by Bobby Akart
He did suggest to Janie they roll some Cheerios through smooth peanut butter, which he’d found to be the most effective attractant. One piece on top of a glue board and also inside the trap would bring the rodents right where they wanted them.
“We’ve got to remember that deer mice are known carriers of hantavirus,” said Barb.
“Hantu-what?” asked Tommy, who was busy readying his own project.
“It’s a severe respiratory illness known as hantavirus pulmonary syndrome,” started Barb. “You get the disease by breathing in the hantavirus when dust from rodents’ dried urine, saliva and droppings is stirred up in the air. It’s pretty common up here in these vacation rentals and log homes that remain dormant for long periods of time. People clean up their houses, garages, and cabins, the hantavirus gets stirred up in the air and is breathed in.”
Janie prepared the bait while Barbara set the traps in place. “People can also get it by touching mouse droppings and unknowingly touching their nesting materials. And as is so typical, several times an hour, people touch their eyes, nose, or mouth, transmitting the disease into their system.”
“Like the plague, there is no specific treatment, cure, or vaccine for the HPS infection. Doctors have to diagnose it early and send their patients to the ICU for oxygen therapy to give them a better chance of recovery.”
Tommy stood up and followed the women for a minute as they worked their way around the creek to logical places like the base of a hollow tree. Deer mice tended to nest alone, although sometimes a member of the opposite sex was allowed to share a nest nearby.
“Does this hantavirus exist only in deer mice?” asked Tommy.
“Nope,” replied Janie. “All rodents are potential carriers.”
“First the plague, and now this hantu-disease,” started Tommy. Then he continued using his best James Cagney impression from the movie Taxi. “Don’t you think the world would be better off without you dirty rats.”
Everyone got a good laugh before Tommy got down to business. When they’d first begun to spend a considerable amount of time at Quandary Peak, Tommy had gone on a gold-prospecting tour, which started down in Georgetown.
The tour had provided a pan, a bucket, and detailed instructions of where to look for gold and what part of the creek to focus on. He’d never made his way down to Monte Cristo Creek to pan before now.
Panning for gold was actually a simple process. In his pan, Tommy was trying to recreate on a very small scale what Mother Nature did for herself in creeks and rivers. The first step was to find a good spot. If you asked a local where the best place to pan for gold was, naturally they’d lie.
The key was to find a relatively shallow place where river rock held in place against the creek’s flow and the sandy bottom allowed you to dip your pan. Had Tommy thought ahead, he would have brought down his waders that he used for fly-fishing. They would have to make daily trips down to check the mice traps, so he’d venture out toward the middle of Monte Cristo Creek in a few days.
Tommy used a pan with a quarter-inch screen to sift through the rocks and dirty sand material. After scooping up half a pan full of the material, he’d shake the pan around. He would continue this process until the small silty material washed its way out, leaving larger stones and the gold in the pan.
Back and forth, round and round, Tommy continuously moved the pan in a circular motion as the debris washed out and the gold remained in the pan. It took him several minutes to clear a pan of its contents.
Finally, satisfied that he was able to remove the bulk of the debris, Tommy used a magnet to separate the gold from the last of the black sands. After fifteen minutes, he exclaimed, “Gold!” which frightened a deer upwind from where they were located.
“Ladies, check out the new currency of America—gold nuggets!”
Chapter 33
Day Sixty-One
Star Ranch
Colorado Springs
Captain Hoover stood near the side entrance of Star Ranch as the first of the military convoys departed the upscale neighborhood, carrying the forcibly displaced homeowners. He’d experienced sporadic nightmares and several sleepless nights since his unit pulled out of Coors Field. During his insomnia, he’d sit quietly in the corner of the twelve-foot-by-twelve-foot dormitory room that his young family of four now called home. He was thankful they were safe, but would his guilty conscience allow him to forgive himself?
That final day at the DQC1 had left an indelible image in his mind. Once the logistics team had sealed all of the exits, leaving only one means of ingress and egress at the intake station, he was ordered to maintain a field HQ across the highway during the transition from quarantine center to execution chamber.
New arrivals were given an injection of potassium chloride, unaware that in less than twelve hours, they would die from the low-dose poison as it swept through their veins. Inside, the dead were no longer being removed by the collectors. The bodies were being piled in the outfield by the diseased citizens of Denver’s largest quarantine facility.
As the stench of death circulated across the now muddy field, new arrivals and the infected moved into the upper decks of the stadium, seeking fresh air and a respite from the dead.
The new arrivals soon began to die, despite not exhibiting the outward indicia of the infectious disease. At first, their fellow detainees dragged the bodies through the stadium and threw them over the rails onto the field.
As more died, that process became a burden. On the day Captain Hoover decided he couldn’t take it anymore, the dead were being tossed over the back side of the stadium, dropping a hundred feet or more to the concrete pavement surrounding the former Coors Field. Every few minutes, he and his subordinates would point to another body sailing through the sky until gravity crushed it against the ground, splattering fluids in all directions.
However, when the living began jumping off the upper levels, hastening their certain fate, Captain Hoover left his post and returned to the Air Force Academy, where he cried in his wife’s arms. His family had the peace of mind they were safe from the ravaging plague, but Captain Hoover doubted he’d ever have peace from the images embedded in his mind.
“Captain, sir,” interrupted one of the corporals in charge of the removal detachments, shaking Captain Hoover out of his despondency. “We have a family refusing to leave, sir.”
“What’s that, Corporal?”
“Sir, there’s a family back on Governor’s Point that refuses to leave. The husband’s locked himself in with a gun and won’t come out of the house. It’s a bad deal, sir. His children are staring out of the windows at our men. I’ve never seen the look of horror like that in a child, sir.”
“I have, Corporal. Let’s go.”
Captain Hoover entered the Humvee and was escorted to the back of the Star Ranch neighborhood, which abutted the Cheyenne Mountain Zoo. There were no children playing. In fact, very few people stood in their yards. They all lived in fear.
When his unit first entered the neighborhood and began interviewing the residents, they were thankful for the military presence. Without explanation, the National Guard had secured the perimeter of Star Ranch and blockaded the entrance. Residents were told they would not be allowed back in if they left.
As his team, which included medical personnel, went door-to-door, conducting interviews, each family was placed in one of three categories—stay, go, and Level 6. Unlike the neighborhoods in Denver in which infected homes were identified by a red 6 spray painted on their door, in Star Ranch, a red 6 was written next to their names on the property assessor’s roll.
If the family met the criteria established by Homeland Security as a high-value prospect for rebuilding America, they were identified with a green highlighter. Everyone else was highlighted in yellow. They were to be removed as new families arrived.
Of course, the military didn’t disclose the purpose of the interviews or the future intention to relocate families out of Star Ranch. There were no lo
nger broadcast news networks, even via satellite. The last remaining news source, CNN, had been shut down by DHS, citing national security concerns as a result of the disclosure of the Level 6 protocol during their roundtable interview of doomsday scientists.
Captain Hoover began the relocations by providing the displaced residents twenty-four hours to pack and prepare themselves mentally to leave their home. He had been too compassionate, resulting in chaotic, emotional scenes those first couple of days.
The residents of Star Ranch became hostile and vocal, demanding to know what was happening. Captain Hoover was instructed to lie, explaining to the residents that the families being removed were infected. This turned the court of public opinion completely around.
Soon, residents were conferring with one another and exchanging information. The patterns were beginning to emerge when the first families moved into the vacated homes. Politicians, doctors, lawyers, engineers, government officials, and others on the priority list established by Homeland Security were installed in their new neighborhood.
Existing residents began to realize their careers and educational background were the criteria used to determine if they stayed in their home. The owner of a clothing store at the local mall was removed in favor of a county commissioner. A painting contractor’s family lost their home to the local district attorney. A woman whose husband recently died in an auto accident was removed in favor of the local head of Xcel Energy.
The corporal pulled up behind an M35 cargo truck that already contained a family being relocated. It was a hot day and they were complaining to a soldier, who kept his weapon pointed at them, repeatedly warning them to remain in the truck.
Captain Hoover glanced around at the neighboring properties. All eyes were on him as he walked confidently toward the house.
“Captain,” shouted the corporal as he ran behind him. “Sir, the man has a weapon!”
Three young faces peered from behind the sheers in the living room. The youngest, a boy of three years old, was bawling as tears streamed down his face. Captain Hoover caught a glimpse of the boy’s mother, who returned his glance. She was frightened.
As he approached the front door, he unclipped the snap on his holster. He also removed his cell phone and brought up the photos he’d saved as a grim reminder of what he’d witnessed at Coors Field. He thumbed through the pictures until he found the final shot he’d snapped before he left The Rooftop, where he’d maintained his HQ.
The stadium was filled to capacity and the outfield contained dead bodies six layers high. This image was ingrained within his brain, and if he ever doubted the memory, he’d look at the photograph as a reminder.
Without further delay, he pounded on the door. “Sir, open up! My name is Captain Kevin Hoover and I need to speak with you now.” He continued to pound on the door.
For a moment, there was no response except the shuffling of feet in the foyer. Captain Hoover looked around to the neighboring homes and saw that a crowd of onlookers was developing. On the ride over, he’d considered skipping this family for today. There were plenty more on the list. But now, if he gave them a break, this open act of defiance would create a rebellion and he’d lose control of Star Ranch.
By the same token, if he was too heavy-handed, the residents might band together, pool their weapons, and take a stand in the form of an armed conflict. Even without news networks, that story would spread like wildfire across the region.
He had to talk this man off the ledge first and then explain to him what the consequences of his defiance would be. The man had to be given a choice—one similar to the choice he’d made in the upper deck of Coors Field that day.
“Sir! I want you to look at this picture. I’m going to hold it up against the glass. Look at it, now!”
The sheers on the side window flanking the front door pulled to the side and a man with disheveled hair and four days of beard growth studied the image.
“So what? What does that have to do with me?”
“Do you recognize the location?”
“Yeah, Coors Field. So?”
Captain Hoover returned the phone to his pocket and grasped his sidearm. He raised his voice so it could be heard by the immediate neighbors.
“You have been ordered to vacate these premises by order of the Department of Homeland Security and the President. You were advised of this last night and now it’s time to go.”
“We’re not leaving!” he shouted back.
“Yes, sir, you are, or at least your family is. You have a choice. You can come peacefully with us and you will be provided a home similar to this one. Or your family, but not you, will be removed to the Denver Quarantine Center at Coors Field.”
The man stared at Hoover through the glass. “What are you gonna do with me? Arrest me? I’m already a prisoner in my own home.”
Shockingly quick, Hoover drew his weapon and shot the door jamb, forcing the door open. With his right leg, he kicked the door inward, crashing into the man, who was caught off guard. The homeowner and his .22 rifle crashed backwards onto the tile floor.
Captain Hoover pounced on him like a cat, kicking the rifle clear and pointing his weapon in the man’s face. Two guardsmen in riot gear poured in behind him and immediately entered the living room, where they pointed a gun at the mother, who was screaming continuously. The crying three-year-old was pulled from her arms while she was forced to the floor.
Amidst the shouts and crying, Captain Hoover closed his eyes and several images were conjured up from his childhood and flashed through his mind. The images were from nearly twenty years ago when Captain Hoover was just a seven-year-old boy.
His mind recalled when young Elián González, also a seven-year-old, was ripped from his father’s arms while a gun was pointed at the boy’s head by a federal agent. Captain Hoover recalled the conversation in their family room that day.
Daddy, can they do that to me?
No, son, they can’t and shouldn’t. That’s not what America is all about.
Chapter 34
Day Sixty-Two
Blue Lakes Road Checkpoint
Quandary Peak
“Derek, you’ve spent more time in town than I have. How are the locals handling it?” asked Hunter. He and Doc Cooley’s son were working their second checkpoint shift together. The prior day was spent talking about their respective backgrounds. Hunter disclosed just enough to Derek to earn his respect as a seasoned veteran and operator. Derek’s life résumé was limited due to being in his early twenties, but it was clear to Hunter he was raised well and with good character.
“I’m amazed at how quiet it is so far,” Derek replied. “According to Sheriff Andrews, most of the people are trying to help one another. Even the tourists are getting assistance from the local churches. A lot of locals have left to be with family around the state. There’s no way I’d leave here.”
“Trust me, Derek. There are no greener pastures in America. That’s part of why I was asking. For three days now, we haven’t had but one car approach the checkpoint, and they were from Timber Ridge, lookin’ for your dad. Are the other checkpoints experiencing the same thing?”
An eagle soared high over their heads and caught Derek’s attention. He playfully scoped it with his rifle and followed it until it ducked behind a stand of aspens below them. He voiced a whispered boom sound before he continued.
“Route Nine out of Frisco and Dillon now has three roadblocks preventing access to the Breck. The Interstate checkpoints get lots of action, but all the residents around Dillon Reservoir are pitching in. There are as many as six or eight men guarding the access points at any one time. Any travelers never make it to our checkpoint on the north end of town.”
“Aren’t there roads to the east? The sheriff mentioned one in particular called Boreas Pass Road.”
“Yeah, early on, that checkpoint got a lot of activity,” replied Derek. “The road winds its way through the valley between Mount Argentine and Bald Mountain, eventually con
necting its way to the highways toward Denver and Colorado Springs. It’s a roundabout way to get south, but the bikers love it because the winding road is a challenge to ride.”
“What’s over there, anything?”
“Nope, only ghost towns, literally,” replied Derek. “Once, there were several mining communities back in the 1800s with more population than Breckenridge. Then the gold started to disappear and California was the place to be, so the companies and the miners headed west.”
Their sheriff’s department-issued radio squawked and Sheriff Andrews voice could be heard.
Hunter, Derek, I’ll be there in a few minutes. Be on the lookout for a Park County patrol car. Their sheriff is coming to speak with me. Out.
“I wonder what that’s all about,” asked Derek.
“We’ll find out soon enough, but I’ll bet it’s not a social call.”
Hunter climbed up the embankment on the east side of the highway to get a better vantage point of Route 9 in both directions. The highway’s intersection with Blue Lakes Road was just above a hairpin turn, which required northbound traffic to slow to a near crawl in order to navigate the turn safely. Hunter had cleared an area at the top of the hill on both sides of the U-shaped curve, allowing him a perfect vantage point to the north and the south. It also provided him the high ground, which was his real purpose in creating the clearing.
A black and gold sheriff’s car approached from the south and navigated the first of several S-curves. Hunter could make out two uniformed officers as they passed below him as well as a civilian in the backseat. At the hairpin turn, the vehicle slowed down and then inched forward toward the roadblock created by several cars obtained from the deceased neighbors.
Derek stood behind the barricade and Hunter scrambled down the hill to greet the visitors. Sheriff Andrews arrived at the moment Hunter emerged through the scrub brush next to the road.