“Five. The front tires are shredded, but some rear tires survived.”
“I’m going to start on my lab work. I’m hoping to make some progress and reach Paul today. By the way, the spore counts are down to zero, so you guys can--”
“Woo hoo!” Trevor cheered through the lab speakers. “Yeah! Oh, yeah! I can’t wait to take this thing off.”
The door to the living area hissed open, and Riley poked her head inside. Her face dripped sweat, her expression miserable behind her mask’s visor.
“Did I just hear we can take our masks off?”
“That’s right,” Kim grinned.
The girl grabbed the bottom of her mask and tore it off her face, gasping for a breath. Then she set it on the floor, put her hands against her cheeks, and rubbed vigorously on her skin.
“It’s not like you had to wear them all the time,” Kim mocked. “You got to take them off when you ate.”
“Yeah, the decontamination chamber smells like burnt plastic,” Riley countered. She took a deep breath and sighed. “The air in here is heavenly.”
Her grin spreading, Kim crossed the lab and put her hand on her daughter’s shoulder. The girl rubbed her face another moment before dropping her hands.
Riley blinked and raised her eyebrow. “What?”
“I want to hug my daughter, that’s what.” Kim lifted the girl’s face with both hands and looked into her brown eyes, marveling at the hazel hints at the centers. She pulled Riley close and kissed her forehead before wrapping her in an embrace.
The girl returned the hug, then Kim pushed her away and ran her fingers through her short-cropped hair.
“Wow. It’s so short.”
“Tell me about it.” Riley looked away with embarrassment. “It looks terrible, not that there’s anyone left to see it.”
“No, it looks good on you. You wear it well.”
“Good, because I never want to grow my hair out again.”
“What? Never?”
“Nope.” The girl shook her head and circled around her mother, walking to the prep room door. “And now I’d like to shower. Is that cool?”
“The water tank is getting low,” Kim said through pursed lips, “but it shouldn't be hard to refill it.”
“Great.” Riley winked at her mother and slipped into the prep room.
Kim shuffled to the living area and stood gaping at the kids’ things lying around. Pajamas, socks, shoes, blankets, pillows, and their computer tablets. It looked like they’d brought half the house with them.
Her eyes lingered on the aluminum softball bat leaning next to the passenger seat. Bishop kept it next to him while he slept. He’d cleaned the blood, bone, and hair from it, though some nicks and grooves were forever stained red.
“Did you hear that about the water, Bish?”
“I sure did,” he replied. “When I go to pick up tires, I’ll check on water, too.”
“Are you going out now?”
“No, but I will as soon as we finish out here. In another fifteen minutes, or so.”
Bishop had driven the Stryker land vehicle from Ft. Collins, packed full of weapons they’d taken off dead soldiers at the football stadium. It was difficult seeing out the narrow front windshield, so Trevor had practiced using the external cameras, though Bishop hadn’t allowed him on the food runs into Salina.
“That’s too bad you’re leaving so soon,” Kim pouted in a dreamy voice.
“What’s wrong?”
“I wanted to kiss my husband first.”
Bishop chuckled. “Fair enough. I can come decontaminate and--”
“No, it’s okay,” Kim sobered. “Do what you have to do. Just be careful. I love you.”
“I love you, too. And I promise to be careful. Thanks to AMI, we’ve got a communication line setup between the bus and the Stryker. I won’t be far.”
Kim rose from her chair and crossed to the living area. She tidied the space, folding clothes and stacking them on the dashboard console or front seat. The road stretched westward on the other side of the window, all the way to Denver and Ft. Collins and beyond. As soon as Bishop fixed the bus, they’d turn around and head back east. She’d never return to that old house again.
Kim took a deep breath. The room smelled like her kids and husband—their clothes, skin, and hair. It smelled like home.
Smiling, finally ready to work, she returned to the lab. The door slid shut behind her, drenching her in the hum of ventilation and analytical equipment. On the right wall rested the refrigerator and freezer. She stepped over and inspected them for the tenth time. None of Richtman’s bullets had penetrated the appliance, and the specimens she’d brought from Paul were still intact. She had enough compounds to brew up another batch of serum if her family needed it.
That had to be her first priority.
With a renewed sense of vigor, Kim returned to her computer chair and stared at the three blank screens arrayed before her.
“Let’s see if I remember how to do this.”
She tapped on the keyboard, and the monitors came to life.
*
Bishop finished cutting away the dried industrial caulk from the bus’s damaged side panel with a box cutter. Then he sanded it down until it lay flush with the surface. Once done, he stood back and checked out the repair from a distance.
One of Richtman’s bullets had blown the panel loose during his assault on the vehicle. It was superficial damage, but the bus depended on airtight ventilation, so he didn’t want to leave a single crack.
“That looks pretty good,” Trevor said, admiring their work. “That’s a watertight seal.”
“I think you’re right.” Bishop allowed his finger to run along the seam, proud of the workmanship. They’d repaired dozens of holes and breaks in the outer shell and just as many on the vehicle’s interior.
One of their heavy contaminant vats had taken a hit, leaving a hole three-quarters of the way from the top. Several gallons of liquid had spilled down into a drain and expelled from the bus.
Not a huge loss since they had two vats left, good for dozens of disinfectant washes. By then, they should be back to Yellow Springs where Kim could complete her work with Paul Henderson on the Asphyxia cure. Bishop would keep his family safe and secure until then, no matter what it took.
“That’s the last of the damage,” he said. “Go back inside with your mother and Riley now. I’m going to look for tires.”
“Aw, Dad. I want to ride in the Stryker.”
“I know you do.” He patted the boy on the shoulder. “But I’m not sure you’re ready. I’ll have to get out and look around, and I’ll have to do it quickly and with little fuss.”
Trevor slapped his father on the arm. “That’s why you need me.”
“Oh yeah?”
The boy placed his hands on his hips and looked around. His skin was oily and sweaty beneath his visor, and he was showing signs of puberty. He’d grown at least an inch since winter, and his demeanor had become more serious. “You need someone to keep a lookout while you get the tires.”
“You’re ten years old. We’d be irresponsible to put you in danger like that.”
“We’ve been in danger ever since we left home.”
“Not in the Stryker.” Bishop shook his head as he towered over his son. “It would take a bomb to put a dent in that vehicle. You were safer there than at home.”
“I rest my case. How much more protected could I be? I’d be safer than Mom and Riley. I can stay inside and use the external cameras to keep an eye out while you’re looking around.”
Bishop started to reply, but Kim cut him off. “He’s got a point, Bish.”
He shook his head. He forgot she could listen in on their conversations when they wore their earpieces.
“Are you sure, honey?”
“This is a family effort, and we need everyone involved, provided we have a plan. Does Trevor know what we expect of him?”
“I’ll do exactly what Dad says.�
�� To his credit, the boy didn’t sound the least bit whiny. “And I’ll pay attention. I know how to work the cameras and most of the auxiliary controls.”
“He does know a lot about the vehicle,” Bishop admitted. “I couldn’t have started it without his help. It’s not like driving the Lincoln.”
“That settles it, then,” Kim said. “Be careful, you two. I’ll have you on low volume while I work. If you need anything, ask AMI to alert me.”
“Will do, honey.”
Bishop had grown to appreciate the artificial brain inside Mobile Unit XI. AMI gave them access to the bus’s core systems. He’d followed her directions when servicing the air units. She’d provided pressure and flow readings and monitored broken seals. She’d cut his repair time down from days to hours.
“Let’s put these tools away first.”
They gathered their caulk, hammers, screws, and hand tools and placed them in a compartment in the bus’s side. Bishop checked to make sure he had the Stryker key and his pistol, then they walked down the road to where he’d parked it behind the bus.
The massive, armored transport squatted there, all twenty tons of steel plating and weaponry. They’d found it with the back door open, the driver dead in his seat. After removing him and wiping it clean of spores, they’d commandeered it for their trip east.
Bishop and his son circled to the vehicle’s rear where a keypad rested in the steel panel. He pressed his pass code in and watched as the loading door descended. They climbed inside, shut the door, and moved to the front. Rifles, pistols, and assorted ammunition hung from heavy wall hooks or lay stowed in compartments.
Bishop fell into the driver’s seat. Being a larger than average man, it was a tight fit, but he made it work. He strapped himself in and cycled through the startup procedure with his son watching in judgement.
“Okay, here we go.”
“You can do it,” Trevor encouraged him, not without the hint of sarcasm. His son genuinely enjoyed being better than his father at something, and Bishop let him have his fun.
He made sure the parking brake was on and set the gear to neutral. He found the Aux Master Switch and turned it to the ON position. The vehicle powered up with a faint click of motors.
“I think that’s the automatic fire control system,” Trevor said. “But I’d have to actually play around with the weapons to know for sure.”
“You won’t be touching any of these weapons.” Bishop shook his head. “Especially not the M2 thing.”
“It’s an M2 .50 caliber machine gun mounted on the roof. I could tear a car in half with it.”
“Right. That’s why you’re not going to play with it.” Bishop looked around for the next button. He reached to flip the Engine Start Switch, but Trevor grabbed his hand.
“Nope. First pull out the Auto Master Switch and turn it to the ON position. The Check Engine Light should flash.”
With a head shake, Bishop did as he was told. Sure enough, as soon as he pulled the Auto Master Switch to the ON position, the light started blinking. “Shouldn’t it stay on?”
“Nope. It’s supposed to just blink.”
“Okay.” Bishop moved his right hand back to the Engine Start Switch and looked at his son. Trevor nodded, so he turned the switch to the center position.
A series of clicks filled the cabin. The Engine Preheating LED light came on for a few moments before it winked off.
“Should be ready to go,” his son announced.
“Thanks.”
Bishop flipped up the Engine Start Switch and held it until the motor coughed, caught, and rumbled to life. He couldn’t help but smile at the heavy sound it made and the vibrations shaking his seat.
“That never gets old.” Trevor grinned.
“It sure doesn’t.” Bishop shifted the vehicle into reverse and checked his rearview camera.
He backed up the ponderous truck, turning it until they faced toward the exit ramp. Then he put it in drive and moved down the ramp, taking it all the way to the end.
The boxy front window didn’t provide Bishop with much visibility, but he could easily maneuver on the empty road. He’d find it harder over treacherous terrain, unable to see over the vehicle’s front end. But as long as Bishop stuck to the roads, he’d be fine.
“Do you think the truck stop will have tires?” Trevor asked.
“If we’re lucky. I saw some repair shops back there. I’ll bet they have what we need.”
Bishop turned left on the main street and pushed the speed up to forty, passing beneath the interstate, slowing when they reached a Loman’s Truck Stop. He pulled into the parking lot past fungus-covered rigs and decaying bodies.
The repair shop lay dead ahead, and he kicked up his speed with a rumble and whine of the engine. The advanced drive train sounded like a spaceship propelling them across the hot cement.
By now, he’d become a pretty good Stryker driver, though he had no clue what most of the buttons and switches did. He was hesitant to touch the screens and weapons systems. And he’d reluctantly allowed Trevor to play with the remote video cameras out of necessity to see what was around them. It had taken the boy three hours to figure it out and many more to practice it.
“How’s it look out there?” he asked his son where he sat in a co-pilot’s seat behind him to the right. The bank of monitors illuminated the boy’s face, and a selection of joysticks rested at his fingertips.
“I don’t see anyone in front or behind us,” he said, eyes sliding between the screens. “I think we’re clear.”
Bishop circled around to the repair shop where two large garage doors sat open, and a half dozen tractor trucks sulked in various states of disassembly outside. Three had their hoods flipped up with engine parts strewn on the concrete.
He swept the armored vehicle around and backed between two rigs and up to the garage entrance. He left the Stryker running and gazed through the window toward the Loman’s. The skies were flat and blue. Distant gray clouds promised a storm soon.
“This should be good,” he said. “If I find any tires, I’ll roll them out of the garage and into the Stryker. See anything?”
“Nothing. Come look.”
Bishop unbuckled himself and stood. He had to put his hands out and duck low to keep from bumping his head against something. He crept around his chair and moved to stand behind Trevor, looking over the boy’s shoulder. The boy monitored six screens, each representing a different view.
A front camera panned side-to-side and zoomed in on the trucks around the facility. They inspected the rigs, searching beneath the trailers, looking for signs of life. Bishop winced every time they passed over a corpse lying in the lot, but the boy had grown used to it. They’d normalized such things. Death was part of their day-to-day lives, close and ugly and brutal.
He stared at the fungus streaks along the cement, looking dry and dead. Was Asphyxia dying like Kim once suggested? Could they simply wait it out?
Nothing else moved or lurked out there in the concrete wasteland.
“What about the garage?”
Trevor released a joystick, clicked two buttons, and took up the controls again. Two cameras mounted on the back of the Stryker panned across the garage. It was dark inside, though he made out more rigs and equipment highlighted in green. Night vision. Two trucks were parked in the bay, one with its hood thrown up. A half dozen rolling tool chests sat nearby with open drawers. Air hoses and spotlights hung from ceiling hooks and old gas station signs decorated the walls.
“Can you make it a little brighter?” Bishop asked.
The boy fiddled with a switch on the console. A moment later, light blossomed inside the massive bay. The trucks and equipment came to life in vivid detail. He made out the company markings on the doors and the numbers on the license plates. Fungus stretched eight or ten feet into the bay.
Nothing moved.
“Good enough,” Bishop said. “I’m going in. I’ll give the word for you to lower the back door. Close it up as
soon as I’m outside, okay?”
“Gotcha.”
He turned and moved into the troop section. He picked up a rifle from a seat and checked to make sure it was ready to fire. His pistol remained clipped to his waistband on his hip, so he was good there. Feeling the weight of the rifle in his hand, he stepped to the back door and nodded.
“Okay, lower it!”
A mechanical whine filled the space, and Bishop crouched and held the carbine’s barrel level. He’d practiced with it twice on the way from Ft. Collins, shooting at shrubs in the desert. He’d cycled through all the modes, firing with semi-automatic, burst, and full-auto settings. He taught himself how to eject a spent magazine and load a new one, and he was confident he wouldn’t shoot his own foot off.
While not a gun person, he’d written about them enough to know the basics. Still, he had yet to prove his accuracy with the weapon, and he hoped he didn’t have to use it on another human being.
The door hit the concrete, and Bishop shuffled out, guiding his barrel back and forth. The Stryker floodlight cast long shadows into the bay, drawing his eyes to the odd shapes. He stepped deeper inside as the door clanked shut, leaving him alone in the eerie quiet. He moved through the bay area proper, searching the truck cabs and sunken bays. He trod past the fuzzy gray and black lumps of dead mechanics and others who might have been customers.
One man lay half-inside a truck cab, stretched across the seats, molded to the cloth by inky tendrils. He found another splayed near front office doors, caught by the tainted air as he frantically tried to escape.
Spots of spores coated everything. It crawled up the walls and dug deep into cracks as if hiding from the daylight. He found a long window in the back and crept over to it, putting his face close to the glass to peer in. Darkness filled the space on the other side, so he pulled out his flashlight and shined it in.
Light reflected off the glass, almost making it worse, but he caught sight of something that put a smile on his face. Bishop tucked his flashlight under his arm and slid to a side door where he entered.
Once inside, he grabbed his flashlight and guided the beam around. He was standing in a rectangular room with shelves of truck parts. Larger pieces, like bumpers, hoods, and trim accessories, hung from the walls on pegs. A rack of tires sat off to the side, holding more than a dozen beautiful round rings of rubber still with rims.
Spore Series | Book 4 | Exist Page 3