by Dave Lund
Fallbrook was now the only obstacle between his team and Camp Pendleton North. He would be swift, silent, and deadly, not fast and careless like the way he’d approached Twentynine Palms. It had been over two months since the attack, and they had time; he had to be patient and safe or he would lose more teammates.
The new FOB overlooked the northern outskirts of Fallbrook to the south. Although they were too far away to see what condition the town was in, they were close enough to operate safely. Absentmindedly, Aymond wound the watch hanging from a MOLLE strap on his carrier and looked at the sun beginning its downward track towards the sea.
“Ski!”
Chuck Ski walked over to Aymond. “Yeah, Chief?”
“Put together a four-man patrol, prep for two nights, and roll out in ninety mikes. I want you to approach Fallbrook and make entry if safe, but stay low, stay silent, recon patrol.”
“Anything particular you’re looking for?”
“Any sign of survivors, any sign of large masses of Zeds; I don’t want to be surprised like at The Palms.”
“Got it, Chief.”
Ski walked off to gather his team and provisions and set out. Aymond continued to look out over the ranchland and rolling hills. All of this is irrigated; all of this will die and not come back unless society comes back to revive it. If California is now a state for the dead, where do I take my team? Where do my men survive?
Cortez, CO
Cliff lay in bed. Every blanket in the house was on him, the windows shut and blinds drawn closed; he hid away, shivering and sweating. He was sure he had an infection. He knew he had a high fever, and he knew he was in trouble. All he could do was rest and hydrate. He couldn’t risk leaving in the daylight to make a pharmacy run; he had to wait for the safety of darkness. Four generic acetaminophen pills washed down with a bottle of Gatorade; Cliff had been in worse condition before, but only once.
Groom Lake, NV
Two airmen stood with Bill in the cold wind on top of the mountain ridge to the southwest of the runways and lake bed. Fenced in on the flat-top ridge were all the antennas, the entire array for all the bands that were available to him. The SATCOMs he knew nothing about, but the high frequency array he recognized and understood, all a part of his lifelong hobby as a HAM operator, an amateur radio enthusiast. He had held an Advanced Class, which became an Amateur Extra Class after the license restructuring in 2000. He was familiar with the technology and the theory, although the technology available for communications in the radio hut was far beyond what he could have dreamed. When they lost connectivity to the satellites, most of that went to hell. The special internet that Wright and Cliff used to communicate with secret VoIP was new to him as well, although he had long suspected that there was a shadow internet not available to the public. The government doesn’t give away technology to the general public unless there is something else in play already.
None of that mattered. If he was able to cobble together a high frequency rig, then other surviving HAMs could too—if there were any. All he needed was to have everything perfect on his end, and the right atmospheric conditions to get the right bounce, and he might be able to speak to someone across the country, or even further. There was a lot of chance involved. Before the attack, Bill used publicly available atmospheric and sun flare data to determine the best shots, but that information was gone too. On a lark, he tried reaching the International Space Station, but there was no response. One clear night, he had seen it streak across the sky, so it must still be up there. Of course he wasn’t sure if the astronauts were alive or not. Just thinking about being trapped in space to die sent shivers down his spine.
Major Wright told him there were around a dozen USAF officers in orbit when the attack hit, but that they had the ability to de-orbit and land. Groom Lake was one of the landing sites, the other being Edwards AFB, but no one had yet landed. They had had no contact and heard no distress beacons. They just went off-line; just like the communications satellites and the imaging birds had. Now, that was something that impressed Bill. They still had to wait for the birds to pass certain locations, but the resolution was staggering. He bet he could read a newspaper from space with it ... if there had been one left to read.
“OK, guys. I think I’ve done what I can do. Let’s head back to the facility.”
The airmen didn’t say a word, their breath hanging in the cold air. They climbed into the Humvee to drive back down the mountain road, the only Humvee at the installation they’d found that would still run.
SSC
The gym facilities in the underground base were impressive. Amanda kept leaner and stronger than she had ever been, even in her twenties, despite the lack of walking and fighting, and even with the addition of eating so well every day, especially when compared to her journey from Arkansas. Clint’s level of physical fitness was staggering; the man could run miles and still have explosive lifting power at the end of it. During the last few days, Clint had taken Amanda on a tour outside the immediate center command structure and living quarters of the facility. The tunnel-boring machines sat idle at the long end of an eastbound tunnel, about two miles past the edge of the lake above them, forever doomed to rust into the dirt. The TBMs had been working on the original cover project for the Superconducting Super Collider. There was another six miles of open tunnel, concrete-lined, well-lit, and full of a strange array of hardware. The publicly known tunnel section had been backfilled and allowed to gradually fill with ground water, which became a backup source for the large stored water tanks below the main facility. But the concreted and preserved section of the secret tunnel held everything from military vehicles and weaponry, to what Clint described as local power generators. They looked like oversized semi-trucks, with over twenty wheels on the trailer alone; each was described as a portable nuclear-powered generating facility. There were, possibly still are, teams of technicians who were specially trained to isolate a small town from the larger power grid, and then power the entire town directly from the LPGs. Clint knew they existed; he knew the basics of how they operated, but he really didn’t understand how to implement them. He explained to Amanda that besides the Osiris Project, there were other projects that were put in place specifically for technical people. He was an operator, and was in place to make sure leadership survived, or could be created from a surviving group. The rest of the people involved were for the other projects to rebuild.
Instead of plodding away on a treadmill, every morning Amanda jogged in the tunnel with Clint and every morning Amanda tried to invent solutions for protecting a city from the undead and for implementing an LPG. It would need to be a city with a climate suitable to sustain agriculture without serious irrigation needs, and it would need to be a city with the potential for manufacturing. Eventually, they would need things. They would need scrap metal melted down and made into new things; they would need to rebuild technology; they would need everything … rebuilt.
Her heartbeat pounding in her ears, the sound of her breath overtaken by the echoing slaps of her running shoes on the spotlessly clean concrete floor, she passed the LPGs every day. Every day she became progressively more overwhelmed by the aspect of rebuilding a country.
Albuquerque, NM
The bus rattled up the on-ramp for I-40, the road cleared by the mass of undead that had passed through at some point before them. A sense of foreboding hung over Bexar. Even though their journey had begun with a close call that ended well, the empty Interstate worried him. All the cars were pushed forward, pushed the direction they were traveling, which meant they might catch up with the huge mass of undead. He’d seen what could happen; Apollo and Lindsey could attest to that. All he knew was that they had about six hours until sunset, and about seven hours of driving to get to Cortez. They had to drive with NODs, or with the headlights, or camp out on the road. None of those options sounded like much fun, but Chivo’s dedication to the mission and his willingness to complete it using every ounce of his being was contagious. Bex
ar hadn’t known any Special Forces people in his life, but now he could see what made them different. They simply wouldn’t quit, no matter what. They were determined not to just finish, but to win. I would never have made it through their selection process. There’s no way. Bexar thought about the SWAT officers he knew and wondered if they had met people like Chivo before. The highly trained SWAT cops looked like complete amateurs compared to Chivo, just in attitude alone. He doesn’t care. He doesn’t feel like he has anything to prove to me, he’s just doing his mission and he’s going to win. If he’s going to win, I’m going to win. I have to win … or I could make him lose.
The wind whipped through the missing windshield. At forty-five mph it looked like they were standing still, but the bus rattled and shook so badly it felt like they might as well been trying to go mach six in a Cessna. At least they were finally on the western edge of the city and getting into the open desert. Bexar unzipped his bag and removed a small bottle of Break Free and his cleaning kit. If he had to be bored rattling along in a slow-moving bus, he might as well clean his rifle and pistol.
Ten minutes later, Bexar’s rifle and pistol were back together with a functionality check, loaded, and replaced. He took his heavy custom-made knife; blood was still crusted on the blade from fighting the bikers back in the park. He put a drop of Break Free on it and scrubbed the blade with the cuff of his pants. Satisfied, he checked the blade. Still sharp; damn nice work. I hope CM Forge is still in business and Curtis is OK; I might need to order another one ... or maybe get one for Chivo.
Smiling, Bexar stood, squinting his eyes in the desert wind that flowed through the bus. Route 66 Motel? Oh shit, that’s right, this used to be Route 66 … well it used to be I-40 too; it’s a wasteland now.
The hotel stood like a white palace in the desert; windows dark, some broken, a handful of undead shambling through the parking lot. A sheet hung from the roof. Bexar dug in his bag and pulled out the small binoculars he had taken back in Terlingua. “HELP US” was painted on the sheet. He was going to say something to Chivo, but then he saw a dozen undead shamble to the edge of the roof, the sound of the passing bus getting them excited. One of them fell over the edge, the undead body dropping the long distance to the parking lot below. There was no scream. Even if he had been close enough to hear one, the undead didn’t scream. There would be no voice, just the wet crunch of a body hitting the pavement. The only time I’ve ever seen that before was a suicide, and she screamed the entire way down.
Bexar took a deep breath. That was one of the worst calls he had been on in his entire career. The scream and the wet thump with a crunch that her body had made when it hit pavement after falling ten stories haunted him. He shook his head. The past was the past, and there was no use in trying to live it again.
The bus rocked as it drove around a small group of undead, the first they’d seen on the road since getting on I-40. Bexar looked out the back of the bus and saw they were walking along with the bus, but he wasn’t sure if they had been moving in that direction before the bus had passed or only after. If it was before, then these stragglers might be flowing into the tail of the large herd. They had a long way to go on I-40 before turning north to get to Colorado, and if they hit the back of the herd, Bexar wasn’t sure if they should slow and follow or try to detour around. The problem was there were a lack of roads that would make an easy detour.
Grants, NM
About an hour after leaving the garage, with Sarah keeping the speed close to sixty mph, they drove through the edge of Grants, New Mexico. The town had long since been bypassed by the Interstate. The roadside passed quickly by without presenting much of a glimpse into what the place had once been when Route 66 ran through the middle of town. The further they traveled, the more frequent and the larger the groups of undead they had to swerve around became. All of them were walking west, but as Erin noted, if they were seeing more and in larger groups, they were probably nearing the back of the huge mass of walking corpses. Jessie was uneasy about the chance of running into the back of that huge stampede, but more urgently, she had to pee. It felt like every twenty minutes she had to ask Sarah to stop so she could squat against the edge of the Toyota. Yet another wonderful aspect of being pregnant that I had expunged from my memory. She was at least thankful that Erin stood outside with her, the short M4 in her hands giving protection while she pissed on the road. It was one of those moments when she suddenly noticed how hairy her legs were. Her mind wandered. When in history did women start shaving, and why on earth did they decide to? She was getting used to seeing her legs hairy; it was quite nice not shaving them constantly. Without a word, Erin fired her M4 twice, shocking Jessie from her reverie. A corpse not fifteen feet behind the truck fell to the pavement, released from the walk of the damned.
She couldn’t even get excited about it anymore. Erin’s expression didn’t change; it was as if she simply turned and flipped a light switch, using the same amount of emotion and effort involved for the switch as for killing an undead corpse with her rifle. Jessie stood and pulled her panties and jeans up, leaving the top button undone and the fly half-open, as it was beginning to feel uncomfortable against her growing belly. She looked at Erin and really wondered what sort of world she was bringing a new child into. It doesn’t matter; my child will have the best I can give her, the best protection, the best education I can provide, the best life—even if it is radically different than what we had a few months ago.
Back on the road, Sarah gradually brought the FJ back to sixty, gas mileage being more important than time. They had time; they had a few more months until Jessie needed to be ready to give birth. But there was only so much gas available to them, which gave all three women concern.
“Hey! We’re passing the Continental Divide, Erin.”
Erin responded with a grunt, not unlike any other teenager would have. Jessie tried to remember why the Continental Divide was so neat. She had looked it up on a trip years ago with Bexar, but the memory seemed just out of reach. Fucking mommy brain.
With each passing minute, another mile ticked over on the odometer, and with each passing mile the number of undead on the road increased. Each was walking west, the stragglers of a stampeding herd, to be picked off by the predators; except there weren’t any lions on the plains waiting to cull the slow. It was just the three of them in their SUV, and they didn’t have nearly enough ammo to put them all down. So, gently swerving the FJ from shoulder to shoulder, Sarah picked her way through the groups as they came upon them. Luckily, the undead don’t turn and move quickly like real people do, or someone might have stepped out into the path of the SUV. Taking a two-hundred-pound corpse to the grill would really hamper their efforts, even with the spare fan belts. The sun continued to drop in the western sky, filling the windshield with bright glare.
“Think we should drive through the night and trade off, or stop to sleep?”
Jessie pondered the question for a moment. “We should rest for a little bit, stretch our legs and eat, then push on. We’ll just have to drive slower since the headlights don’t reach very far, even with the brights on. Erin?”
“Whatever, I’m just riding in the back anyways.”
“You know how to drive. Why don’t you take the next shift, and when it gets dark, I’ll take over for you—if that’s OK, Sarah.”
Entering the edge of Gallup, New Mexico, Sarah took an exit and pulled to the top of the hill at the edge of the overpass. There were four cars in the intersection, forever abandoned. Climbing on the back bumper, Jessie pulled down one of the five-gallon gas cans and a section of garden hose and topped off the SUV’s tank. She walked to the nearest vehicle, a late model 4-door, and tried the doors, but they were locked. The next vehicle’s doors were unlocked. Erin stood by her, guarding, but also wondering what she was doing. Jessie unlatched the seatbelt, removed the child safety seat, and set it on the ground. She then pulled up the back seat and banged on the plastic cover for the fuel tank. Knocking the cover l
oose, she twisted it and pulled it, along with the fuel pump, out of the gas tank. Moments later, she had syphoned enough gas to top off the gas can, which she replaced on the FJ’s roof rack. Jessie stretched and took the opportunity to pee again, but before she climbed back into the FJ, she walked back to the car, retrieved the safety seat, and tossed it into the back of the FJ on top of all the gear.
“I might need that in a few months.”
“Worried about getting a ticket now that the world has ended?”
“No, it’s my husband’s fault. He was a cop and he’s seen some pretty bad wrecks. We were in a really bad one before … Keeley .…” Jessie choked up, wiped her cheeks with the back of her sleeve, picked up her rifle, and climbed into the passenger seat in silence.
Erin looked at Sarah, who shook her head very slightly before motioning towards the FJ. Sarah climbed into the backseat, and Erin the driver’s seat. After starting the truck, Erin deftly slid the shifter into first and operated the clutch like a seasoned pro.
“Stop!”
Erin slammed on the brakes. “What the hell, Mom?”
“Turn the motor off, get your foot off the brake, and get down.”
Erin did as she was told. With the windows down, Jessie and Erin could hear it: an old diesel motor rattling down the Interstate, a black cloud of exhaust trailing it as it slowly approached. Barely peeking through the windows, they watched the old yellow school bus drive by slowly, unaware of the three of them on top of the overpass and off the Interstate.