by N. C. Reed
Captain Thatcher hadn't hurt her argument any when she had revealed that the Stryker was jammed full of medical supplies, either. While Shane's group had medical equipment, they had no real medical personnel and their supplies reflected that. There was no reason to carry equipment and supplies that you had no knowledge of, at least not when every pound counted. Captain Thatcher was far better than merely a medic, however, and her husband would use his own truck to pull it while the Captain would drive a motor home, freeing up someone who could handle one of the semi-trucks carrying ordnance. The game of musical steering wheels had aggravated Shane to no end at first, but he had to admit that the Captain's skills and gear were worth the trouble.
The next vehicle was the now empty tanker, another military model. While it was tempting to leave it now that it was empty, Shane knew that the odds of finding another working truck and serviceable tanker module were practically null, while there was always the slightest possibility of finding usable fuel, slim though the odds might be. Thus the tanker would stay with them.
Lastly came a nearly new Bluebird school bus conversion. Repainted olive drab green, only the very front row of seats remained in the vehicle. Two sets of bunk beds had been secured to the floor and walls in the rear of the bus, while the remainder of the former seating area consisted of fenced walls holding various boxes and tubs of goods stacked all the way to the roof and strapped down for transit.
“All right, Sienna,” Shane said to his driver, former Lieutenant Sienna Newell, an Army Military Police officer and the person responsible for their having the two Guardians. “Let’s bring up the rear. I’ll keep an eye behind while you watch the front.”
“Got it,” the confident young woman replied and the Guardian pulled onto the highway in a loose trail behind the bus.
If we can catch a break or two, I just might get to sleep tonight, Shane thought to himself as he sank into the hatch to hide the large binoculars he used to search for their shadow.
***
“This looks promising,” Kevin Bodee said as he slowed the Guardian MRAP. They were approaching a tangled mess of vehicles that left one small, clear lane through. Xavier nodded to himself, also liking the layout.
“I think you're right, Kevin,” he said softly. “Though I seriously doubt there is any fuel left in these vehicles to work out the FAE part of the ambush now that I've thought about it.”
“We've got five gallons in a jerry can,” Kevin reminded him. “We can pour that in between that truck and that old Pontiac over there,” he was out of the hatch now and pointing.
“Yes, that might be just fine,” Xavier agreed. “Very well. I’ll call Rattler and let him know where we are. Let’s get our gear and start working. There's a small rise about a half-mile north of here. We should be able to sit there and detonate by radio, yes?”
“Sounds like a fine idea,” Bodee was grinning. “One flea trap, coming up.”
***
“Okay people, keep it slow and steady,” Shane reminded the convoy as they approached the narrow gap through the traffic jam. He could see Kevin using the Guardian to muscle a large utility truck into an open spot in the median, making the gap the convoy was using the only way through. He nodded in appreciation of the location his men had chosen and the work they had done.
The convoy eased through the gap, Xavier guiding them through with hand signals. Shane could see the gas can sitting nearby and knew what Xavier and Kevin had planned. He grinned, shaking his head slowly at their ingenuity. He turned to look behind them, the oversize glasses coming in handy. The flat terrain and the power of the glasses let him see something the size of a moving car at just over a mile away. He ordered Sienna to slow as they reached Xavier's position.
“About a mile behind and keeping pace,” Shane called down. Xavier smiled and nodded, waving as the last vehicle moved on. He waited until Kevin had moved the Guardian away before he began splashing gasoline down the narrow gap left between wrecked and abandoned vehicles. He almost tossed the can away before remembering that there was no more Giant PX to get something like it replaced. Instead he capped the empty can and carried it at a slow run to the waiting MRAP. As soon as he was aboard, Kevin hit the gas and they were moving.
Just far enough away to watch.
***
Emily Shirley wasn't quite sulking as she sat in the passenger seat of her 'command vehicle', an ancient Dodge truck that was still running after the CME. Her driver, Eugene, was an annoying, acne covered jerk who spent as much time as he possibly could ogling her while talking a line of shit a mile wide.
The equally old van following them had the rest of her 'squad', three more men and another woman. Two of the other men were almost as worthless as Eugene but the other man and the woman, a friend of Emily's from before the event, were competent and trustworthy.
All six of them belonged to a MAG, or Mutual Assistance Group, that had formed long before the CME had struck the planet, their goal to be prepared for just such a time or emergency as this one. But their plans had not been complete enough. While their planners had foreseen and even planned for a solar flare or CME, they had not planned effectively for such a powerful event as had hit the Earth this time. It seemed as though the world had actually stopped spinning since literally everything had stopped.
For a short time it hadn't mattered. The MAG was large, but also well provisioned and situated. A large compound that had once been a working farm, complete with underground shelters and massive supply rooms full of long term foods, canned goods, ammunition and other supplies that the Powers That Be had determined they would need in an End of the World scenario.
But they had been wrong about how much would be needed for such a large group. They had also been mistaken in believing that all of their electronics were thoroughly protected from a solar event, resulting in the loss of much of their radio equipment and a great many of their conveniences that were supposed to make post-disaster living more comfortable. And they had sorely miscalculated how badly people would react, would behave, when their safety net came unraveled.
The North Alabama People's Militia MAG had started modestly with a few people combining their resources to buy the farm and refinish it for survival in any conditions that would allow survival. Their number had slowly increased as trustworthy individuals had been encountered and a second generation of the founders had been added. In recent years awareness of the 'prepper' lifestyle had led to an uptick in people who wanted to be among those who were 'ready', which had seen the MAG numbers swell considerably, with membership sitting at just over three hundred at the time of the CME.
In the early days, once they were established and everyone that was coming had made it to the farm, the MAG had relaxed, satisfied they were safe until things returned to normal. A few of the more seriously involved individuals had warned the that 'normal' wasn't going to return and they should be prepared for a new normal condition, including preparing for a lifestyle more suited to late nineteenth century living. Equipment that would keep them modern for the moment would eventually wear out and there would be no replacements.
Their warnings fell on deaf ears as the MAG leadership and members continued to burn through supplies and misuse equipment, drawing more from those same large storehouses whenever they wanted.
Until those storehouses began to look . . . barren.
The leadership had cracked down hard on misuse and overuse of supplies but it was far too late. Stores meant to last for two years were blown through in just five months due to waste and continued ignoring of the plans made for rationing and continued operations. The end result was that their 'lavish' survival lifestyle had crashed in February, leaving the entire group on short rations and with short tempers. Tempers that had often flared into arguments, dissension and even outright violence among members as those who had carefully hoarded their own meager supplies were accused of theft, violating the rules and so forth.
Left short on everything except guns and am
munition, the MAG had turned to raiding outside the farm for the food they needed to sustain their numbers and support they lifestyle. From the very beginning, the one thing that had gone to plan was their training. 'Whipping them into shape', as her uncle had put it. Right from the start members had been separated into groups called 'platoons', and a rigorous training schedule had been adopted. No one was exempt. As the members of the group were trained up, ostensibly to better defend themselves, they were reminded that the strong survive, while the weak fall into the dust. It became a mantra for them as they worked. The group was strong and they were prepared. They were hardened against failure. They would survive.
If that meant they had to take from the weak, well . . . the strong survive and the weak fall into the dust. It wasn't their fault if their victims were too weak to survive. They would take what they needed, their right to do so assured and guaranteed by their own strength.
Now, 'squads' such as Emily Shirley's were out on patrol and searching for targets, preferably easy ones. Targets just like the small convoy they had been following for the last two days.
“They're heading somewhere,” her 'commander' had said when she reported in. “Trail them and find out where. Once you do, we’ll hit their base and take it all.”
And so she had spent the last two days putting up with Eugene's not so subtle hints that he really liked her body and thought she was really hot and considering their families' prominence in the group they should get together and blah, blah, blah.
Emily hadn't thought too far into the future when her uncle had approached her about the MAG. She was into the outdoors already and once he explained that the MAG was basically a really complex outdoor activity and hunting club, she was sold. When the shit had hit the fan, her own abilities and her family connections had placed her in the slot of 'squad leader', a position of minor authority but with perks of its own, including a small private cabin. She had reaped the benefits of that position gladly until it came time to travel outside the compound. She had balked at first but her uncle had reminded her that she had, indeed, enjoyed her position up to now and it was time to give back.
They had hit convoys such as the one they now followed before, though their current target was more heavily armed than any of the others, and far less sloppy in their operations. She had found that killing other survivors didn't bother her like she had thought, it being far easier to take from others than to do without herself. She had discovered a cruel streak in herself to go along with an innate selfishness that had guided most of her decisions in life, and she saw no need to ignore that or try to change it. It was serving her well so far.
This convoy was a fat target in and of itself, and it might lead them to an even bigger target which in turn would mean greater rewards for her. As the squad leader that had found the target she would get a good share of the bounty and possibly, since she had other victories behind her as well, a promotion. As the promotion would get her away from Eugene, it would be worth almost as much as the goods she would be allowed to pick as her share.
“Gap up ahead,” Eugene noted, pausing in his low, off-key singing of an old song called 'Eugene, You Genius', apparently convinced the song was written about him.
“I see it,” she nodded. “We gained on them a little. Better back off a bit until we get some more distance. They had to slow down to get through here with those rigs.”
“Wonder what we’ll find on those trucks,” Eugene said as he slowed. “Outfit like that should have some neat stuff. Maybe find me a woman or two,” he leered at her. “Don't be jealous though, Shirl. They may get my body but you know my heart is yours.”
“Oh, thank you,” Emily's sarcasm was thick. “What I always wanted.”
“I knew you wanted me,” he shot back as he began to thread his way through the gap. “Does this look wet to you?”
She ignored him at first, convinced he was making some kind of dirty remark which he was famous for. Her uncle had made it clear that killing Eugene was forbidden as his father was one of the founding members and a very powerful man among their group, so she had to tolerate the little bastard no matter how badly she might want-
“Do you smell that?” Eugene asked, breaking her thought process. “That smells like-”
“Stop!” Emily shouted just before the world caught fire.
***
“About now, I should think,” Xavier said calmly, watching the approaching vehicles through his own powerful binoculars. Kevin replied by hitting the switch on the electronic detonator in his hand.
Using the gasoline had enhanced the effectiveness of the two Claymores and four additional pounds of Semtex placed beneath fenders and fuel tanks on a half dozen vehicles in the tangled automotive mess. The explosives were probably enough alone to do the job but the vapors they ignited and the fire they started finished the job. As Xavier watched the ancient pickup that had been in the front of their pursuers rolled slowly out of the small inferno, flames licking at it on all sides.
The passenger door opened suddenly and a lone figure emerged, walking perhaps five steps before collapsing in the road, rather obviously fighting for breath.
“Well now,” Xavier's voice carried a tone that Kevin Bodee knew far too well. “What an interesting if somewhat unexpected development.”
“X,” Kevin said, a note of warning creeping into his tone. Not threatening, but instead suspicious.
“I was just mentioning how fortuitous this is,” Xavier replied calmly.
“The more fancy you talk, the more worried I get,” Kevin said. “We're supposed to boogie now that the deed is done.”
“Yes, I know,” Xavier answered, ignoring Kevin's dig about his speech pattern. “However, this might be a golden opportunity to gather intelligence,” the tiniest bit of excitement crept into his voice. “We should not let it go to waste.”
Below him, Kevin Bodee sighed. He had known as soon as the guy had exited the truck that this was going to happen.
“We will watch for a bit and make sure nothing else escapes,” Xavier decreed. “Then, assuming that gentleman is still alive, we shall move in, collect him and be on our way.”
***
Emily Shirley couldn't hear anything except the ringing in her ears. He vision was blurry, though from smoke or the impact of the explosion she didn't know. Gasping for air, she finally managed to sit up somewhat and looked back at her vehicle.
The Dodge was completely immolated with fire and she could see what was left of Eugene slowly melting away in the heat. Forcing down a gag she turned to look for the van, hoping that it had escaped the blast.
It hadn't. Flames were showing from every window and the windshield had been blown out. Through the flames she could see two bodies in the front seats. While she couldn't see the back, all the doors were still closed, probably welded shut by now. In a flash of fire she had lost her entire group and their vehicles. Everyone, some of them friends and all of them her responsibility, gone.
“What the hell?” she shook her head slowly, hoping to somehow mitigate the ringing in her ears. The ringing was probably why she didn't hear anyone coming up behind her. All she felt was a hard blow to the back of the head and then the world went away.
***
“Huh. A woman. How about that?” Kevin said as they secured her in the rear of the MRAP, hogtied with flex cuffs.
“Indeed,” Xavier nodded. “And I do believe she was the leader of this little cult as well,” he added, looking at the documents he had taken from her pockets. “Radio frequencies and codes,” he waved a small notebook. “Map of checkpoints as well, also with code names,” he indicated the map. “We may have caught a very lucky break here, Kevin. She can tell us a great deal about who she works for.”
“Assuming she talks,” Kevin agreed.
“Oh, she will,” Xavier smiled coldly.
“Looks like the rest are toast,” Kevin said. “Literally in this case,” he added with a dry chuckle. “I'd say the job is done.”
“One might even say 'well done',” Xavier nodded, getting another laugh from Kevin. “Time to go. Let us catch up to the group so we can move on. I would enjoy making it to Bossman's farm before dark. Almost as much as I would like to sleep somewhere besides in here, even if just one night at least.”
Two minutes later they were headed north, their prisoner secured in the passenger compartment. Behind them, the fire burned on.
CHAPTER ONE
Clay tossed and turned through the night, his mind refusing to relinquish the thoughts he'd had when he went to bed. Finally, jarred awake by nothing for the third time in an hour he got to his feet, turning to find Lainie wide awake, head propped on her hand as she watched him.
“Wanna tell me what's bothering you?” she asked him.
“I . . . I really don't know, other than a rude wake-up call about the state of the world outside our little slice of heaven,” Clay admitted.
“Meaning what, exactly?” she asked him, sitting up in the bed.
“Friends of ours are on their way in from even further away than Jose and the others traveled,” he told her. “They were the other members of the team who had decided to ride things out where they felt more at home. Only now . . . now they're less than a day away and heading here as fast as they can travel. All Shane would say over the radio was that things had, and I quote, 'gone to hell in a handbag', and that forced them to head our way. We were their back up plan. Or at least the only one that remained viable, anyway. I don't know any more than that for now. But it made me realize how little we know about what's happening around the rest of the area, let alone the rest of the country. Do you realize we haven't heard one iota of news from even places like Lewiston, which is just over the tree line practically?”