by Rod Rayborne
The sounds of curses rang out suddenly from inside the warehouse, one of Kane's surviving men realizing that they had lost their prized prisoner. Amid swarthy profanities to his rear, half crouching in exhaustion, he turned and ran between the wrecks towards the darkened boulevard beyond.
Suddenly, before his startled eyes, a shimmering appeared not a hundred yards ahead. The man ran dizzily towards the vagrant glow, his lungs screaming, muscles trembling, expecting momentarily a slug from the rifle he could feel being expertly aimed at his back.
The feeble light flickered then and throwing caution to the wind, he jumped forward. He had nearly reached the spot where the shimmering had dipped to little more than a soft glow when he saw within it a figure silhouetted, reaching out towards him. Behind it, other figures stood, fading away into the gloom. Then the tat tat of the gun split the silent city like a hot blade tearing through a thick wedge of hard plastic.
He twisted to the left as the bullet ripped through his neck, pivoting him on his left foot in an impossibly slow arc, one leg twisting around the other in a slow pirouette. Then time stopped for him as he fell forward into the vortex and he knew no more.
Chapter Twenty Seven
R odriguez looked up at the sky questioningly. It had been more than three hours since the downpour but he thought it wise to keep a lookout anyway. Two of the men who'd taken the High Street route claimed that hot rain had burned their skin and had the red blotches to prove it. Still, no one else amongst the scouting parties had complained, one quietly stating that the blotches looked less like burns and more like bruises. The kind he'd heard might arise from activity some alternative couples engaged in, sometimes killing one or both of them in the process. That the scouting party in question consisted of PFC Rudy Meyers and PFC Skinny Benders, two men supposed by the rest of the company of being 'close', did nothing to belay that suspicion.
Walking at PFC Rodriguez's side was twenty one year old Corporal Luke Eastman, or Lea as his feisty buddies called him, about as man as a man could get. If his neck was any redder, they said, he could stand in for a traffic sign. Texas born and raised, he was Army to the core and he was proud. White walls and a crew cut completed his uniform. If there was another red neck in the battalion, none was more stiff-necked or self-satisfied than Corporal Eastman. Army was all he ever wanted to be, like his father. The bomb just made that all the more poignant. His father had died in Iraq, defending his country. He couldn't imagine a better way to go than to follow him one day.
Now he spit his remaining chew into the street and pulling the round Skoal container out of his back pocket, inserted another bite under his lower lip. He looked at Rodriguez with dismay.
He followed his gaze into the sky, then spat, wiping brown drool from his chin with the back of his uniformed sleeve. "Hot rain my ass," he grunted. "Those two had themselves a little queer rendezvous out there on Garrett. Them burns, rain had nothing to do with it." He spat again.
Rodriguez remained quiet. They continued walking down the street on their search for Bennett, same as the other three teams of two soldiers each, pointed in separate directions. Eastman was angry about drawing the detail when he had had nothing to do with Bennett, never stood watch with him, didn't even know his name until he was chosen to accompany Rodriguez on the search.
Penny Enny stuff, he thought to himself. We ought to be setting up recruiting parties in the surrounding neighborhoods, grow the ranks rather than waste time trying to find one AWOL, get this country back on its goddamned feet again!
Instead they were out clomping around looking for one guy in a nearly empty city. He wanted discipline, of course, but if Bennett didn't want to be found, eight guys looking for him in a city the size of LA sure weren't going to change that much. He was beginning to have serious doubts about Major General Owen.
Eastman glanced at Rodriguez with a frown. "What's your take on Bennett. What kind of man is he?"
Rodriguez shook his head. He thought about their conversation the night before. Bennett had been true to his word. He wondered how far he had gotten in the last six hours, gone by everyone else's recollection for at least three. Bennett had been talking to him about hoofing it to South America. Too hot in the north, he had said. Could be he was right. Maybe they had all reached the long end of a short stick. South made sense.
Bennett had no family in the New States of America now. Word was Richmond had been hit. And DC was not that far away. If Richmond had gotten theirs, no way was DC still standing. Even if his Father was still alive, Bennett knew he would never survive a cross-country trip with so many hot spots between LA and the east coast. He was already scared of the effects of the radiation. Not to mention other Army units he might cross along the way that might have gotten word of the AWOL. No, he was going south, Rodriguez was sure of it.
He could tell Owen what he knew but that would beg the question why he hadn't reported it sooner. He believed in the fight, supported Owen, or at least the cause Owen stood for. Still, Owen was looking more and more like a nut than a leader. He doubted Army command would back a man so reckless as he'd shown himself to be in the last two days. He wasn't about to step forward with what he knew of Bennett's plans. Who knew what he would do if he thought him complicit in his escape. Being shot was the least of his concerns.
Owen had had one of his soldiers stretched from a street lamp by his ankles for two hours simply for suggesting that he had erred in his decision to base at UCLA, a conspicuous target, he'd said. Of course, the murmur of agreement from many of the other soldiers and the fact that the man had chosen to discuss his doubts about Owen with some of them had done nothing to endear him to the Major General. Rodriguez could hear the man screaming the entire two hours and when he was dropped to the ground, he collapsed immediately, his ankles flayed to the bone.
"Weren't you and Bennett on duty the day he cut bait? He say anything to you?" Eastman looked at Rodriguez out of the corner of his eye.
"Hardly knew the man, same as you." Rodriguez scowled. He knew Eastman's objection to the search. It was best to go along with him.
"But you did duty with him! Lotsa times. We find him, that'll cut mustard with Owen. C'mon, you want to be doing this for the next week?"
"I told you, I hardly knew the man! We didn't talk. I didn't like him. What do you want me to say?"
Eastman looked around at the quiet apartments lining the broad avenue. Hundreds of dark windows looking back at them, singed curtains billowing through their empty frames.
"Could be he's right there, right there hiding, right there behind that window, watching us and laughing, the sumabitch."
He stopped and Rodriguez glanced back at him. Eastman looked at his watch, a wind-up Timex.
"Four-thirty. Let's head back. Bennett's someone else's worry now."
Rodriguez nodded. They turned, pulling their rifles over their shoulders. Then he looked back briefly and smiled.
Good luck to you Billy, he whispered to himself. Good luck.
Chapter Twenty Eight
A cting President Adam Lowry stood in the darkened Command Center of the North American Aerospace Defense Command (NORAD), buried deep in the heart of the Cheyenne Mountain complex in Colorado, staring at a huge wall screen. On it was a repeating diagram of the Earth, rotating, showing strike zones and the concentric bands of residual damage radiating away from them.
As the globe turned, it was clear that all of the strikes had occurred in the northern hemisphere of the planet. Other known hotspots like India, Pakistan and Israel remained mercifully unblemished. The early warning system also indicated that the source of those first strikes had been first Russia and China working together with the US as its target and then the overwhelming American response.
In the wide air conditioned room with him were several banks of computers manned by uniformed men and women each staring into their own rows of monitors. Phones were answered and hung up after some brief message was passed, interns walked between those sitti
ng to deliver, compare or jot down notes hastily scrawled on short forms and technicians worked in the background to keep the whole affair running.
It had been like this for two days now. Many of those present looked exhausted, both physically and emotionally wrung out, rubbing their blood-shot eyes and yawning. When it became obvious that they needed to rest, the Overwatch Commander would send in a replacement who would come and lay a hand on the shoulder of the individual in question. Chairs would be pushed back and refilled with fresh bodies while those swapped out staggered to their rooms to sleep.
Standing with Lowry was four star Lieutenant General William Brooks and Deputy Commander Joe 'Eagle Eye' McCann, both large men. Both good men as well, Brooks and McCann exchanged unhappy glances when Lowry looked away from them back towards the wall screen. Acting President Lowry had been behaving erratically since he had first arrived, in McCann's opinion, an assessment with which Brooks regretfully concurred. Today was even worse.
That Lowry had been drinking was obvious to all in the room, most especially to the General and Deputy Commander. Lowry came to the office of Vice President already carrying a reputation as a bit of a souse. Since Lowry had been in office however, he had managed or was impelled to control his drinking. A feat he undertook with some measure of success.
Now under stress, Lowry had fallen into his old ways once again. His quarters in Cheyenne complex had been cleared of alcohol but somehow he had managed to field a few bottles from the canteen. After that, a quick talk with the kitchen staff resulted in all alcohol being locked away, to be released only at mealtimes to personnel not known to have the taste.
How Lowry had found the bottle of Scotch he carried into the Command Center was anyone's guess. McCann had managed to pull Lowry aside when he stumbled into the room carrying the half empty fifth in one hand and a shot glass in the other. Brooks snatched the bottle and glass from Lowry's hands and twisted him towards the screen. He hoped no one other than the soldier posted at the door through which Lowry had come had witnessed his entrance.
Lowry looked away from the screen and leaned in a little too close to Brooks for comfort. He could smell the alcohol on Lowry's breath. Instinctively, he took a step back and Lowry almost fell over, grabbed at the last moment by an angry McCann. He quickly balanced him, standing near him to keep him upright with one large hand.
"Wha am I s'pose to be look, looking at?" Lowry slurred a little too loudly. "Who took my bottle? I'm the President of the New States! Leader of this facility, don't you forget it! Wha's it mean anyway? Norad. Nor-ad. No-Rad. Oh, I got it! Cause we're safe down here unner this mountain." He began to giggle.
McCann approached the acting President, barely able to control his rage. Digging his fingers into Lowry's left bicep, he said quietly, "Until his death can be confirmed, President McNair is still Commander-in-Chief. The signal we got simply indicated that he was in trouble. I'm sorry, but I'm going to have to insist that you retire to your quarters until you sober up. I won't have this display in the Command Center."
"Gee your hands off me, McCann!" Lowry turned to the soldier at the door and waved him over. "Place this man unner arrrrest, soldier. I ore you!" Looking back at McCann, Lowry continued, "He's dead. You can take that to the bank. I'm the President! I'm the free leader of the free world. How dare you put your hands on me!" Wrenching himself from McCann's grasp, he slipped, grabbing the corner of a tall, wood enclosed center console for support. There he hung while Brooks, McCann and the soldier stood back. The other personnel in the room began to turn from their stations to watch what was happening.
Lowry pulled himself up as best he could and snapped, "What're you doing, you idiots? You knocked me over! That's a, a, that's a Feral Offense. Geet over here and help me up! Can't you see I'm not feelin' well? You don't have one brain among you!"
McCann turned to the soldier at his side. "Get a man and escort the Vice President back to his quarters. Make sure he stays there."
The soldier waved at another man on the opposite side of the room and together they half dragged a shouting Lowry from the room. McCann turned back to the screen. A dozen faces below stared questioningly back at him.
"Let's get back to it." He told them gently. As one they turned back to their monitors, some exchanging nervous glances. Then McCann looked at Brooks thoughtfully.
"I just don't understand. The combined forces of both Russia and China and not a single hit on one of our military assets. Not one. How could that happen?"
"Those countries have always prioritized size over accuracy. We've known that for decades."
"10 kilotons?"
"You think they're planning an invasion? Can't do that if the country is decimated."
McCann stared hard at the wall screen and shrugged.
"Lowry's a problem," Brooks said at last. Then he looked at the bottle he had taken from him and upended it. Wiping his mouth on his sleeve, he threw the empty bottle and shot glass into a trash receptacle.
"God help us if we don't find McNair. God help us all."
Chapter Twenty Nine
T he girl sat on Hershel's shoulders, her arms wrapped around his forehead for support. She smelled unpleasant but not as bad as the bodies that nearly filled the gutters, especially after the torrent from the sky had washed many of them into clumps in the street and remoistened wounds that had dried and crusted over. The first few drops gave Hershel a surprise warning and they waited out the storm in an empty liquor store several miles away from the Royal Lux.
Angel's Liquors was in sad condition. For one, the roof was stove in. The only way to get through it was along the inside walls. If he had wanted, he could have climbed up the fallen roof to the top of the building adjoining a dry cleaners for a better view. Shelter, food and drink for himself and the girl, however, were all Hershel was interested in. Setting Rabbit on the front counter, he fixed her up with a bottle of water and a package of corn chips. He needed to get her some real food soon, he knew, but for now, the chips were better than nothing. She sat where he had placed her and happily munched away. He was glad that she didn't complain.
In fact, she didn't say much of anything at all. Didn't even nod when he asked her questions. She just looked around wide eyed and shoveled in the chips. When she was near the end of the bag, he told her to stay there while he went in search of a bathroom she could use. When she began to whimper, he picked her up, making his way towards the rear of the small store. In the back, he found a door labeled Banos and setting the girl down near him, opened the door. The room was in the condition he supposed a liquor store bathroom would be in under normal circumstances, not to mention a bouncy ride through an apocalyptic explosion, so he was happy that at least the toilet was still in one piece. He propped the door open and walked in to give the lid a cursory cleaning with paper towels then waved her in.
He waited outside, looking through packaged foods scattered around the floor. He inspected a box of six tiny donuts and popped one in his mouth. He'd forgotten the waxy taste the chocolate ones always had but gulped them down anyway. He saved two for the girl.
When she had finished in the bathroom, he heard her try to flush the toilet. Turning, he put out an arm for her.
"Don't worry about that. I s'pect it ain't working. Come on out of there. I've got something for you." He held out his hand and she ran out to grab the donuts. He walked along then with the girl in tow, picking up another packaged pastry. He opened it and handed it to her and took another for himself. They browsed the shelves as they ate until he spotted a small picture on the wall behind the cash register. A Hispanic man standing in a field somewhere. In his arms, a girl about the age of the one now standing next to Hershel.
She had her arms tightly around the neck of the smiling man, laughing. He stared at the picture a moment longer, wondering what had become of them, then looked down at the disheveled girl standing next to him and sighed. He turned and walked to the front of the store.
"Looks like the rain has l
et up. Now that you got something in your belly, this might a good time to get you something clean to wear. It's hot now but that rain makes me think it might not stay that way. Let's go and see what we can find for you."
The girl looked up at Hershel and raised her arms. He lifted her to his shoulders once again and together they turned to walk out of the store. He stopped momentarily to pick out two more bags of chips. He handed one of the chip bags to her and opened the other for himself. Then, happily munching once again, they left the store.
As he walked, his mind ruminated on his new situation. He had no choice but to take the girl with him, of course. It never occurred to him to do otherwise. But having another person to take care of beside himself meant that his plans for the future, at least temporarily, needed to change. Drastically so. For now, the girl was his responsibility, something he took seriously. But never having been a parent himself, the weight of his new duty shook him more than he wanted to admit. He hoped he would find someone along the way to unload her on, a mother who wouldn't mind another child to add to her collection or a community of survivors somewhere. It was a tall ask, he knew, but he just couldn't see how he had any other choice. He'd have to keep his eyes open.
As he walked, he could hear a steady crunch above him. The girl had set the bag of chips on the top of his head and he could feel a spray of crumbs gathering in his hair. Reaching up, he vigorously brushed them out. At this, the girl let out a small giggle, making Hershel laugh himself. A great bull laugh that caused the girl to jump.
"Hey you, what's you got goin' on up there, eh?" Hershel jibed, hoping to make her laugh again. It's good for her, he thought. She did. He laughed along with her. Then he reached up and gently lifted her from his shoulders, setting her on the sidewalk before him. He squatted there, his heavy voice taking on a serious tone.