The Day After Never - Nemesis (Post-Apocalyptic Dystopian Thriller - Book 9)

by Russell Blake

  As far as they knew, he was a member of the Crew, and that was it; recruited by Elijah and Benjamin for the dangerous job of securing the bioweapon. Snake had endured a long night of Alex regaling him with stories of gunfights and covert missions behind enemy lines without comment. He had his doubts about the man’s competence, but he kept them to himself, and allowed Alex to bore him and Tony, the second gunman, to sleep.

  “It’s on the southeastern edge of town,” Alex said, his voice too loud for Snake’s liking. “We buried it in the yard of the Baptist church. Ten paces from the southern tip of the parking lot.”

  Alex had been part of the group who’d been chartered with finding a secure hiding place for the canister, who ostensibly could be trusted to keep his mouth shut – something Snake had a hard time believing he was capable of after spending a long day and night in his company. He knew the type from prison, where new meat would show up, posturing and flexing and mad-dogging in an effort to appear too dangerous to tackle. In his experience, those had been the easiest to turn out, and they’d cry like babies after a gang raping in the shower. It was the quiet ones who avoided eye contact but were always watchful you had to be careful of. They were usually the murderers and the successful criminals who’d been caught due to an unlucky break rather than because of stupidity or drugs or drunkenness.

  Everything about Alex reeked of punk to Snake, but it was none of his business. Elijah had made clear he was a vital part of locating the canister again, and Snake figured it was the holy man’s show, so he could cast it however he liked. Still, Snake’s hand was never far from his M16, and he scanned the surroundings without pause, straining his ears for any signs of patrols or ambush.

  They’d stayed off the road north from Denver and stuck to trails, wary of being spotted by any advance party of the Boulder raiders even though they’d apparently avoided venturing out of town, judging from the accounts of the refugees he’d talked to. The raiders understood they were vastly outnumbered by Denver’s population, which was well equipped and would fight to a standstill, but Snake had insisted on playing it safe even though it made the journey more difficult. The rain had started around midnight, and it had poured on and off until daybreak, and now the humidity in the woods made the air feel leaden.

  Alex had told him that the church was abandoned, so there should be no problem digging up the weapon and getting away clean. The plan was to reconnoiter the grounds, and once they’d established that they weren’t being watched, to make their move and then disappear under cover of darkness. It sounded practical to Snake, but then he’d been in enough skirmishes to know that most things that appeared easy going in could turn ugly quickly when least expected.

  They reached the outskirts of Boulder without seeing any patrols and dismounted to walk the final miles to the church, leaving their horses in the crumbling ruins of a warehouse to reduce their chances of being spotted. The sun was high overhead by the time the church’s spire swam into view. Snake brought up the rear as Alex led the way, trailed by Tony with a pair of shovels.

  Alex slowed when they neared the church grounds, and indicated a flame-blackened husk that looked to have been a hardware store. They moved to the shade of what remained of the overhang, and Alex spoke in a low tone.

  “Shouldn’t take more’n ten or fifteen minutes to dig the thing up. Maybe we set up a watch while one of us digs?”

  Snake pursed his lips. “Probably not smart to start until it’s getting dark. Otherwise we’d be sitting ducks if anyone sees us.”

  Alex shook his head. “The longer we’re here, the better the odds we’re spotted. Let’s get this over with and be back on the trail before nightfall.”

  Tony appeared unsure. “I don’t know. A man digging in broad daylight’s not going to be easy to hide.”

  “Nobody’s around. Don’t sweat it,” Alex snapped, and looked to Snake. “You on board?”

  Snake shook his head. “No. It’s a bad idea. Tony’s right. We should wait until dusk, at the earliest.”

  “And do what the rest of the day?”

  “Mount a watch and get some shut-eye. We can ride all night if there’s a moon and be back in Denver by daybreak.”

  “That’s your plan? Everyone takes a nap for the next…six hours? Are you kidding?”

  Snake’s smile was menacing. “Alex, you’re important to locate the weapon, but I’m in charge of this little party, so we’ll do it my way. I’ll take first watch. Two hours each. There’s enough cover here that we won’t be spotted.”

  Alex peered into the building, half its roof collapsed and littering the floor, and snorted. “Brilliant.”

  Snake refused to rise to the bait. “Stake out a spot. I’ll wake you when time’s up. Tony can take the last watch.”

  He moved away and settled behind a pile of rubble, his rifle by his side, his battered binoculars hanging around his neck. Alex grumbled as he entered the building. Tony remained silent though he looked relieved. Snake scanned the approaches while the others rested, and ignored Alex’s contemptuous grunt when he woke him to take his watch.

  The sun was low in the sky when the men made the final trek to the church. They moved cautiously, staying low, and froze a hundred yards away when the sound of two gunshots rang out from somewhere in town. Snake exchanged a glance with Tony and shrugged before continuing, rifle at the ready, his eyes roving over the surroundings without pause.

  Once at the church, they moved through the empty building before arriving at the parking lot. Alex walked to the far edge and studied the ground as though reading tea leaves, and then paced off ten yards before turning to Snake and Tony.

  “It’s around here. Tony, you and Snake dig while I watch the road.”

  Snake shook his head. “Too many ways we can get jumped if we do it that way. We need to watch both directions, and you don’t have eyes in the back of your head.”

  “How you seeing this work?” Alex demanded.

  “Tony can dig, and you and I will watch for trouble. Or you can dig, and Tony and I’ll watch. But it’s stupid to have two men digging to speed things up, only to get ambushed.”

  “I’m a fighter, not a digger,” Alex fumed.

  “I’ll do it,” Tony said. “Snake’s got a point. I’d rather not argue about it till midnight.”

  “Fine,” Snake said, and looked to Alex. “You take the front. I’ll take this side.”

  “No. I’ll stay here and you watch the street from the front,” Alex growled.

  Snake stared at him without expression for a long moment and then nodded. “Come get me if you see anything coming.”

  “This ain’t my first rodeo, homeboy. Watch your six,” Alex snarled, and turned away dismissively.

  Snake’s right eye twitched, but he swallowed his rage and made his way to the rear door while Tony went to work on the hard-packed dirt. He entered the building and looked for a way up to the roof, but didn’t find any, and resigned himself to watching the street from one of the front windows, long ago broken out by looters or vandals.

  The mountains to the west were black against the dusk’s lavender glow when shots exploded from the rear of the church. Snake bolted to the back exit in time to hear the distinctive popping of at least two M16s from the homes on a rise across the field from the parking lot, and Alex’s answering fire echoing off the rafters.

  Snake called out to Alex, “You were supposed to come get me–”

  Alex interrupted with more shooting and then yelled to him, “You gonna do something besides whine? They got me pinned down.”

  “Tony okay?”

  More shooting. “I’m fine,” Tony answered from the hole he’d dug in the dirt.

  “Stay put.” Snake winced as more gunfire rattled through the doorway. It sounded like no more than a couple of shooters, and he knew their location, but that could change as complete darkness fell. That Alex had stupidly engaged them instead of following instructions infuriated him, but it was too late to do anything abo
ut it. He needed to concentrate on ending the gun battle as quickly as possible, retrieving the canister, and getting the hell out of there.

  Snake ran back to the front entrance and swept the street with his rifle. When no threats presented, he rounded the building and ran parallel to the road, staying low until he came to another street that ran in the direction of the shooters. He stuck to the tree line, dodging along abandoned cars, and made it to the gunmen’s vicinity without being spotted.

  Once he was close enough to hit them without much chance of missing, he worked his way through a house to their right until the sound of their fire was deafening. He peered over a sill and spied two rifles poking from the home’s rear windows, trading volleys with Alex, the orange blooms of muzzle flashes confirming their locations.

  Seeing nothing to be gained by subtlety, Snake switched his rifle to full auto, his jacketed rounds more than capable of cutting through the sheetrock and plywood walls around the shooters without any need to be surgical with his aim. He took a deep breath and leveled the rifle at their position, and then squeezed the trigger and held it until the bolt snapped open, the magazine empty.

  Thirty rounds sliced into the house, and the shooting stopped. Snake ejected his magazine and slapped another into place, and waited for any telltales that he’d failed to hit one of the gunmen. When none came, he retreated to the front door and zigzagged to the house next door, leading with his rifle barrel, breathing hard through his mouth. He paused at the porch and listened as best he could, his hearing blown from the explosive roar of his shots, and then stepped into the darkened interior as the last of the light leached from the western sky.

  Snake edged along the hall that led to the bedrooms at the back of the house and hesitated outside the first, clutching his rifle with whitened knuckles. He peeked around the jamb and saw a body twisted in a fetal position with a rifle lying on the floor three feet away. After several seconds with no movement from the downed gunman, he took cautious steps to the next open doorway and stopped at the threshold, squinting into the gloom.

  A low rasp emanated from a man lying on the carpet in a pool of inky red. The walls were pocked with bullet holes, but the man still clutched his rifle as he struggled for breath. Snake raised his gun and fired once, and the man’s skull exploded in a shower of bone and blood. When no fire greeted his shot from elsewhere, he retraced his steps to the porch and scanned the neighborhood before bolting outside and sprinting down the street, the only sound the pounding of his boots on the pavement.

  He reached the church and ran to Alex’s position. Alex was slumped forward over his rifle, the back of his head blown off. Snake swore and looked over to where Tony was cowering in the hole.

  “Alex bought it. I got the shooters, but we’ll draw more,” he said.

  “My shovel hit metal just before Alex started shooting. Is it safe to dig it up?”

  “Yes, but make it quick. No telling how long we have. I’ll watch your back.”

  Tony straightened and went back to work. Within minutes he’d recovered the canister, and he and Snake bolted back toward where they’d left the horses, the shovels abandoned at the church, Tony toting the canister on his shoulder while gripping his rifle with the other.

  “Don’t drop it,” Snake cautioned, when the younger man slipped on some gravel and almost went down.

  “Yeah. I got that.”

  They made it to their animals, and Snake stashed the canister in his saddlebag while Tony clambered onto his horse. Once they were both in the saddle, Snake spurred his steed forward, and Tony raced to catch up as they disappeared into the night with a clatter of hooves.

  Chapter 27

  East of Provo, Utah

  Humidity hung over the valley where the army had made camp following four grueling days of nearly constant rain. With a half hour of light left, the latrine and mess crew were toiling furiously to prep the area so the men could be fed and attend to their necessities in a sanitary fashion. Coils of black smoke from cooking fires spiraled into the dusk sky, the only sounds those of picks and shovels working the soil and of horses whinnying and snorting as their minders watered them.

  His flannel shirt damp from sweat, Eddy scooped a shovelful of moist dirt aside and took a small step to the right to continue the latrine trench he’d been tasked to dig. He’d been assigned to the mess crew when he’d joined up in Provo, which had meant being chartered with every unpleasant, backbreaking job involved with feeding and caring for the camp. Although he hated it, he’d done the work without complaint, playing the role of grateful survivor to the best of his abilities and biting back the anger he felt whenever his supervisor, a particularly nasty piece of business named Jerry, berated him for the slightest error.

  The latrine trenches were the worst part of the duty, and Eddy cursed under his breath at the end of every day’s march when, exhausted, he knew he’d have to expend what little energy he had left digging in miserable conditions. It was only the thought of the gold that kept him in place, or he’d have abandoned the army by the second day and lit off on his own when it had been obvious he wouldn’t be allowed into Provo to use the radio and report on the army’s plans.

  “No time for daydreaming, ladies,” Jerry’s voice called out. “Eddy! You planning to keep working till midnight? It’ll take that long to finish at the rate you’re going.”

  Eddy fought to keep his tone even. “Hit some rocks, boss. Took a while to get ’em out of the way.”

  “It’s always something with you, isn’t it? Speed up or you’ll go hungry tonight.”

  “I’m on it.”

  Eddy wiped his forehead with the back of his hand and drove the shovel into the dirt with his boot. He would have to work faster, but not for the reason Jerry believed. Whenever he had a chance, he’d been taking notes on the army’s equipment so he could transmit them to the preacher whenever he found a radio, and he was only halfway done. It was easier to do so in the fading light of dusk when he could do so unobserved while everyone was preparing to eat, but the stubborn terrain was delaying him, and he’d lose the chance if he couldn’t make up the time.

  His stomach rumbled to remind him of the stingy rations he was receiving, and he muttered another oath as he willed his arms to scoop faster. He couldn’t afford to miss a meal, and knew Jerry’s threat wasn’t an empty one – he’d been denied dinner two days earlier when he hadn’t worked fast enough to keep the slave driver happy. The memory darkened his mood, but he pushed it aside and concentrated on the work, there being no point to reliving the unpleasant night of arbitrary starvation.

  He finished up with a sliver of time to spare and hurried to his tent to retrieve the frayed notebook in which he’d been recording his observations. The mess would continue serving until a half hour after sundown, which meant he had twenty minutes to write before darting to claim his meager portion.

  Eddy leaned against a tree and squinted at the rows of wagons that the army was using to transport the bigger guns, rockets, ammo, and grenade launchers. He was nearly through inventorying the majority when a branch cracked beneath the boot of someone nearby, and he spun to face his observer.

  “What the hell are you doing?” Jerry growled, stepping from the trees.

  “Um…nothing.”

  “Don’t look like nothing. What’s in the book?”

  “I…I like to write stories.”

  “Stories?” Jerry repeated, closing on Eddy with a skeptical frown. “Why would anyone want to write stories? What for?”

  Eddy moved so fast Jerry had no time to react. He unsheathed his survival knife and plunged it deep into Jerry’s chest while clamping a hand over his mouth to silence the older man’s scream, and then withdrew the blade and slashed his throat. A geyser of blood fountained in a ruby arc, and Jerry dropped to the ground, twitching like a beached trout as he bled out through his ruined throat.

  Eddy watched him die and then glanced around the area to confirm he was alone. He moved to the dead man an
d wiped the knife clean on his shirt, and then hoisted him beneath the arms and dragged him to the latrine trench, Jerry’s boot’s carving grooves in the dirt.

  Five minutes later the corpse was buried at the end of the trench, which had shrunk by six feet due to the body – something that would never be noticed now that Jerry was gone. Eddy inspected his work a final time and then shouldered the shovel and returned to the tents before heading to the mess area, where torches illuminated the hungry men who were shuffling forward in a ragged line.

  When he reached the serving vats, the cook who was ladling stew into metal bowls eyed Eddy curiously. “What happened to you?” he asked.

  Eddy glanced down at his shirt, where splatters of blood he’d missed were drying.

  “This? Nosebleed. Bopped myself with the shovel handle. Dumb.”

  The cook chuckled and shook his head. “I’ll say. That’s a first.”

  “Ain’t proud of it. I wasn’t paying attention and then wham.”

  The cook handed him a bowl. “Best wash that off or the ants’ll eat you alive tonight.”

  “Good point.”

  Eddy carried his bowl to the clearing where the late eaters were chowing down and made short work of his food, keeping to himself and avoiding eye contact. When he was done, he retraced his steps to the mess line and pitched in on cleanup, wanting to draw no undue attention by his absence since doing so was part of his job. One of the cooks ambled by as he was finishing up and stopped beside him.

  “You seen Jerry around?”

  Eddy took care not to display any alarm. “Nope. Why?”

  The man laughed and exchanged a conspiratorial smile. “Just wondering when the peace and quiet would end, that’s all.”

  Eddy forced a chuckle. “Thank God for small blessings.”