“And she shot you.” Yi’s eyes grew wide with understanding. “Are you sure it was her on the video?”
“Video was blurry,” Ivan shrugged. “So, no. Not one hundred percent sure. Maybe sixty. And she was not driving the maroon Subaru.”
“It does not change our goal,” Yi said with newfound admiration for the mysterious woman, “but it is interesting, if true. She must be exceptional to have survived us twice.”
“If that is same woman,” Ivan agreed with a nod, “she is fighter.”
“Then let us make sure she does not survive us a third time.”
“Agreed.”
One of the SUVs came down around a curve in the hill and stopped next to Yi’s vehicle. The doors popped open, and Katrya slid out of the passenger side and came to stand on Yi’s left.
“Any luck?” Yi asked, even though he knew the answer. Katrya had already radioed down to say they’d found a family staying in one of the tourist cabins at the top of the hill.
Yi had no doubt about the fate of that family, which would explain why it had taken Katrya and her team a few extra minutes to get back down to them. He glanced sideways at her to confirm speckles of fresh blood across the backs of her hands and up the arms of her combat suit.
“Your proclivities cause us too many delays,” Yi said, not caring that Ivan still stood next to them. He wanted the Russian to hear Katrya’s excuse. “There are hundreds of the same cabins peppering the mountains and hillsides. It will take us a year to find the Box if we stop and kill everyone we see.”
“Getting weak?” Katrya sneered. “You no longer have a taste for killing our enemy?”
“After we find the Box,” Yi said with a rise in his tone, “you can play your little torture games. Until then, let us try to stay on point.”
Katrya turned to Yi, her ice-cold eyes seeming ten times colder than the chilly air around him. Her eyes might have been hewn from the polar ice caps themselves for all he knew. “How I deal with the enemy is not your concern.”
“Apologies,” Yi replied in a more respectful tone. “I grow impatient to retrieve our property.”
“We are all growing impatient.” Katrya glanced at the stoic Russian before her eyes turned to the valley below.
“How long before…” Yi let his words trail off. He had tried his hardest not to think of the tiny explosives embedded behind his ear, but it was a constant and nagging sensation. The idea that someone else had control over his life and could end it with the press of a button was unsettling. He was not so much afraid to lose his life as he was to fail the New Block. “We should split up and cover more ground.”
“I do not disagree with that,” Katrya said with a shrug. “Perhaps we can make it a competition. My team against yours.”
“What is the prize?”
“Does there need to be a prize?” Katrya asked. “Let us simply take satisfaction in playing.”
Yi had long ago grown tired of Katrya’s games, and his once-high opinion of her had diminished greatly. However, he could see the benefit of a competition. It would return the teams’ confidence and get them to focus. His team was smaller than Katrya’s, but he was certain they were far more skilled. Already, his blood pumped hot through his veins as he imagined being the first to find the Box and show all of the soldiers under their collective command who was the better leader.
That was all provided the little bombs in their heads did not detonate before they determined a winner.
“I agree to the challenge.” Yi looked askance at Katrya, whose smug grin stretched across her face. “First to find the Box wins. And you can take your useless little tracker with you.”
“Very good, comrade,” Katrya nodded. “Let us begin.”
Chapter 7
Jake, Somewhere in New Jersey | 2:43 p.m., Saturday
The sky was a lighter shade of gray than Jake was used to. He would almost call it bright compared to the darker skies of his more recent past. The clouds barely moved, stretched out like gray taffy as Jake rolled up State Route 46 on his way to another expressway junction.
This time, it was the junction of I-80 and I-280 in Pine Brook, New Jersey. From there, I-280 would take him southeast to I-78, where he’d have another straight shot home. And Jake was anxious to get back on the expressway after passing through several dangerous towns.
Jake had been scanning the radio channels for any signs of the military guys, when a screech tore from the speaker on channel seven just outside of Paramus. Jake listened as what sounded like a deadly assault took place, the victim holding down the talk button, crying for help until someone beat them into silence. It had shaken Jake to his core, especially since he could do nothing about it.
There’d been at least two other drivers who pulled up behind Jake and stalked him down State Route 46, and each time Jake held up his Ruger and waved it until they went away.
Just outside of Hackensack, Jake was forced to drive through gangs of people gathered on the street corners. They’d yelled and screamed for him to stop as he tried to pass them. He’d hit the gas and whipped the wheel to the left to avoid running them over but then almost careened into a light pole.
By the time State Route 46 had hooked back up toward Pine Brook, Jake was a high-strung bundle of nerves. Yet, he was angry, too. Angry for what had happened to his country in such a short amount of time. People turned into animals without law and order to keep them in check. The complete abandonment of principles in the face of chaos.
It occurred to Jake that the crawlers were likely winning. Even if the country recovered from the storm damage, the collapse of their financial institutions, and whatever was happening down at the border, who would save them from themselves?
Anger replaced his fear and anxiety, and Jake gripped the wheel with a new sense of wild determination. He wasn’t sure what he was going to do about any of it, and he could only control his own thoughts and actions. He would not be afraid. He would not defeat himself.
Jake was thus lost in his thoughts as he approached the expressway junction. A long bend brought the Explorer out from behind a copse of swaying trees into the middle of a commercial area. He passed a junkyard on his right and a shipping center on his left. The next thing Jake knew, there were big restaurant signs rising all around him, and several dozen cars buzzing in and out of the parking lots, some of them turning on to State Route 46 to drive right next to him.
There were more cars running at the same time than Jake had seen in weeks, and he had to shake his head to make sure it was real. People were walking from restaurants to their cars at a leisurely pace, while others stood around and talked. Jake was so shocked at the sight that he didn’t notice several cars swinging in behind him from another road that merged with State Route 46.
Jake’s eyes narrowed as he stared at the vehicles in his rearview mirror. They weren’t driving aggressively, nor did they appear to be in any sort of formation across the road. Peering ahead past the traffic where the median of grass dividing the highway gave way to turn lanes, Jake spotted several semi-trailer trucks parked on the sides of the road along with a dozen or more motorcycles packed in a cluster.
Groups of two or three thickly bearded men with big bellies and rifles slung over their shoulders stood at intervals in the road. They stopped cars as they pulled up and leaned into the windows, saying a few words to the drivers before letting them pass through. One car in the left-hand lane must not have passed the test, because the men directed it to pull across in front of the rest of the traffic into a car wash parking lot.
It was a checkpoint.
Before Jake could think to pull off on to a side road, he was surrounded on all sides by vehicles also waiting to get through the checkpoint. Even if he could turn in somewhere, he’d just end up in a restaurant parking lot with no way to get back on State Route 46 and go the opposite direction.
And what was back there? More crazy people and danger.
Resigned to taking his chances with the chec
kpoint, Jake sighed and reached back to get some snacks and water from his backpack. He munched on a fig bar and some salted cashews, then he swigged a bottle of water to wash it all down.
By then, he was approaching the head of the line and noticed that the big, bearded men were wearing thick leather jackets, some of them with the sleeves cut off to bare their meaty arms to the elements. On the back of their jackets, they displayed a variety of patches, none of which Jake recognized. Their beards weren’t just regular beards. They were long and shaggy, and many were braided, and swung back and forth with the blistering wind. Wisps of long hair blew around their heads as they tirelessly interrogated anyone who wanted to enter Pine Brook.
“Bikers,” Jake murmured to himself with a half grin. He couldn’t be sure what to expect when he reached the head of the line, but his few personal experiences with bikers had been good. In fact, a few guys from his old neighborhood had joined biker clubs years ago, leaving town as fresh-faced young men and returning years later with the grizzled look of someone fresh off the set of Sons of Anarchy. Whenever there was a charity or bike ride to support someone in need, the bikers had always been there.
Two bikers directed Jake to pull up, and he did so slowly until one man held up a wide palm for Jake to stop.
Rolling down his window, Jake waved and attempted a smile that felt fake and painted on. “Hey, buddy. How’s it going?”
The burly man who approached Jake regarded him with piercing gray eyes above cheeks weathered from years of riding. “Not half bad,” the man said, flatly. “What’s your name, man?”
“Jake. Jake Walton.”
“Staying or passing through?”
“Just passing through. Trying to get home to my wife and kids in Tennessee.”
“That’s a long way off.” The man placed his big hand on the door frame. It was the kind of hand that looked too big to be real. The kind of hand that looked like it could strangle a tiger.
“I was stuck in Boston for a long time,” Jake admitted. “Took me a little while to—”
“You serious, man?” The biker looked taken back, and he motioned to one of his big friends. “Hey, Artie. This guy was in Boston.”
The biker named Artie sauntered over and looked down at Jake around his friend’s shoulder. “You’re putting me on.”
A sad, wincing smile crossed Jake’s features, and he sighed. “That’s right. I was downtown at the Westin when the first tornado hit. Took out half of the hotel. I could almost reach out and touch it.”
“That’s crazy, man,” Artie said, shaking his head. “A lot of people died, right?”
Jake nodded, because he could already feel his chest tightening up as he remembered that nightmarish freight train sound as it ripped through wood and steel beams in a matter of seconds, sucking people into its vortex like some hungry demon.
Artie must have seen the crestfallen expression on Jake’s face, because he gestured apologetically. “Hey, I’m sorry, man. That must have been hell for you.”
“No problem, really.” Jake tried to straighten his features and smile again, although he was pretty sure he looked like someone on the edge of breaking down. “Seems like it happened years ago, but it was just a few weeks.”
The first biker regarded Jake with a look of newfound sympathy. “Hey, buddy. You look tired. How about we let you through, and you can stop off at any of the hotels in town. If you’ve got a valid driver’s license, they’ll take deferred payments. Some kind of program backed by the government.”
“That sounds like a paradise compared to what’s out there,” Jake replied, surprised at the offer of hospitality. I came down US 46, and there are parts of it you don’t want to travel through alone.”
“Some parts were like that before the storms,” the first biker mused.
“I wouldn’t really know.” Jake shrugged. “Anyway, I appreciate the offer, but I just want to be on my way. I’ve got enough food to get home…that’s where I really want to be. I’m sure you understand.”
“Yeah, I do.” The biker gave Jake such a look of understanding that Jake’s eyes nearly welled up with tears.
“Did you boys see a military convoy come through here in the past day?” Jake asked.
“They came through a few hours ago.” The first biker waved his hand. “Heading south on I-80 like bats out of hell. Friends of yours?”
“You could say that.”
“Thinking of following them?”
Jake shook his head. “I was going to take I-280 southeast until I—”
“Don’t go that way.” The biker shook his head. “We’ve been getting a lot of refugees in from the city. You don’t want to go anywhere near Newark or Jersey City. Best bet is to follow the convoy. Take I-80 up to Parsippany-Troy and then get back on I-287 south to I-87. I guarantee that’s the way your convoy went.”
“I’m worried about crawlers along the expressway,” Jake responded doubtfully. “Seems like an obvious route for another ambush. Already lived through one. That’s how I got separated from my friends.”
“Pick your poison,” the first biker said with a shrug. “Small-town nightmares or crawlers on the expressway. Either way, I-287 gets you home quicker. Just stay away from Philadelphia, Baltimore, and Washington. Too many crawlers and crawler sympathizers. But they’ll be singing a different tune once our military boys come home. Until then, stay clear.”
“They calling back the troops?”
“That’s what we’re hearing. A hundred and fifty thousand angry US troops coming home to kick the crap out of some crawlers.”
Jake smiled, happy to hear it.
“You’re free to pass through,” the first biker said, tapping the roof of the Explorer before he backed away. “Good luck getting home.”
“Thanks, guys.” Jake pulled through the checkpoint and jumped on the expressway.
Chapter 8
Sara, Gatlinburg, Tennessee | 8:17 p.m., Saturday
After Dion, Natasha, Todd, and Barb had gotten settled in down at the Squirrel’s Nest, Sara called them all back up for a dinner and meeting about the next steps they’d be taking to prepare the cabins for any future threat. Frank had volunteered to keep watch on the gate, and Sara wondered if it was because of the friction between the two families.
“Are you and Frank getting along okay?” Sara asked Todd as she stirred the big pot of pasta she was boiling. “You seemed fine working on the gate today.”
“Yes, actually,” Todd replied from his seat at the table next to Barbara. “He apologized to me the other day. It came hard for him, but I apologized back for hitting him.”
“Good kid,” Sara said, reaching for a second spoon to stir the spaghetti sauce warming in a second pan. Natasha reached over Sara’s shoulder and sprinkled in some oregano and a couple shakes of garlic powder. The herbs hit the steamy sauce and rose to Sara’s nose. “Oh, boy. That smells great.”
“Frank has really come around,” Natasha said, turning toward the table as she leaned against the counter next to Sara. “I mean, he’s still pretty grumpy, but boy does he get up and around now. And those bottles of wine Karen stole from you originally? There’s one left, totally unopened.”
Sara tilted her head with a thoughtful harrumph and went back to stirring dinner.
“It’s the girl, Kayla.” Barbara pushed her glass of water around on the table absently. “He acts different around her. He and Karen both do.”
“What kind of different?” Sara asked with a concerned note in her voice. “Not like weird different, right?”
“No, not like that.” Barbara raised her dark eyes in alarm. “Just the opposite. They’re gentle with the girl, doting over her like…well, like she was their own daughter.”
Sara lifted her head, a bit perplexed at Frank and Karen’s sudden likability. “It sounds like you are saying those two have become extremely trustworthy.”
“I don’t think they were ever untrustworthy, Sara,” Dion said from where he sat next to
Barbara, watching the iPad with the cabin’s camera feed. “Just a little bull-headed is all. Frank’s fine.”
Sara shrugged. “If you say so; I trust your opinion. Plus, you get to live right next door to them now.”
Natasha joined the others at the table, and they pulled up an extra chair for Sara.
Sara took the garlic bread out of the oven and served up five adult-sized plates for the grown-ups and a half-sized plate for Zoe. The girl took her dinner from Sara with a “thanks” and marched back to the couch where she had a TV tray set up and a movie ready to go. The dogs sat on either side of the tray, waiting expectantly for a scrap of food to fall as Zoe got herself situated and hit the play button on her movie.
“Watch the dogs, Zo,” Sara said. “You know how they like to beg. They’ll take it right off your plate if they get a chance.”
Zoe gave her mother a thumbs-up and bit into her garlic bread with a crunch.
The cabin was filled with the heavy scents of tomato sauce and garlic, and the beating wind took a back seat to their chatter as they ate and talked.
“How’s Kayla, anyway?” Sara asked.
“She’s not in the best of spirits,” Natasha replied, “but I’m sure you can understand why. I think she’s spoken a total of twelve words to me since we brought her in. Well, aside from her cursing at me when I set her leg.”
Sara’s stomach rolled, almost ruining her dinner with the thought of what it must have felt like having her leg stretched in order to snap the bone back into place. “I thought you said she would be pumped full of pain killers.”
“She was, but setting a leg hurts more than just about anything.” Natasha shook her head. “She felt a little something.”
“Poor girl.”
They ate in silence for several long moments before Todd slid a piece of paper over to Sara.
“What’s this?” Sara rested her fingers on the paper and slid it closer.
Weathering The Storm (Book 5): Downburst Page 5