by Ellis, Tara
Bishop pursed his lips. “No. Jason isn’t someone I trust, but that isn’t necessarily what’s in question here. The better question is: do I think Hicks would choose to go to the headquarters instead of trying to reach Mercy? The answer to that is possibly.”
“How far is it from here?”
Bishop glanced at Chloe and then back down at his boots. “Over a hundred miles.”
Chloe groaned and then shook her head. She understood then why Bishop hadn’t wanted to talk about it. Setting out on a journey that would take a good six days roundtrip on horseback wasn’t something he could do. At least, not right away. They needed him too much in Mercy. Chloe could imagine how frustrating that was, and how torn Bishop must have been between helping the town and looking for his friend and the rest of the kids he was responsible for.
“As far as my disarming that guy up at the lake…”
Chloe looked at Bishop then, intrigued by the humor in his voice. “Yeah? Something you learned in engineering school?” Instead of the mirth she expected to see in his eyes, there was a hardness that surprised her.
“Some things are better left alone.” Yanking the shovel out of the ground, he turned without any further explanation and walked away.
Confused, Chloe stared at his retreating back for several heartbeats before huffing once and looking away. What bothered her the most was that Bishop knew her well enough to realize she’d never accept that as an answer. The conversation was far from over.
The wind shifted then, and with it a cool gust of air blew up through the valley, swirling the prematurely brown leaves that were scattered around the clearing. It reminded Chloe of the bats and she turned her attention to the small mineshaft opening in the sheer, rock wall on the opposite side of the field. When she’d mentioned the encounter to Bishop, he had gone and inspected the area around it personally to ensure there wasn’t any sign of guano outside the shaft, what he called the bat droppings. Once he was satisfied the bats didn’t pose any threat to their clean water, he’d dismissed them, but Chloe hadn’t forgotten.
Another gust of wind tugged at her short hair and made her shiver, the sudden drop in temperature matching the way she felt inside. Chloe couldn’t help but remember the parting words from Ripley, before she left for Helena, that things weren’t what they seemed.
Above the southern rim of the valley, dark, ominous clouds were building, the storm pushed towards them by the changing winds. A crack of thunder echoed in the distance, its sound hollow and odd. It was unlike any thunder Chloe had heard and the chill in her stomach deepened, expanding to her chest. As she watched, the darkest section of clouds lit with an ominous, sickly orange color, followed by a flash of intense bluish-white light. Much like the trees, the bats, and everything else that was slightly off, the storm itself seemed to be a sign of looming danger.
Steeling herself against the unknown, Chloe purposefully turned her back on the boiling clouds and chose to focus on the work at hand. They’d have to rush if they had any hope of beating the storm that was brewing.
Chapter 24
JAMES
Master Sergeant, US Marines, 1st Force Reconnaissance
Cheyenne Mountain, Colorado
James could still hear the clamor of the heavy metal door closing behind him, though he knew it was his imagination. He’d passed through the second of two blast doors over ten minutes before and was currently deep within the bowels of the Cheyenne Mountain base.
“She’s something else, huh, sir?” the man escorting James said with pride. He was a small man with a quick step and way too much vigor.
“Like nothing I’ve ever seen before,” James lied. He was already having flashbacks to Mount Weather. While that journey through the rocky corridors had been in the dark, it was still the same general design. The air had the same weight to it, and the voices the same muffled, far-away sound, like it was all coming from over a much farther distance than it actually was.
Master Sergeant Campbell paused for a moment, leaning against the cool granite wall of the tunnel.
“Sergeant? Are you all right?”
James was embarrassed by the concern he saw on the private’s face and it was enough to compel the sergeant to pull himself together. Standing tall, he tugged at his uniform. “Yes, Private. I haven’t slept much in the past week and I’d like to get this meeting over with.”
The gentle prod to get moving with less chatter was effective. The younger man gave a stiff salute before spinning on his heel and heading out at a quicker pace. His shoes produced quite a clatter and James winced when his own step added to the tempo beat out against the rock. He hadn’t lied, he really was suffering from a lack of sleep. Six days of non-stop hops on the Huey would be enough to just about break any man. He would have caught some time in the rack before reaching the mountain, except that General Montgomery required all of his reports to be hand-written. James had already completed the Mount Weather report, but he wanted to be sure and give a complete and accurate run-down on Corporal Dillinger and FEMA Shelter M3, so he’d spent the whole flight writing it.
James shook his head as they turned down yet another tunnel. He was already lost in the labyrinth of passageways. His reports on the shelters would have been sufficient, but the hand-off of the survivors list required a face-to-face with the man himself.
Four-star General Montgomery already had a reputation as a hardcore career soldier before the flashpoint, though James had never met him. In the less than two weeks since the event, his reputation had expanded into legendary proportions. The Man in the Mountain was what he was being called in unofficial conversations. Montgomery’s eccentricities were rumored to range from ordering the execution of unarmed civilians, to demanding that all communication be done by hand, even though there was a working intranet and computers in the mountain.
James knew better than to put much stock in the stories. There were always several sides to them. However, he was curious about the claim that General Montgomery hadn’t left the underground bunker in over a week. The base itself actually incorporated quite a lot of real-estate topside, which James had already experienced. His reports on the shelters were taken upon his arrival, and he was then treated to a robust dinner and working bathrooms, all above ground. Why, if the general had the opportunity to get some fresh air and sunlight, would he not take it?
That oddity was what concerned James the most. It couldn’t be explained by a decision made under duress, or tactics that could be supported by sound reasoning. It was simply…abnormal.
“How much farther?” James couldn’t help but ask, when the private passed another one of the underground buildings without stopping.
“Almost there, sir.”
Grunting at the generic answer, James forced himself to ignore the solid rock looming overhead. Thinking about being under a couple thousand feet of granite wouldn’t help with his mild claustrophobia. Home. He’d think about home, instead.
James and his recon unit had been on a mission at the Ellsworth Air Force Base in South Dakota when the flashpoint hit. Home was in southern California, at the coveted Camp Pendleton. His wife and two-year-old daughter were also there. He was thankful they’d been spared most of the gamma-ray burst effects that far west.
Even with his high level of clearance, James wasn’t able to communicate more than an acknowledgement that he was alive, and received confirmation his wife and child were also unharmed. He had no idea where his father was, but James knew he was still fortunate. Much more so than most, so he was trying not to take any of it for granted, and to carry out his orders without any resentment.
“Sir?”
James came to a jarring stop, barely avoiding a collision with the private. The young man looked up at him like a startled deer. “This is General Montgomery’s office, sir. I’ll wait outside for you.”
Nodding an acknowledgement, James waited for the private to take up his position several feet down the tunnel before he knocked on the door.
Opening the door, James slipped inside the office and immediately stood at attention.
“At ease, Sergeant Campbell,” General Montgomery said with an edge of irritation. “I’ve read all of your reports. They’re very thorough. I appreciate that.” He gestured at James to approach where he was seated behind a large desk.
Moving through the dimly lit room, James skirted around a huge mahogany table that sat at least a dozen, and had to force himself not to stop and stare at a massive map that took up one whole wall. He knew what it was, because he’d helped gather the information to delineate where the colors went.
“The list.” The general stood and held out his hand without any preamble.
James stared at the general’s hand. After everything he’d been through, all the death, the sleepless nights, the endless hops and shelters toured…it came down to an unceremonious grab. Clenching his jaw to fight back any sort of noticeable reaction, James placed the coveted folder in his commander’s fingers.
General Montgomery flipped open the file, breaking the seal, and rifled through several pages of information. James stood awkwardly, unsure of what he was expected to do. The general, though large, wasn’t as tall as himself so he was forced to look down on him. While this would sometimes intimidate other superiors, it was clear when Montgomery finally stared up at James that he was different. There was an air about the man that simply demanded respect. Whether it came from years of culturing the proper persona, or was simply a trait that came naturally, the general exuded authority.
“Something on your mind, Sergeant?” General Montgomery sat back down at his desk, and gestured at a chair for James.
Happy to accept the invite to be seated, James then leaned forward with his elbows on his knees. “It’s about Corporal Dillinger, sir.”
The general looked surprised, like he was expecting a question about the super-secret survivor list. In all honesty, James wasn’t a curious man by nature. While driven, which was how he’d become a master sergeant before thirty, he also got to where he was by keeping his nose down and doing what he was told without asking questions.
“As I said, I read your report. I’ll take your recommendations under advisement.” The general went about organizing the papers on his desk.
James knew he was being dismissed and should let it go. He knew he was asking for trouble by pushing the issue. “I appreciate that, General. I would just like to stress my concerns to you in person over how Corporal Dillinger is carrying out your orders.”
General Montgomery grimaced before leaning back in his large leather chair. It creaked under his weight and somehow the sound only added to his intimidation. “Son, the reality is that in spite of his unsavory methods, Shelter M3 is the most successful one we’ve got up and running.”
“There’s a reason why a man his age is still a corporal.” James figured that observation would pretty much sum up his feelings for the corporal. Unlike the general, James had met Dillinger before the flashpoint. Once, a year before in a meeting, and he’d known then the man was rotten at the core.
“Yes,” Montgomery agreed. “There is. And as hard as it is for men such as ourselves to accept, we’re going to need soldiers like him to implement the next phase.”
“The next phase?” James didn’t pretend to be privy to the command’s plans, though it was a surprise he hadn’t already been brought up to speed. Since he was acting as the commander’s eyes and ears for the past week, it might have helped with his assessments.
“You’ve seen what it’s like out there, Sergeant. Even once we’ve retrieved the supplies from Mount Weather and Raven Rock, there’s not enough to even scratch the surface of what’s needed.” General Montgomery stood again and leaned over his desk, enabling him to look down at James. “You’re the Master Sergeant for First Force Reconnaissance. One of the Marines’ most elite recon teams. While I don’t expect you to agree with all of the choices that are and will be made, I do expect you to accept them.”
The only outward show of emotion was a brief flaring of his nostrils. “Absolutely, sir,” James barked without hesitation.
“Good.” The general rubbed at his jaw, and seeming to come to a decision, walked out from behind his desk and went to stand in front of the map. “Millions of people dead in the US alone, Sergeant. Billions worldwide. We can’t afford to squabble over a farmer’s horse.”
James was as intelligent as he was large, and it didn’t take much to figure out what phase two was. “You intend to requisition more towns, like Monida.”
“Of course,” Montgomery confirmed without turning around. “It’s the only way to support the sheer numbers of the homeless and destitute. We don’t have the resources to set up enough new infrastructure, so we must use pre-existing towns that can also be successfully self-sufficient.”
It was clear that no matter what James said, the general wasn’t going to listen to him. His mind was made up and unfortunately, his justification was sound. It was easy to make such a unilateral decision when you weren’t the one looking at the farmers and the resulting pain and loss from those actions. Perhaps that was why the general was staying in his mountain.
Standing, James turned to leave.
“Do you know why you were selected for this mission?”
James turned back to the man dwarfed by his giant map, a frown darkening his handsome face. “You already said it, sir. Because my recon team happened to already be at Ellsworth Station.”
The general shook his head. “All these concerns over one man and his strategies, yet not one question as to why I sent you into Mount Weather.”
Uncomfortable with the unexpected turn that the conversation had taken, James shifted from foot to foot before meeting the general’s eyes. “I figured we were the best unit for the job…sir.”
Walking back to his desk, General Montgomery didn’t take his eyes off James. His expression was hard to read. Picking the folder back up, he turned to the second or third page and then laid it back down, open. Tapping it once, he smiled. “The reason you were chosen.”
Chapter 25
RUSSELL
Thirty miles south of Mercy, Montana
It was early evening on the twelfth day following the flashpoint that Russell Boyd found himself standing in front of the sign for Mercy, Montana.
“Thirty miles,” Russell read aloud. He averted his gaze to stare at the sun where it was beginning to sink below the line of trees to his west. It would be too dark to see in another hour. Turning in a slow circle, he scouted out his surroundings. “Looks like a good place to stop for the night.”
He’d already passed a smaller sign that announced his entrance into the Lewis and Clark National Forest. The scenery had only continued to become more beautiful and dramatic with each passing mile. Russell felt as if he was in his primal element. The energy emanating from the ancient woods and mountains was like nothing he’d experienced before. Any lingering doubts as to what he should do or where he should go had been erased.
The only negative he could find in it was the sudden drop in temperature at night. Stepping off the blacktop and onto the loamy floor of the forest, he began to gather small sticks for a fire. The risk of being seen by someone unpleasant wasn’t great enough to override his need for warmth.
Whistling a happy tune, Russell journeyed a good fifty feet off the road before selecting a spot for his camp. It would have been nice to have some fresh water, but it would have to do. He had two days’ worth left, and that was all he’d need. Dinner would consist of some underripe berries he’d gathered that morning, and the last of his beef jerky. Tsking at the way his dirty clothes hung loosely from his thinning frame, Russell was buoyed by the knowledge that he’d soon find his redemption.
The encounter with the Pony Express rider, Jed, had been fortunate as well as informative. An unexpected advantage that Russell would make full use of. He’d reach the roadblock the next day, although he wasn’t going to re
quest entry right away. First, he’d find a good vantage point, and watch.
The thought compelled Russell to retrieve his bike and belongings, which he promptly dumped out on the ground. The tent took less than ten minutes to erect, and he positioned it to make the most of the small fire he worked on next. Even with a lighter, Russell found the whole fire business to be a royal pain. He could never collect moss dry enough, and it seemed that no matter how he went about it, the process took much longer to achieve than it should.
Aside from the tent, sleeping bag, and essential items he kept on his person, like the knife and lighter, Russell didn’t have much else. Thanks to the thievery of the kind family back at the campground, most of his other camping gear was missing.
The binoculars he’d scavenged had perhaps been the single-most useful tool he’d found. Thankfully, Russell always kept them rolled up in the sleeping bag, which had been strapped to his bike and ignored. With the binoculars, he could take a day to observe the activity in Mercy and the behaviors of the guards. He’d learn.
Because Russell was a learner. It was how he’d been able to adapt to any situation throughout his life. People were always in such a rush that they rarely truly saw what was right in front of them.
Take his current predicament, for example. While wearing Deputy Rogers’s badge and posing as a lawman was ingenious, it might not be the best way to endear himself to the people of Mercy.
According to Jed, they already had a solid sheriff, and several loyal deputies. In spite of Russell’s acting abilities, he knew a seasoned cop might eventually pick up on the subtle nuances. Like how he stood, held a gun, or answered certain questions. If the sheriff of Mercy was a good cop, he’d be suspicious by nature and would inevitably have doubts. And doubts always…always led to trouble.
What Mercy didn’t have, it would seem, was a fully cognizant and functioning pastor. Sap popped as the heat spread, and the small clearing was soon filled with the smell of sweet smoke. Russell chuckled while feeding a larger stick to the growing fire. Jed had referred to the preacher as ancient and senile. Those were two attributes Russell could work with.