The trial itself caused a lot of debate. The punishment also caused a lot of debate. How were we going to impose the punishment on Clay? Drop him off in the middle of nowhere and say sayonara and piss off? We finally came up with a solution of sorts. We offered to place him in an outpost in a small town located in Missouri on the banks of the Mississippi River. The catch? He had to work for Mount Weather. If he did the job for five years, he was going to be allowed to return, if he wanted. Unfortunately for him, his wife and stepdaughter were not interested in joining him.
Our scout teams returned in mid-June. There were mixed results:
Team Mad Dog successfully made it to the Lake City Ammunition Plant. The plant itself had sustained a lot of post-apocalyptic damage and looting. However, they were able to procure a trailer full of 5.56 ball ammunition. It was a significant find. During their debriefing, Melvin discussed how unfeasible it would be to move pieces of equipment back to Mount Weather and proposed that a timeline be created to move a group of people there to get the plant online and functional. It might be feasible to go with a closer ammunition plant. Some have been heavily damaged, but it might be possible to repair them for limited operation.
Team Joker successfully procured several kilograms of explosive material from Holston. We can use this material for a variety of things, but our primary use will be to create defensive antipersonnel mines for our perimeter.
Team Flash had trouble. They completed a significant amount of scavenging in Richmond, but then they encountered a group of hostiles in the Fort Eustice area. Unfortunately, Erin and Sully were killed. Miraculously, Flash was able to escape and make it back to Mount Weather. At one point, he was attacked by zeds, but managed to fight them off. He was bitten once on the arm, but the vaccination seems to have kept him from becoming infected. He begged me to get some payback. I agreed. So, one morning in early July, three of us took a little road trip to Fort Eustice and geared up for war. I will not divulge who, nor any details of what happened. There are people here who believe what may or may not happened was illegal. An act of murder. If, in fact, it actually happened. Who knows? All I have to say is Flash is no longer interested in getting revenge and possibly reveres a certain friend of mine as a God. That’s all I have to say about that.
Now, on to additional bad news.
On June 9th, Fort Detrick was attacked by approximately one thousand zeds. Maybe more. We repelled them, but we paid a price. Well over a thousand rounds of ammunition was expended, three people were killed, and Patient Eve, along with her baby, disappeared.
What does this mean, exactly? We don’t know. It’s perplexing and hard to comprehend, but it seems like the zeds orchestrated an attack for the purpose of getting Patient Eve and the baby. We spent several days searching the area for her, but our efforts were futile.
President Stark issued an executive order moving several people out of Mount Weather and relocating them to Fort Detrick. This action, even though it was necessary, was not received well. Although I agreed with his order, I was concerned it would backfire.
And it did, but I’ll come back to that. The month of August was extremely hot, and we had a three-week drought. We lost a significant number of crops. We usually sow lettuce, carrots, beets, turnips, and spinach for a fall harvest, but the dry weather and heat killed a lot. In addition, we lost a lot of wheat and corn, which is going to cause an issue if we have a hard winter and run out of food for the cattle. We have an SOP in place during dry conditions and have irrigation equipment for issues like this. However, we had a couple of laborers who did not follow protocol, which resulted in improper watering and lost crops.
When September came, so did the rain. The rain gauge at Mount Weather recorded four inches in only three hours. It was a mess. The roof on one of our greenhouses somehow collapsed. As one can imagine, it caused further damage to our food supply.
Other than the rain, September and October were uneventful. For the most part. We executed two missions into DC. There were mixed results. The zed population appears to have tapered off considerably, but the ones who still live there seem to be more intelligent, and therefore more of a threat. Even so, some of our Marines made a push all the way to 8th and I Street, which is where the DC Marine Corps Barracks is located. They managed to recover a lot of goodies, including replacing their worn-out combat utilities and they packed up several dress uniforms. For some reason, this made our jarheads extremely happy.
And now, for the worst news of all:
On the first Tuesday in November, the election was held. Approximately thirty percent of the population in this area voted, which was disappointing. Rochelle VanAllen won by a margin of seventeen votes.
Stark was devastated. His mistress was devastated. Rhinehart was devastated. I was devastated. VanAllen’s people were ecstatic. Her victory speech was one of smug arrogance. She made a pledge of major changes coming down the road. A lot of snide remarks were made in the cafeteria the next day. One person went as far as to punch my fist with his nose.
As I’m writing this, Garret walked in my office. He advised me of a radio message from the president-elect. She stated she is leaving Marcus Hook in two days and she expects a proper welcome at Mount Weather. A parade or something, who knows. She also expected the largest suite to be prepared and ready for her to move in. Oh, and two additional suites for her “staff.” She wasn’t supposed to take office until January, but I guess that doesn’t matter.
I have no delusions about President-Elect Rochelle VanAllen and what kind of relationship I will have with her. She made it clear she believed me to be her enemy. My skills and work ethic as the Director of Operations would not be taken under consideration. She had not come right out and stated it, but I knew she was going to boot the Gunderson family from Mount Weather. And, she was diabolical enough to do it once the weather had turned bad.
I’m not going to wait for that. I began preparing the day after the election. I had to be sneaky about it though. With the help of some trusted friends, we’ve prepped my semi, a four-wheel-drive SUV, and loaded a trailer with enough for us to live independently of Mount Weather.
The plan is to leave in the dark of night, perhaps after one of those notorious Mount Weather parties where everyone is drunk and high and less inclined to wonder why someone is driving away in the middle of the night.
Ruth is in league with us. On the night we leave, she’ll be on duty and we’ll have someone at the main gate who is friendly, perhaps Slim. By the time everyone realizes the Gunderson family is missing, we’ll be miles away.
Only a few people know of our plan. Many more do not, not even Stark. I have a few enemies and I do not know if any of them would use this opportunity to try to hurt me or my family, so for the moment, the location of our new home will remain a secret.
I fear for the future with a person like Rochelle VanAllen in charge. The people of Mount Weather will survive, they are a robust group of people, but the mission of rebuilding the United States of America will stall and likely fail.
There is one bit of happy news in all of this. There is a certain gnarly old cuss most people know as Fred McCoy. Or, if you were to ask Flash, the baddest man who ever walked the planet. One day, a young lady by the name of Rachel Benoit decided Fred was lonely and in need of female companionship, even though she is a couple decades younger than him. Anyway, I’ll make it brief; Fred is going to be a father. I happened to have spotted him smiling to himself the other day, until he caught me looking.
I’m going to miss the people here. Most of them are good people and good friends. But I know it would be futile to attempt to continue living here.
I am going to finish up this journal entry with a dream I had on the day after the attack on Fort Detrick. It was one of those lucid dreams. That is, I was aware I was dreaming. Patient Eve was in it, and we had a conversation. Because it was a lucid dream, I seemed to have some control over my actions. I asked her several questions. Her answers were odd, perplexing
.
She told me she was the queen and she was leading her people south. She said she remembered nothing of her past life, none of them did, and for the longest time they were confused, lost. She went on to say they now had a purpose and we were not to interfere.
I’m certain it was some type of communication with her and not simply a dream. It was perplexing though. What exactly were we not to interfere with? If she thought we were going to stand by and allow them to kill normal humans, she was dead wrong.
What was I going to do if I encountered her again? I guess it would depend on the situation. I’d protect my family to the death, but if she posed no threat, what would I do? I don’t know.
All I know at present is I must deal with the immediate threat, and that immediate threat is Rochelle VanAllen.
Chapter 58 – Epilogue
“What made you change your mind?” Little Joe asked.
Riley shrugged a shoulder but said nothing.
“It’s because of the new president, isn’t it?” he pressed. Riley did not respond.
Trader Joe glanced in the rearview mirror at his daughter. She’d been quiet all morning and currently she was staring out at the landscape. There wasn’t much to look at. Currently, they were driving past a subdivision for middle-income families. The houses were still standing, but Trader Joe knew firsthand they were in bad shape inside. He and his son had made forays into many of these subdivisions, scavenging, looting, doing what was necessary.
Their secret cache, located in a warehouse off 495, was steadily growing. That included two of those cases of explosives. With Riley back in the fold, it was only a matter of time now. All he needed was a couple of additional people to join them. He was hoping to relocate and open for business by spring.
A van approaching from the opposite direction caused Trader Joe to slow and stop.
“Who might this be?” he mused.
“That’s a Marcus Hook van,” Little Joe said.
Trader Joe squinted. His eyes weren’t as good as they used to be, and he dearly wished there was an optometrist survivor out there somewhere.
“Who is it?” he asked.
When the van was within a hundred feet, Little Joe recognized the occupants.
“That’s Senator VanAllen,” Little Joe said. “Correction, President VanAllen.”
Trader Joe scoffed. “Lord help Mount Weather, but at least she’s gone from Hook.”
“We should say hello,” Riley said. Both Joes turned in their seats.
“I thought you didn’t like her.” Little Joe said, but it fell on deaf ears. Riley had already opened the door and exited the truck.
“Alright, I guess we’re going to say hello,” Trader Joe said. “Let’s leave our guns in the truck. We don’t want to frighten our glorious new president.”
The two men stepped out and joined Riley, who stood in the roadway, smiling and waving. The van came to a stop several feet away and sat for a long moment. They could see the occupants talking to each other. Trader Joe did not know what his daughter had in mind but decided to go along. He smiled and waved and told his son to do the same.
The driver put the van in gear and inched forward before parking a few feet away. Trader Joe greeted them.
“Good morning, Madam President.”
Before Rochelle responded, the driver stuck a revolver out of the window and pointed it in their general direction.
“Are you armed?” she asked. Her tone was arrogant, threatening.
Trader Joe held his hands out. “Our weapons are in our truck. We only wish to greet our new president. If that’s a problem, we’ll be on our way.”
She regarded them like she was regarding common serfs. “Just a moment.”
President Rochelle VanAllen, newly elected president of the United States of America, exited the passenger seat and walked over. She looked them over with a broad, beaming grin like a queen gazing upon her subjects.
“Ah, it’s the Fitzpatrick family. What are you people doing out here?” she asked.
“We’re going back home to Marcus Hook,” Trader Joe said and peered over at the van. “It appears you ladies are moving to Mount Weather.”
“Yes, we are. That is where the president belongs, wouldn’t you agree?” Rochelle asked.
“I would indeed, ma’am,” Trader Joe answered with his best disarming smile.
Rochelle smiled and eyed him a moment before looking at the back of their truck. “You’re fully loaded,” she remarked.
“Supplies for Marcus Hook,” Trader Joe said.
“Under whose authority are you transporting those goods?” the driver demanded. She had exited the van and walked over to stand beside Rochelle. She’d kept the revolver by her side, holding it like it was an unfamiliar foreign object.
“Well, ma’am, I couldn’t say there was some kind of formal order given. When I told Zach we were heading home this morning, he got us loaded up with supplies for the people back at Hook.”
At the mention of Zach’s name, the driver scoffed. Rochelle did so as well and added a dramatic eye roll to enhance her contempt.
“I should’ve known Zach was behind this. You will take these supplies back to Mount Weather at once.”
Trader Joe frowned. “Ma’am, we’re not trying to pull any shenanigans. We’re simply transporting needed supplies to Marcus Hook. There’s nothing wrong with that.”
“President VanAllen will be the one who decides that,” the woman said.
Trader Joe looked confused now and glanced over at his children. He noticed Riley had imperceptibly moved closer and her hands were behind her back. He knew what it meant. He kept his facial expression neutral, but inside his emotions were churning.
Before he could say anything, Riley moved with the quickness of a cougar. Her father and brother had no idea why she was doing what she was doing, but it did not matter at that moment. Both men had handguns hidden in the back of their waistbands. The moment Riley began stabbing the armed woman, the men pulled their weapons and brought them into action. The other two occupants in the van were also women, but it did not deter the men. They shot through the windows, and then, while Trader Joe covered, Little Joe jumped into the van and executed the women with gunshots to the head.
President Rochelle VanAllen’s smug smile had instantly turned to fright when Riley stabbed her friend. But, instead of running, she stood frozen and watched in horror.
Riley walked up to her and stood, her blood-drenched knife gripped tightly in her hand. Little Joe exited the van and walked over to his father, who was standing off to the side watching his daughter.
Rochelle stared at Riley, aghast, her facial expression fixed in horror.
“Wh-wh-why?” she stammered.
“For Zach,” Riley uttered in almost a whisper before plunging the knife deep into Rochelle’s neck. She twisted the knife, ensuring the artery was destroyed, and pulled it out slowly. President Rochelle VanAllen fell to the ground, her face contorted in pain. Riley bent down and used Rochelle’s hair to wipe the blood off her knife before sheathing it.
“Zach ordered you to kill her?” Little Joe asked in surprise. Riley shook her head slightly.
“You did this for Zach? He didn’t tell you to?” Trader Joe asked somberly.
Riley glanced over at her father and gave a slow, childlike nod. He noticed his hands were shaking. The combination of adrenalin and the magnitude of what they had done was causing it. He willed himself to relax and began taking slow deep breaths.
He long suspected his daughter had a thing for Zach. That’s why she chose to live at Mount Weather instead of coming with them to Marcus Hook. He also suspected something had happened between the two of them and that was why she had now decided to relocate to Marcus Hook. After he had calmed his nerves, he walked over and put an arm around her.
“Sweetie, Zach is more like us than he realizes, and you two would’ve made a good fit, but he’ll never leave his family for you. He’s stuck with the life he
has. That’s just how it is.”
Riley stared up at him. “But if he knows what I did for him…”
Trader Joe cut her off by shaking his head. “No. Nobody can ever know about this.”
Little Joe scoffed. “It’s not the worst thing we’ve done.”
Trader Joe stared at him sharply but said nothing. After all, his son was right—they’d done worse. He began scanning the area. Little Joe read his mind.
“I haven’t seen or heard anyone, but that doesn’t mean someone nearby heard the gunfire and are going to come investigate.”
Trader Joe gave a curt nod. “Yeah. Let’s get this mess cleaned up.”
The End
Read on for a free sample of Plague War: Outbreak
Chapter One
Harry rested his chin on one hand while reading a set of medical notes. The text slipped out of focus before eyes blurred by fatigue. He rubbed at them before checking the time and yawning. 12:30am. He felt like shit. It was his last of seven night-shifts at Randwick Emergency Department, and he was struggling to stay awake. Insomnia had stolen daytime sleep, leaving a soul-destroying exhaustion that blunted his mind and sapped all enjoyment from life.
He stood from the stool and stretched, his lower back cracking. Harry desired wakefulness like a junky lusted for a hit. He pulled out a battered satchel from beneath the bench. Two large cans of energy drink, brimming with unhealthy levels of caffeine and guarana, lay within. He cracked the lid of one, sculling half of the lukewarm contents on the spot. A few drops spilled free onto his chest, soaking into the word “Doctor”, sewn into the threadbare scrubs top.
Only another eight or so hours to go, then he’d be leaving for his next contract ‒ a job in Milton on the state’s south coast. Harry hadn’t completed the exams to qualify as an Emergency Specialist, stalling any chance of career progression. Instead, he’d worked agency contracts between stints abroad with Medecins Sans Frontieres (MSF). With MSF, Harry had provided aid in the aftermath of natural disasters, and treated injured civilians during the Afghan war. Most recently, he’d spent three months in Liberia during the Ebola epidemic, working in clinics and occasionally with a “rapid response team”, tracking new cases to remote villages. The time there had stretched him physically and mentally. Delivering care in 40-degree temperatures, knowing that any mistake could mean exposure to a virus with an eighty percent mortality rate, was exhausting. He had returned to Australia completely drained, so much so, that he was glad of the enforced twenty-one-day quarantine at home alone.
Zombie Rules (Book 7): The Fifteens Page 34