“—Speak English man,” Krista snapped. “Pretend we know nothing about science.”
“I’m not sure any pretending is required.”
“Jesus, Lipton. Just explain it already. And leave out all the geek stuff,” Krista said, tucking her lip under as she spoke. “You’ve giving me a monster-sized headache. And I hate headaches.”
“I am trying to explain,” Lipton said, pausing for a beat with his eyes leering at Krista.
“Just finish what you were saying,” Summer said. “In layman’s terms, please.”
Lipton continued. “Earlier, you mentioned Sublevel 8. Obviously, that means we’re deep underground in an old missile silo, given the facts I’ve observed thus far.”
“No, we’re not,” Krista fired back.
“Yes, we are. The myriad of down ladders. The industrial elevator. The dampness. The apparent thickness and shape of some of the walls. The overhead piping in the corridors. The ancient electronic equipment. The recycled air. And last, but not least, the massive springs connected to the substrate, protecting everything from earthquakes and other forms of shock. There’s only one type of facility that fits those parameters and is located in this part of the country—a Titan II Missile Silo.”
Summer was impressed with his powers of deduction, but didn’t want to admit he was right. However, she still needed more information from the guy, so she decided some casual spin was needed. “Okay, let’s assume for a moment that you’re correct,” Summer said, “then what—”
“It means we’re inside a giant incubator, one that is surrounded by leaching soils and water, all of it tainted by years of endless drug use at the nearby farm. This, in effect, formed a concentrated shell of antibiotics around this facility and eventually some of it made its way inside,” Lipton said, flipping forward in the notebook six more pages.
He pointed at another diagram. “Here your man was documenting treatment options he was considering. Treatments that would attempt to convince the always-present bacteria in the sewage to attack and consume the antibiotics leaching in, and do so before the other developing microbes took notice and evolved into pathogens.”
Summer understood, though she needed confirmation. “Bacteria eating the food source of the pathogens, right?”
Lipton nodded, though he didn’t look convinced. “Sure, close enough.”
“That sounds like a good thing to me. So what’s the problem?” Krista asked.
“The problem is it’s difficult to control bacteria. They have a tendency to do what they want, not what you want, sometimes becoming far too aggressive. More so when amateurs tamper with something they don’t fully grasp, like your man, Morse. Good God, the audacity.”
“Are you saying Morse lost control?” Summer asked, overlooking the slam he’d just made at Morse’s expense.
“Exactly. In fact, it appears from his notes that his latest treatment was extremely effective at halting the evolution of any super pathogens, until it was accidentally transmitted to your food stores and then to your botanicals. This caused a plant-based pandemic of sorts, one that will consume your food supply in thirty-five days.”
“All of our food?” Summer asked.
“Yes, except his math was off. It’s actually 29 days. Starvation will begin shortly thereafter.”
“Can’t we just get rid of the old plants and replace them?” Wicks asked. “How hard is that?”
Lipton laughed. “From what? Magic seeds that haven’t been compromised?”
Wicks shrugged.
“Don’t you get it? This complex is already coated by the new strain of bacteria. It’s everywhere by now. Plus, if it were possible to cultivate new plants, what would you eat while the new plants grew to maturity? None of that happens overnight.”
“Holy shit,” Summer said, thinking of Morse’s dying words. “That’s why.”
CHAPTER 28
The Nomad drove past another stand of frozen brush and turned at the turquoise-colored rock. It was shaped liked an overgrown refrigerator, teetering on one of its corners, almost reaching out and pointing in the direction he planned to take. He sped up, taking three more turns—two rights and a left—using landmarks along the route to guide his journey.
After taking a steep, one-way road leading up to his destination, he dodged a line of gaping holes in the pavement, then slowed the truck to a crawl, aiming the tires down an incline, crunching the remains of whatever landscaping had surrounded his colossal hideout before The Event.
He pulled forward, passing several dilapidated buildings, to the old mine entrance. Ancient prospectors had mined bat guano from the cave to make gunpowder back in the thirties, hauling in supplies and equipment for their six-story descent.
The Nomad wasn’t sure how many trips they must have made to engineer the flagstone steps and handrails inside, but it must have been a taxing journey to be sure.
Next up was an etching in the rockface that said ERIN B. WORKED HERE. It marked where he needed to turn left, penetrating the precise center of the branches and other debris he had arranged to conceal the entrance.
He always wondered what the mountain was like before it had been transformed from a dry cave into a wet one, courtesy of the melting snow after the recent thaw began.
There were broken down signs still on the property, verifying what he already knew—the cave had been used as a popular tourist attraction. Of course, that was long before most of society had scrambled into oblivion.
He slid the truck inside the secret entrance, just missing the walls holding up the opening, then turned on the headlights, making sure he didn’t smash into one of the age-old formations rising up from the floor.
The mere fact that he could drive into this hideout was a godsend, avoiding the need to park his vehicle outside in the freezing temperatures that plagued the night.
The cave was a constant seventy-one degrees regardless of what was happening beyond its walls, keeping him and his clan dry and comfortable.
He’d been in his share of caves before, most of them warmer, taking his mind back to his days in the Army. He didn’t miss that period in his life, especially the ass-kicking training op known as high-altitude wilderness training.
Every soldier dreaded that exercise, needing to survive in conditions that most humans couldn’t. Or wouldn’t. He still couldn’t believe he signed up for all that mental and physical abuse, but in the end, it made him confident in who and what he was. Mostly.
The entrance had taken its share of abuse the past decade, evidenced by the avalanche of rock and dirt littering the ground outside. He figured The Event, and the havoc it wreaked, had managed to widen the access point through erosion and other means. He wasn’t sure how long it took for all that to happen, but he was thankful it did.
It never ceased to amaze him how the calcium deposits seemed to reach up with precision, aiming to lock tips with the opposite formations dangling from the ceiling. It was a symbiotic relationship of sorts, one that had started eons before he visited this place as a kid with his family.
Everywhere he looked, colors reflected with the help of his headlights, dancing between the rays as if they were alive. Every shade of gray, green, orange, and even a few browns could be seen, dazzling his vision for the briefest of moments. All of the colors unique. All of them memorable.
An equal number of shadows stood beyond the formations, displaying their own shapes and sizes, reminding him of how many acres had been consumed by this subterranean wonderland.
If he let his mind wander, some of the shadows would morph themselves into a subtle feline or Big Bird from Sesame Street. There was even an outline of a witch, pointing the way out of the labyrinth with her nose.
He wasn’t an expert by any means, but he did appreciate the tapestry before him. It was a primal mix of flowstone, boxwork, and helictites, plus a litany of other rarities that held no known reference in his mind.
Somewhere inside the almost endless expanse was his clan, waiting
for his return, probably worried that this latest trip would be his last. He honked once, using the shortest blast he could muster, then flashed his lights three times.
That’s when he saw them—five of the six—climbing out from the recesses beyond the reach of the headlamps, their scrawny arms and legs traversing the rocks in their path. He couldn’t help but smile, watching their anticipation fuel their climbing speed.
They must have missed him, an emotion he didn’t think they knew, not after their prolonged captivity at the hands of the one-eyed pirate known as Craven. So much pain. So much oppression. Few could have held up after what they’d gone through.
He turned off the engine, but not the lights, then hopped out of the truck, meeting his new family just beyond the front bumper with his arms wide.
They wrapped their arms around him in kind, while the success of the most recent mission soaked into his thoughts. He’d pulled off the impossible, leaving nobody the wiser, not even the plethora of women squeezing him tight.
“All right, that’s enough,” he said, prying their arms loose from his leather armor. They obeyed, letting him stand alone. “Where’s Two?”
The women looked at each other for a moment, then the shortest turned and pointed at the deepest part of the cave. He assumed the missing member of his cabal was sleeping, or busy with one of their mundane chores.
Nomad made a mental note to look in on her later. He turned and walked back to the entrance, taking a few minutes to reset the natural camouflage concealing their location.
The eldest of his group approached him, her mouth remaining silent. It was an odd occurrence to be sure, her lips normally flapping with another round of guttural sounds.
The Nomad waited for their eyes to meet. “You’re unusually quiet today, Four. Even for you.”
Four flashed a wide-eyed look at him.
He nodded. “You’re worried about Seven, aren’t you?”
She twisted a lip, but held her grunts.
“She’ll be okay. I promise. I would never have sent her back in if I didn’t think she’d be okay.”
Four came a step closer and grabbed his fingers with her palm. She pulled his glove off and turned his hand over.
Her eyes went down, just as she began tracing her thumb across the creases in his palm. The path she made did not match the impressions in his skin.
Nomad recognized the pattern as she drew it over and over. It belonged to the lines in the hand of Seven. “I know you miss her, but she needs to do this. We all do. Otherwise nobody survives. Not me. Not you. Not your sisters. And certainly not your daughter.”
Four stopped the rubbing, then turned and led him deeper into the cave. The others had scattered into the myriad of cracks, passageways, and other crevasses, leaving the two of them to walk alone.
He broke free of her escort as they approached the rear of the truck. “I need to unload first.”
She grunted once, then pointed in the direction of a ladder leading down to his chambers. “In a bit. Gotta get this done. The truck needs fuel.”
She pointed again, this time grunting louder and with spit flying from her lips.
“Remember what I taught you—always be prepared. No matter how tired or how much someone misses you. The job comes first. It’s how we keep everyone safe.”
Her head dropped, making her look like a lost puppy—a puppy without a nose or much of a figure, her skin hanging on her bones.
“It’ll only take a few minutes, then we can eat and rest,” he told her, lowering the tailgate on the truck.
The Nomad climbed in and unhooked the tiedowns that Fletcher’s men had used to secure the drum. He rocked the container back and forth, using leverage to maneuver it to one end of the horizontal tailgate.
Once it was in position, he moved to the inside of the drum and gave it a firm yank along the top, sliding his feet out of the way in the process.
The steel container toppled sideways in a loud clang, then rolled off the truck and landed in the dirt.
The Nomad jumped down and stood the drum upright to gain access to its opening—a twist lock offset to one side. He retrieved a heavy duty, long-bladed screwdriver from the truck’s toolset and wedged it in sideways to work the cap loose in a spin. It would have been quicker if he had the proper bung wrench, but the screwdriver would suffice with the jury-rigging.
Four brought him the battery-powered fuel pump he’d acquired at the Trading Post earlier in the year and put it on the back of the tailgate.
He took the apparatus and stuck the syphoning end of its hose into the drum before walking to the side of the truck. He twisted the fuel cap off, then slid the pour spout of the hose inside the tank, making sure it was seated properly to avoid any spillage.
When he looked back, he noticed Four bending low over the drum, her face close to the hose penetrating the cap.
The Nomad wasn’t surprised. She was a curious woman, but one he’d learned to appreciate during all the grooming he’d done to make her his sidekick. She’d also become his confidant, even though she couldn’t speak or offer much in the way of feedback. Not in the traditional sense.
There was tactical value in having a team of mutes at his side—those that couldn’t read or write. They allowed him to share top secret facts without worrying about information leaks or betrayals, maintaining the shroud of secrecy. That veil of silence was more than just important. It was mission critical if he had any hope of completing his plan.
The Nomad scoffed as more memories replayed in his mind. Memories from his past. Memories that carried endless pain mixed with periods of joy. He had no idea how his life would change once he returned home a beaten, broken, and burned soldier. Cannibals or not, his little cabal had become his family. They were the reason he did what he did.
He popped the hood of the truck, then located the batteries. There were two—one on each side of the engine compartment. He moved to the closest battery with a pair of power leads in hand. They were color-coded red and black, much like a set of jumper cables used to start a dead vehicle.
He knew from experience that as soon as he connected them to the battery terminals, matching red to red and black to black, the fuel pump would energize and begin transferring diesel at eight gallons a minute.
The instant nature of the system meant he’d have to attach the power leads, then scurry to the spout and keep an eye on the flow, especially since there wasn’t a gauge on the pump indicating how much fuel had been delivered. Overflow conditions had a mind of their own, sending fuel everywhere. He couldn’t afford to waste a single drop.
The Nomad held the power connectors an inch from the battery terminals and took an extra breath, making sure he was ready.
Before he could make electrical contact, Four flew into him and knocked him over, sending the connectors out of his hands and into the dirt.
He rolled to his knees and peered at her. “What the hell are you doing?”
She kicked the cables, sending them skidding through the dirt in a tumble.
“Stop it!” he snapped, trying to understand her actions.
She grunted and pointed back at the drum, hopping on her toes in the process.
“What’s gotten into you? You know I have to fuel the truck. We do this every time.”
She leaned forward and snatched his hands, pulling him to his feet with a firm tug.
He pulled free of her grip, throwing his hands up with his eyes wide. “Okay, what the hell’s going on?”
She led him to the drum and put her face down to the opening, then spun her neck and shook her head in a disgusted look, as if she’d just gotten a whiff of rotten eggs.
He wasn’t sure what to do, watching her antics continue.
She pointed a few times, aiming her finger down the hole, then started a rant of grunts unlike anything he’d heard before.
“Okay, I get it. You don’t like it. But that’s how it smells.”
She hopped again with flailing arms, then ran to
the truck and yanked the fuel spout free, sending it flopping to the ground.
“Hey, what did I tell you about putting stuff in the dirt?”
She sprinted back to the drum and tore the hose from the opening, also tossing it airborne.
“Now you’re starting to piss me off.”
Four zipped past him and opened the door to the truck. Her hand went inside and came out with one of his swords.
The Nomad took a step back when she held it up.
After she stuck the tip of the blade into the drum and pulled it out, several drips of diesel ran from the metal.
When she shook her head again, he was slammed with a sudden wave of understanding. “Oh shit. They did something to the fuel,” he said, holding back the urge to punch the side of the truck.
She grunted twice, her eyes telling him he was spot-on.
“That fucking Fletcher. I should have known by the way he was acting.”
She held the sword out in a sideways spin, as if she were waiting for him to take it to end the charade.
“Yes, yes, yes. Your sense of smell is much better than mine,” he said in a mutter, taking the blade from her. “What did they taint the fuel with? Can you tell?”
She hung in place for a moment, her arms and legs frozen until she brought her hands up and made a drinking motion with a cup of her hands.
“Water?”
Four grunted twice, confirming his guess.
The Nomad ran the scenario through in his head, crunching the facts and calculating the possible outcomes. “Water certainly wasn’t their best choice, but it would work assuming I was low on fuel and filled both tanks—which, of course, I always do.”
Four didn’t respond, her eyes focused on him.
Nomad put the locking cap back into place and secured it with a twist of the screwdriver. “Fetch me the toolbox from the truck.”
Four did as he asked, buzzing to the storage compartment along the side of the transport. Sometimes she walked erect and with perfect form. Other times, like this one, she moved more like a primate, tilting and rolling her shoulders with bent knees and exaggerated steps.
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