Sol Survivors | Book 2 | Nashville Nightmare

by Benton, Ken

  “In the civilian population,” Dr. Bauer answered, “that still appears to be the case. But there are signs of community cooperation developing in some places, regardless.”

  The President nodded. “That’s what I’ve heard, too. Specifically, trading posts and dusk-time flea markets, some of them organized and well-managed. Which is a good thing under the circumstances, I suppose. They don’t like each other but will do business together when mutually beneficial, with the side benefit of keeping an eye on each other.”

  “Essentially,” Dr. Bauer agreed.

  “Why is it different in the military community?” the President asked.

  Dr. Bauer pushed his glasses back. “At a fundamental level, I don’t think it is. The difference is that a strong sense of duty overrides the natural suspicions each faction has for the other. And the fact they know they can trust each other because of their mutual profession, their shared code of conduct, and the structure of command. If it wasn’t for that…”

  “Can nocturnals be trusted, Dr. Bauer?” the President bluntly asked. “Generally speaking.”

  The doctor frowned again. “I don’t think it’s as simple as that.”

  The President raised a finger. “I’m sure it’s not. But it is plain as the nose on your face that most of our diurnal civilians view nocturnals with suspicion, to say the least, even family members. The fact the ratio of arrests being made is 2:1 nocturnals to diurnals doesn’t help in dispelling that notion. So this is what I want to learn from everyone here right now: do we all share the same sentiment? Starting with you, doctor.”

  “I can give you my professional opinion, Mr. President, which is also my personal take because I trust in my training and ability. Diurnals tend to see themselves as being responsible for all economic production, whatever it amounts to in the current time, and they view nocturnals as nothing more than parasitic consumers who exist by mooching off their efforts.”

  “And stealing from them.”

  “Yes,” Dr. Bauer conceded. “But the nocturnals have their own gripes.”

  “Such as?” the President asked.

  He fidgeted and appeared to choose his next words carefully. “They believe they have certain … rights.”

  “You mean issues of entitlement.”

  “Yes and no, Mr. President. They believe the U.S. Constitution affords them the right to a fair portion of the food and goods produced in the daylight hours, and are offended that diurnals are not more sympathetic towards their condition. Many nocturnals do not have an attitude of demanding charity so much as seeking a degree of cooperation, and insist they can provide valuable services which they should be fairly compensated for.”

  The President leaned back in his chair. “You mean like guarding crops against night critters, hunting for nocturnal game, and working the night shift at factories, assuming we get some of them back online.”

  “Exactly, sir. What you described may be a valid picture of the coming new normal.”

  “What about these oddballs who are immune to the societal solar division?"

  “The cathemerals?”

  “Yes. Any luck figuring out what makes them tick? And is there any scientific evidence to this supernatural prophetic ability they are said to possess? Even some of our high-ranking officers are starting to believe this, I understand.”

  Dr. Bauer shook his head. “We haven’t been able to specifically identify a common brain chemical imbalance we suspect is responsible. They possess a wide variety of diagnosable disorders, and we haven’t been able to find a common thread. As far as any clairvoyant abilities are concerned, I’m afraid this falls outside the realm of science.”

  “Do you believe they can see into the future or read minds?” the President asked.

  “I have not come to any conclusions yet. I have interviewed some who genuinely displayed these kinds of abilities, but they are not producible on demand, and, frustratingly, as soon as they perceive any loss of personal freedom they clam up and become depressed, showing no further signs of it—so it is extremely challenging to conduct tests with them.”

  “Well,” the President said, “I never thought I’d say this, but I miss the days of political divisions being simply liberal vs. conservative. This day and night thing is a real headache. If we truly have a picture of the new normal, as you say, then we need to start preparing for it. Which brings me to the next item.”

  The President turned to the shortest man in the room, Anthony Meryl, chairman of the Federal Energy Regulatory Commission.

  “Anthony, how did information leak on plans to construct mini-grids by repairing selected power company substations in the south and mid-west?”

  Chairman Meryl blinked several times before answering.

  “I’m not aware of any such plans, sir. And I can safely say that no one in the FERC is responsible for starting those rumors.”

  “Good. I just want to make sure I’m in the loop.”

  Nervous laughter around the room from everyone but General Como of the National Guard, who only scratched his bald head and acted disturbed.

  “To tell you the truth,” the President continued, “it doesn’t sound like such a bad idea. Is it feasible?”

  “Not without first installing the big transformers to repair the largest plants,” Chairman Meryl replied. “And those are all closer to the cities, so would inevitably send at least some juice into the grids there. You know the conditions. This would result in live downed powerlines and uncontrolled hot points, adding to the problems there.”

  “No way to circumvent the cities and build power to the rural areas and refugee camps?”

  “Oh, it can be engineered, sure. But will take some doing.”

  “Start engineering it,” the President replied. “Beginning in the Northeast and Midwest. Coordinate with General Langston for the protection you need. Meanwhile, the rest of us will work on cleaning up the cities.”

  The President turned to General Como. “What city is currently considered to be in the most utterly detestable condition, General Como?”

  Before the general could answer, Dr. Bauer interjected. “Do you mean with cannibalism?”

  “You’re damn freaking right I mean with cannibalism. I’ve never been so disgusted in my entire life. It’s time to stamp out this scourge with decisive action, and I really don’t care to see any cannibals survive. From what I’m told, once they’ve developed a taste for it, no one will ever be safe sleeping in the same neighborhood again. So let’s start weeding this problem at the source. I want to set an example, and send a warning. Which city is the worst?”

  “The demon’s dump,” someone in the room replied.

  Others muttered in agreement.

  “What in blazes is the demon’s dump?” the President asked, looking around.

  “Nashville,” General Como and Dr. Bauer replied in unison.

  “What a shame.” The President shook his head. “What are the chances that innocent law-abiding civilians are still trapped there who need rescuing?”

  “Almost zero,” General Como answered. “Those surrendering to our last few patrols are only gang members escaping from more powerful rival gangs.”

  “Okay, good.” The President nodded. “So be it. I’ll instruct General Deatherage in the nocturnal meeting tonight to coordinate efforts with you. Organize a large force and move on Nashville immediately. Thoroughly fumigate the cesspool.”

  * * *

  As the vulture continued to gently circle, its interest was drawn by a new upright creature moving across the ground. This one initially came into vision emerging from the greenery at the river, and seemed to be prowling in this direction, first through the structures near the river and then up onto the unnatural pathway littered with their transportation objects.

  The vulture knew from experience that when one of the upright creatures moved in a prowling manner, fresh meal opportunities often shortly materialized.

  Smoke now permeated the updrafts with t
he scent of cooking meat. The two upright creatures that had chased the vulture from its eyeball appetizer were occupied in roasting portions of that carcass over a small fire. The vulture didn’t care for leftover cooked meat, and preferred to pick the remains of the carcass clean. But it knew to keep watching the scene. The roasting meat would often attract other upright creatures, which would sometimes result in additional carcasses becoming available.

  The new upright creature fit the pattern in its stealthy movements, but was not directly drawn to the cookout. This one appeared more concerned with the immobile transportation objects, and became especially cautious as it approached a bright-colored one positioned perpendicular to the rest of them.

  What was most notable was the fact the blood trail leading to the carcass currently being cooked started next to this particular transportation object. And the new upright creature, after making an extremely careful approach, also took an interest in the blood trail.

  Sure enough, it resumed prowling, this time along the blood trail that led to the cookout. Perhaps a fight between the creatures would occur, and result in a new carcass after all.

  But the new upright creature stopped after a ways, and, after peering through a clump of bushes, acted suddenly satisfied. It ran back up the blood trail to the sideways transportation object and began performing some kind of work around it, no longer in a cautious manner but with reckless speed. In the flurry that followed, portions of the transportation object opened up, smaller objects were placed around it, and part of it was briefly raised higher.

  It’s what happened next that fully captured the vulture’s attention. A different part of the transportation object was opened and the upright creature, through much exertion, pulled a new carcass out of it onto the unnatural pathway.

  …And left it there. The upright creature vanished inside the transportation object, and then that object began moving away.

  The vulture wasted no time dive-bombing to the new carcass. Its arrival was delayed, however, when the departing transportation object suddenly emitted a sharp blaring sound, causing it to flap to break its descent. The sound repeated twice more before the transportation object increased speed and moved safely away.

  The vulture landed next to the head of the new carcass. Fresh eyeballs!

  Chapter Nine

  Two hours of daylight left. Two hours to Oakdale, assuming an 80 MPH average speed.

  It was too close for Mick’s taste. Especially with several unknown factors in the mix, not the least of which was getting past the devil’s own gas station. Doing 80 on a spare tire wasn’t the most secure prospect, either. This vehicle now resembled a rolling yellow garbage can. There was no driver’s side window, no headrest cushion, and limited visibility on the right side of the windshield from the spider-web surrounding the bullet hole. Mick also needed to find an interstate onramp/off-ramp location where he could exit and get back on the other side going the right direction.

  Or did he?

  Mick thought about this. If they were monitoring the interstate ahead, wouldn’t they be watching the westbound lanes? On the other hand, he would be much more visible to anyone watching from the gas station coming back on the eastbound side. If he only knew the local roads or had a GPS map so he could get off and take side streets. At least the tank was full.

  As Mick passed the airport, a sudden crackling sound almost made him jump out of his skin. He swerved and nearly swiped an abandoned Mercedes that had been stripped of wheels and left with its hood open.

  The crackling sound repeated, this time followed by a voice behind radio static.

  “Squeaky, do you copy? Bert? Let us know what the hell is going on if you guys hear us. Over.”

  Mick found the source: a walkie-talkie wedged between the passenger seat and center console. He also then noticed the blood spots on the passenger seat.

  Squeaky. He must be the guy who spoke in that squeaking voice. The one who tried to negotiate the car trade. The one who was presently being cut up and barbecued for someone’s dinner.

  An onramp on the opposite side of the interstate came into view. Mick slowed and scanned his approaching left side. It proved hard to see from the reverse angle, but an off-ramp on this side did indeed exist. Mick decided to perform the maneuvers required to exit and get back on the interstate driving in the right direction. All things considered, it seemed wisest. He’d be a lot more comfortable accelerating to a high speed there.

  The radio crackled again with the same voice asking for status from Squeaky and Bert.

  Maybe Mick could reply and pretend to be Squeaky. He did know what that one sounded like. Kind of.

  Mick cleared his throat as he slowed to make the U-turn for taking the westbound off-ramp.

  “Squeaky here,” he said to himself. That was no good. Try again.

  “This is Squeaky, boss.”

  Too high this time. The guy’s voice only squeaked on certain words. Vowels, Mick was pretty sure. Especially words that started with a vowel.

  Mick tried again, talking to himself as he drove underneath the interstate bridge, weaving between abandoned vehicles almost blocking the passage, and then accelerating onto the eastbound onramp.

  “I hear you, boss.”

  Better.

  “But I’m unfortunately being cooked and eaten right now.”

  No, too many words starting with vowels. Try not to use sentences with more than one or two of those, or it may be a giveaway.

  The gas station would be coming up soon. Whether they could see him in this damn yellow car before he would see the station Mick didn’t know. It was possible they didn’t have a view of this side of the highway unless they moved into a position to watch it, which figured to be likely.

  Mick decided it was worth the risk to try to fool them. He slowed to a crawl and hugged the divider wall, staying on the left shoulder wherever a lack of debris allowed. He reached to un-wedge the walkie-talkie and lifted it. Better practice a little more first. Only squeak the opening vowels, and not too high.

  “My name is Sammy and I used to be unable to make up my mind. Now I only make dumb decisions, like ignoring dead bodies hanging from wires and choosing to engage in gunfights instead of trading cars. I need my boss Joel to always rescue me from everything.”

  Not bad. Probably as good as it was going to get. Mick took his eyes off the road so he could find the talk button.

  To his utter horror, he discovered it was under his thumb.

  Mick dropped it in his lap and looked back to the road barely in time to slam the brakes before a metal ladder lying across the shoulder.

  Was he pressing the talk button down just now? Did that last message transmit?

  The radio squawked.

  “Squeaky is that you? You were garbled, cutting in and out. We couldn’t hear you. Come again, please.”

  Mick reached to push the car radio on. It had nothing but static, of course. He turned the volume on the static up. Here goes nothing. He took the walkie-talkie again, leaned forward, and pressed down firmly on the talk button. Remember, squeak some vowels.

  “This is me now. I thought we were out of range. We’re all right. We got them, but it was tough. We need help.”

  Long moment of uncomfortable silence before a reply came.

  “Where are you?”

  Mick thought for a second. He was highly tempted to direct them over the same bridge, hoping they would meet a similar fate if they went there, but it was best not to send them so close to Sammy’s hiding place.

  “Just south of the airport,” Mick replied.

  This time the reply came back quickly.

  “What do you mean south of the fucking airport? Why do you need help?”

  “We’re both hurt, and we need to change a tire,” Mick said forgetting to squeak. He made up for it in the next sentence. “I told you it was tough. You want this black diesel truck or not?”

  After another long moment, the response came.

  “All
right, help is coming. You’re on the interstate, I hope? The southbound 24?”

  “Yes, that’s right. You’ll see us.”

  Mick then turned the car radio off, and the walkie-talkie off as well. Enough was enough. He didn’t want to be tempted to reply again and push his luck any further.

  He drove around the ladder and continued his cautious forward approach, going no faster than 30. It was another couple miles before he saw the gas station ahead through a small break in the wall. He stopped close to the wall after passing the break, put the car in park, and got out of the still-running vehicle to creep back to the break and peek through it.

  Before he reached it, a silver SUV went speeding by in the westbound lanes.

  That had to be them, didn’t it?

  Good enough. Mick retook the wheel and resumed his journey. The speed at which the SUV passed, without slowing its pace, must mean they didn’t see the Celica. It was hard to spot from that side.

  There was still the gas station to have to get by.

  Mick kept his pace slow, wary of any sections of interstate where he could be easily spotted from the station. Fortunately, the wall, number of rotting vehicles, and curvature of the road only forced him into plain view in one or two places. He sped up in those spots. Someone would have to be watching at the exact right time. The position of the late afternoon sun also played to Mick’s favor. And if they fell for Mick’s walkie-talkie ruse, as it appeared they had, they weren’t likely to be watching for him that closely.

  Mick felt his confidence level increase after passing the gas station and putting a mile of highway between it and him.

  The road conditions shortly improved. Mick’s foot pressed harder on the gas pedal.

  * * *

  Debra was predictably disturbed when Joel finally got around to telling her the story of Ricky’s predawn arrest. It wasn’t clear whether she was most upset at Joel consenting to his arrest, his waiting until the late afternoon to tell her about it, or something else. With women, it was usually the something else.