Bunker (A Post-Apocalyptic Techno Thriller Book 2)

by Jay J. Falconer

  “Now it’s my turn.”

  “For what?”

  “To apologize. What I did in the market was inexcusable. I hope you can forgive me.”

  Apollo wasn’t sure if she was asking forgiveness for the catfight or for allegedly trying to walk out of the store without paying for the Pepsi. “No need to apologize. We’re all a little wound up right now. If Grace is cool with the situation, then so am I. As far as I’m concerned, it’s all water under the bridge. We can just chalk it up to one hell of a bad day.”

  She leaned in and hugged him, wrapping her slender arms around his neck. Her touch energized his heart. A moment later, her lips found the side of his neck, planting a soft kiss on his wrinkled skin.

  He brought his arms up to give her a reciprocal hug, but stopped when he realized it wouldn’t be appropriate. Not while on duty and not with her son watching.

  Apollo decided the tingle across his spine would have to be his only reward. Touching her would come later, hopefully. Possibly more.

  “Thank you. You’re a good man,” she said, letting go and walking toward her son. About halfway there, she turned and glanced back, sending Apollo a pleasant smile.

  Right then he wanted to ask her out to dinner but couldn’t find the strength to free the words from his tongue. His jaw was frozen. So was his courage, leaving him standing there like a slobbering idiot.

  In truth, he knew this wasn’t the right time or place to begin a new relationship. Not with the town out of power and near panic. The sad thing was, there might never be a good time to pop the question, assuming Bunker and the Mayor were right about a possible invasion. After all, who stops to have a date when the country is under siege by a foreign power?

  His heart sank, knowing he’d blown it—again. He’d had countless chances the past couple of weeks but never sealed the deal with her, thanks to his endless foot-dragging and self-doubt. The fear of rejection was a powerful force, turning him into a mumbling pile of Play-Doh whenever she took his order or delivered food at the diner.

  All those extra meals at the breakfast bar had accomplished only two things: unwanted weight gain and a perfect view of her shapely figure—both of which would stick with him until the end of time.

  Apollo waited until Allison disappeared into the stairwell with her son before bolting outside to check on his late-arriving crew.

  CHAPTER TEN

  Apollo pushed through the crowd around his men, wedging himself between two onlookers at the front. A slew of theories raced through his mind as to what had happened to his reserve unit, none of them good.

  When he came face-to-face with Rico Anderson, the brown-skinned deputy he’d known for years, he found him breathing heavily and barefooted.

  Apollo grabbed the young leader by the shirt collar, keeping him upright. “You okay, Rico? What the hell happened?”

  “Ambush, Sheriff. Out by the landfill on Bluefield Road,” the thirty-two-year-old Hispanic said, pushing the answer out with extra air between the words.

  “What were you doing out there?” Apollo asked.

  “Shortcut to Thompson’s place. Zeke wanted to drop him off first. At least that was the plan until his F-150 died—again. You know them Fords.”

  “Who ambushed you?” Apollo asked, shocked that looting had started already.

  Rico touched the back of his head, then rubbed it before licking his lips. He winced. “No clue. They were masked. We were about two miles from Zeke’s truck when they came out of nowhere and jumped us. Next thing I know, I’m at the bottom of a wash and my head’s killing me.”

  Apollo looked at Zeke who was standing next to Rico, blinking rapidly. “What about you?”

  “Head’s still a little foggy, but I’m okay. They must have thrown us down the embankment. I’ve got bruises everywhere,” the twenty-five-year-old man said, his brown hair cropped short and his face covered in a week’s growth of beard.

  Rico spoke next. “Just wish them assholes had left us some water. They took everything, Sheriff. Even our shoes.”

  Zeke rubbed his elbow, then squeezed it a few times. “And I was so looking forward to eating that fish, too. My wife is gonna be pissed.” A second later, his knees wobbled before he took an awkward side-step to catch his balance.

  “At least they didn’t kill you,” Apollo said, turning to the people behind him. “Someone get these men some water!”

  “On it, Sheriff,” a woman’s voice said from behind. He couldn’t see her face before she turned and headed for Charmer’s Market, her ankle-length orange dress flopping in the cool night air.

  * * *

  Stephanie helped her son Jeffrey step across the second cattle guard as they proceeded along the winding mountain road. The path had been smoothly graded and was free of stone and other debris. Someone had taken great care to manicure it, and she figured that person was her friend and proud cowboy, Franklin Atwater. The same man who owned the Trail Dust Riding Stables, located a hundred yards ahead, and the same man leading this expedition on foot.

  The long-standing equestrian business was the first commercial stop beyond Clearwater’s city limits. If she had to guess, most of the locals had been there multiple times, keeping his trail riding and supply store in the black. His prices on hay and other feed were excellent, plus hunters would line up after deer season to snatch up materials and equipment for tanning hides.

  Like everything else in the area, the real money was in the tourists. They loved the place, flocking to Atwater’s to buy everything from polished saddles and authentic Western clothes to homemade driftwood art and scented candles.

  Usually the property was packed in the summer with adventure seekers from all over the West; however, with the recent crisis affecting the electrical grid and transportation, she figured the well-maintained spread would probably be a ghost town.

  “Almost there,” Franklin said to his daughter, who’d been setting the pace with her crutches. The burly man kept his hands close to Megan in case she started to fall. “If you’re getting tired, let me know and I’ll carry you the rest of the way.”

  “No, Daddy. I can do it. I have to. Otherwise, the doctor said I won’t get better.”

  “Kids are way more resilient than we are,” Stephanie said, seeing the pride in the man’s face. “I would’ve fallen a bunch of times by now.”

  “You and me both,” he said, giving her a wink.

  “Crutches are fun, Mom. I wish I had some,” Jeffrey said, catching Stephanie off guard. She didn’t want to curb his enthusiasm or take the smile from his face, so she said nothing.

  Megan stopped her crutches and pointed straight ahead. “Daddy, look!”

  Like Franklin, Stephanie followed the girl’s petite finger, seeing the front of supply store. Its door was open.

  “What the hell?” Franklin said, steel in his voice.

  “I take it the door’s not supposed to be open?” Stephanie asked.

  “No. I locked up everything before I left. I always do.”

  “Did someone break in, Daddy?” Megan asked.

  “I don’t know, but I need you to stay here until I figure out what’s going on,” the man said, turning to Stephanie. “Can you watch her for me?”

  Stephanie nodded, just as three horses galloped across the path ahead from right to left, none with saddles or riders.

  “Crap. The horses got loose,” Franklin said after spinning his heels in the dirt. A second later, he broke into a full sprint, his enormous boots pounding at the trail.

  Stephanie gathered up the kids and bent down to keep them close. Her mind raced with a million thoughts, but one kept bubbling to the surface. What if the burglars were still inside, possibly waiting for Franklin in some kind of ambush?

  She wasn’t sure if she should take the kids somewhere else. Someplace safer and out of sight. She looked to the left and then the right, seeing only tall pine trees and a smattering of underbrush.

  Right then, she missed Bunker more than ever. If
only he’d been there instead of on the reconnaissance mission to Tuttle’s homestead with Daisy Clark, a woman who always seemed to sabotage anything positive that was happening in Stephanie’s life. Whether it was intentional or an accident didn’t really matter; she hated that woman.

  Before she could consider her next thought, she felt a rush of wind behind her. Someone was there.

  “Don’t move, bitch,” a male voice said, pressing something hard against the back of her head. “Or I blast a hole in your head the size of Texas.”

  CHAPTER ELEVEN

  Dustin Brown followed his new friend and fellow deputy Albert Mortenson around the back of the high school. The third building was their destination, the moonlight guiding them through the waiting darkness. “Are you sure you remember where it’s at?”

  “Yeah, I spent a lot of time in there after school with Mr. Carson. Everyone else hated the man, but for some reason, he and I got along pretty well. Probably because chemistry was easy to me. It’s the one thing I’m really good at. Besides Oreo Blizzards.”

  Dustin spoke in a hushed tone, his voice a purr. “I’m not so sure we should be sneaking around like this.”

  “Relax, dude. No need to whisper. We’re the law now. Besides, who’s to say we’re not on official business? You know, checking the place to make sure a bunch of lowlifes didn’t rob it. That’s what cops do—keep an eye on stuff. Nobody should think twice about us being here.”

  “Oh yeah. I keep forgetting. Like you said, perks.”

  “Gotta take advantage when the time is right,” Albert said, stopping his heft at the third door. “And that time is now. Trust me, nobody is thinking about the high school right now. They’re all too busy with their insignificant lives, hoping they have enough supplies to make it through the blackout.”

  “So what’s the plan?” Dustin asked, seeing the stenciled white letters on the window next to the door. They spelled Chem Lab.

  Albert took a folded black pouch from his pants pocket, opened it, and while covering the palm of his extra-wide hand in leather, fished out a pair of slender pieces of metal. He held them up and let out a thin smile, obviously waiting for a reaction.

  “A lock pick set?” Dustin asked, trying to process the revelation.

  “It’s like they used to say in that old commercial. I never leave home without it,” he said, closing the pouch and giving it to Dustin. “Here, hold this a sec.”

  Dustin watched the overweight man lean forward on his wide hips and insert the twin picks into the door lock, jiggling them a bit. “Just gotta catch it just right, and then . . . bingo.” He turned the knob and swung the door open.

  “Where’d you learn to do that?”

  “Couple of years ago in New York. I had this ex-con working for me who taught me all about second-story stuff.”

  “Like what?” Dustin asked, wondering what the term second story meant.

  “Let’s just say the man had skills. I learned everything I could before he got jacked by the cops. Word has it, he died in prison a few months ago. Got knifed in the shower, I think. Poor bastard. All his skills were useless inside.”

  “When you said worked for you . . . what did you mean?”

  “Don’t worry about it. It’s not important,” Albert said, leading the way inside. He found the light switch and flipped it up. Nothing happened. “Shit. No power. Gonna be hard to break that habit.”

  Dustin settled in next to Albert, feeling a thunderous heartbeat pounding at his chest. This was the first time he’d ever broken into anything. In fact, it was the first time he’d broken the law—period. Not a single traffic ticket or even an hour of school detention in all his years.

  Albert pointed. “It’s in the back, on the right. Past the workstations.”

  “Where? I can’t see anything. It’s too dark in here.”

  “Hang on,” Albert said, fumbling around in his pocket before pulling out a matchbook. He opened it but didn’t strike any of the matches. “See if you can find some paper somewhere. Check the tables.”

  Dustin moved forward, leaving the comfort of the ambient light inside the entrance. The darkness consumed him as he put his hands out to feel around the smooth surface of the first workstation.

  His fingers found the edge of a sink first, then a faucet. He continued to the right, running his hands over a square beaker, two flasks, and then a rattle of test tubes in some kind of rack. He worked around the remainder of the station, but didn’t find any paper.

  The next worktable was only a few feet farther, taking him deeper into the darkness. Just when he was starting to think this was a fool’s errand, he found a loose stack of paper sitting on the second corner he checked.

  He whirled around with the paper in his hand and held it up, even though Albert wouldn’t be able to see him. “Found some!” he reported before retracing his steps to the door.

  “Roll the paper lengthwise, like you’re getting ready to blaze one,” Albert said.

  “Blaze one?”

  “Yeah, like a doob.”

  Dustin froze and didn’t respond. He hadn’t heard those terms before.

  Albert rolled his eyes. “Please tell me you know what a joint is. As in pot? You know, a blunt? Doobie? Spleef?”

  “Oh, that,” he said, nodding. He twisted the paper lengthwise, winding it tight. “Like this?”

  “Close enough,” Albert said, striking a match. He held it out. “Hold it still.”

  The red-hot glow exploded on the paper, tearing at Dustin’s vision. Once the paper resembled a torch, Albert took it and began a march through the maze of tables.

  The fat man zigzagged a path to the back, where he was greeted by another door. “The supplies we need are in there.”

  Albert grabbed the knob, but Dustin didn’t see it turn. “Locked?”

  Albert smirked. “Not surprising. The District makes Mr. Carson keep it locked up. You know, to protect it from assholes like us.”

  “Yeah, assholes like us,” Dustin mumbled, realizing they were about to commit more crimes.

  Albert scowled and switched to a more commanding tone. “It’s a damn good thing we have these badges on, because it’s our duty as duly sworn officers to make sure everything is still here and accounted for. Can’t be too careful these days. Damn vandals are everywhere.”

  Dustin laughed at Albert’s twisted sense of humor.

  Albert gave the burning wad of paper to Dustin, freeing his hands for the lock pick set again.

  As the fire quickly worked its way down the shaft of the giant doobie—as Albert had called it—Dustin worried about the flames. The heat was intensifying by the second, bringing his fingers into play. He looked around for a place to toss the paper and found it: the stainless steel wash sink. A Bunsen burner sat next to it, giving him an idea.

  He opened the burner’s value with a quarter turn, then held the flame over the spout. The gas ignited in a poof, allowing him to dispose of the paper torch in the metal basin.

  Dustin cranked the knob on the faucet, but the water pressure failed. Only a momentary trickle leaked out. It landed on the flame with a sharp hiss, sending a puff of smoke rising.

  “Good idea with the burner. Gas still works,” Albert said, his fingers continuing to work the lock.

  “Yep, but not the water. Pumps are out.”

  “Got it!” Albert announced, straightening his posture. He opened the door, then pointed at the gas burner. “Move that a little to the right and see if you can turn it up a notch. I’m gonna need as much light as I can get.”

  Dustin slid the burner across the smooth counter, making sure he didn’t stretch the rubber gas line too tight. He played with the valve and was able to open it a little farther than before. The flame grew brighter—about twenty percent, he guessed.

  “That’s about as good as it’s gonna get,” Dusting said, moving to the supply room’s door. He held it open with his backside. The light from the flame penetrated the supply room, thanks to his slend
er frame.

  The storage area was about the size of a racquetball court, with a central walkway down the middle. Both sides of the aisle were framed by a lower cabinet that ran from the front wall to the back. The twin, all-black storage compartments had a series of sliding doors along the front. Metal shelves sat on the countertops, each set back about six inches from the leading edge.

  The room was crammed full of supplies, all arranged neatly by item: beakers, test tubes, glass bowls, rubber tubing, spare burners, gas masks, goggles, scales, plastic containers, jars of chemicals, and a host of other paraphernalia he hadn’t seen before.

  A loose stack of cardboard boxes stood at the far end of the room, each roughly the size of a microwave oven and with their top flaps open.

  Dustin guessed the chemistry teacher had recently finished restocking its supplies for the upcoming school year. The empty containers had the same name stenciled along their sides in blue ink: Blue Husky Supply. The company’s icon showed the head of a furry dog wearing safety goggles.

  Albert grabbed a carton from the top of the heap and tucked its flaps inside. He put the box on the leading edge of the counter, using his generous belly to hold the container in place while his sausage fingers worked through the first section of supplies. He must have known exactly what he was looking for, as he worked quickly, with little hesitation between the items he packed. He slid the box over and continued until it was full, then picked it up with a grunt.

  Albert brought it over and put it on the floor next to Dustin’s feet. “This one’s yours.” He returned to the cardboard stack, grabbing another carton and prepping its flaps for storage.

  He filled the second box with stuff from the other side of the room. About half the items were from the metal shelf sitting on top of the cabinet, but the rest were pulled from inside one of the unit’s sliding doors. Dustin found it odd that his new friend never bothered to check the contents of the other doors, sticking only with the one in the middle.