we should be able to make it home before dark.”
After The Virus (Book 2): Homesteading Page 21