“Has there been a road group you did feel good about?” Daniel asked.
The look she shot back . . . yep, they’d argue again tonight.
*
No one had asked him, but Ray Hoover could not have agreed more. He had no idea he and the others of his group were under discussion, but he would have understood the concerns. He’d agreed to accompany Carla and her group out of a lingering obligation he felt for the pet store antibiotics that had probably saved his life. The gunshot wound had been a grazer, but it had never fully healed. He’d been delirious with fever when Carla and her group had found him. He now knew it had been Sammy who had found him shivering with fever from infection in the back of a car. He didn’t have a doubt that without the young boy’s concern, Carla would have forced the rest of them to just keep walking.
His choice had been simple; he’d stayed with them because they were headed east and were armed. Five guns wasn’t a target that every jackass with a rifle would take on. He’d planned on getting to the 95 corridor, turning right, and heading back to the small town in Northern Georgia that he hadn’t seen since leaving home after high school. Now, he wasn’t so sure.
This place had potential, and not for the mall, or the hotel bed he’d slept in the last few nights. The location of the place seemed beyond stupid to him. It may have made sense to FEMA when they thought this was just a bad flu pandemic, but now? Now it was just a giant, nearly indefensible target surrounded by high ground in the form of office buildings, and the crops they’d planted were in unprotected fields two miles away.
It wasn’t their fault; they were smack-dab in the middle of paved-over suburbia. But if he had a say, he’d move this whole group someplace a lot more rural. These people’s real strength was their numbers. They seemed like a cohesive group and were well set up to make a go of it. This was by the far the largest group of survivors he’d seen that wasn’t run like a slave plantation. No one had asked him though, and these people had no reason to trust him.
His own group; after having saved their asses a number of times during skirmishes on the road should trust him. But they didn’t, or at least Carla didn’t, and hers was the only opinion that mattered. What bothered him the most was that he couldn’t figure out whatever was going on between Carla and the young doctor. Whatever it was, his gut told him it had everything to do with why they didn’t trust him. He’d been trying to figure it out since he’d joined them. Watching quietly was his thing, and he knew it wasn’t physical between the two. The doc had the airhead to fill that need, and Carla’s energy was focused on something he couldn’t put his finger on. It certainly wasn’t Sammy. The woman treated the child like luggage.
Ray held up his gnawed-on chicken leg. “Not my mom’s, but that was damned good.”
His minder, Mitch, seemed like a good guy. The guy was nearly as quiet as he was and hadn’t complained when he took his lunch plate out from the hotel to eat outside. It was a nice day; the humidity wasn’t as bad as it had been the day before or as close to the evil it would be in another few weeks. The real reason he’d wanted to be outside was that was where Carla, Tom, Tina, and Sammy had gone in the company of their own minder.
They seemed to be enjoying the weather as well, but as soon as Sammy had involved Tina and their minder in a game of three-way catch, he noticed Carla and Tom with their heads bowed in conversation. It was clear Carla was doing the talking and Tom was just nodding in agreement. It was the same strange shit he’d watched for weeks. The two of them used every second they had alone to confer on something they didn’t want anyone else knowing.
“You got a friend, there.”
Mitch’s voice caught him off guard. “Sorry?” Mitch was pointing to Sammy with his plastic fork.
Sammy was holding up the tiny rubber football and waving at him to join them.
“You mind?” he asked.
“Knock yourself out. Time’s the one thing we have plenty of.”
He knew why Mitch’s words set a hook in him. He would have liked arguing the point, but held off. These people didn’t need his baggage to add to their worry.
*
Chapter 7
“There!” Corporal Cameron “Poy” Park pointed at the monitor. “We got some tourists, Gunny.” Poy’s 300 pounds vibrated in his seat, and his Hawaiian-flavored pidgin accent nearly disappeared.
He could see that for himself. The entire approach to The Hole’s entrance and the surrounding no man’s land was littered with signs warning people to stay away. Several of the signposts had camera lenses expertly embedded in them, and he had a clear shot at the five armed men who had already made it halfway across the cleared ground between The Hole and the tree line. The men weren’t in uniform except the boots and digicam pants. They all carried matching M4s.
He was desperate to know who these guys were. If he was being honest with himself, he knew that stemmed from the chance that one of those men was read in on the facility and possessed the proper authentication code to let them the hell out. The first hurdle looked to be a foregone conclusion as the group beelined to the inner perimeter. Even if one of them had the authorization code, he wondered if they were immune or had outlasted the virus somewhere. If they were merely immune and the virus was still active, their freedom would probably be measured in the week it took to die.
“They in the minefield, Gunny.”
“Copy that—do not arm,” he replied. “Do not.”
“No freakin’ way, Gunny. We gonna see sum sunshine!”
Poy’s pidgin was back. They were all keyed up and wanted out of this place. He’d already come to terms with the virus. If it was still live and a threat, he’d rather die under an open sky than cross the finish line into insanity down here. He wasn’t alone in that sentiment. They all wanted out.
He’d sent the rest of the squad down the hall to get out of his hair. They’d been pressed up against the window of the security center’s window like kids at a pet store window before he’d ordered them down the hall to take up positions outside the air lock. Poy’s excitement was more than enough to deal with.
“One step at a time, Poy.”
“They headed right for the ramp, Gunny! What else could it be?”
“Somebody involved in stocking this place? A fucking contractor who put in the plumbing? I’m guessing hundreds of people know about it. Only a few have the authorization code.”
“All them others gotta be dead though, right?”
“Lance Corporal Park.”
“Yeah, yeah, Gunny?”
“Stop talking and settle the fuck down, or I’m putting you outside.”
“OORAH, Gunny.”
Hoyt Sweet whistled as they stood at the edge of the old two-hundred-foot-deep quarry, complete with a large pond filling half the bottom. “When you said it was called ‘The Hole’, I pictured an old barn with a hidden elevator.”
He’d let them know where they were headed an hour ago as they had broken camp and started off with the rising sun. There was a wide road cut into the perimeter of the quarry site. It went around three sides of the rectangular-shaped hole in a gradual downward incline until it terminated in a large cleared space at the pond’s edge. There was an ancient looking, rusted-out bucket crane parked down there. Next to it was a slightly newer bulldozer; same rust and missing its blade. It was the bulldozer that held the key to this place.
“Good maskirovka,” Pavel said with approval.
“Good what?” Antwan asked loudly. Antwan had been spending the most time with Pavel and his burgeoning English vocabulary.
“Means camouflage,” Skirjanek answered. “Sort of, with a little deception or misdirection thrown in.”
“Like as in no fences, no guards?” Cruz asked. “Tricky, I like it.”
“Exactly,” he answered. Drew didn’t feel the need to mention that they’d just walked across a minefield.
“Guys.” He circled them up. “I want your opinions. For the sake of argument; Say you’ve
been holed up down there since before the suck. You’ve been waiting for someone authorized to come along and let you out. Is it better for me to go alone, or do we all go down together?”
“I can’t believe anybody would wait that long,” Antwan said. “Even if they are scared the virus would get them.”
“They’re Marines,” he added. “They understood the importance of the mission.”
“Shit.” Hoyt spit over the edge of the quarry. “Marines . . . God help us. Colonel, is there any way you can open the door and let them come to us? Maybe they’ll be tired by the time they get to the top.”
“The phone and your secret elevator are at the bottom of the pit.”
“Together,” Pavel said. “We have nothing to hide. We are their relief, yes?”
He’d been thinking the same thing.
“Alright, let’s go. I assume we are on closed-circuit video.”
There was an ancient intercom box attached to the rear of the bulldozer. The handset’s cord had long ago been eaten or had rotted away. He pulled at the mounted box and was almost surprised by the ease with which it popped off, revealing a modern computer terminal underneath, complete with its own telephone handset.
He entered his social security number, followed by his date of birth at the blinking cursor, and the phone’s carrier tone activated. He almost started laughing at the surreal irony of the standard ringing from the other end. He didn’t have to wait long.
“Gunnery Sergeant John Bruce speaking. Who am I speaking to?”
He could almost see the checklist the voice on the other end of the phone was reading from. It would be the standard Department of Defense, eight-by-eleven-inch laminated orange- or blue-trimmed document.
“Gunnery Sergeant Bruce, I was told there would be a lieutenant in charge down there.”
“Who am I speaking to?”
“This is US Army Colonel Andrew Skirjanek. I have the authorization codes given to me by command authority. Is your commanding officer available to speak?”
“No, sir, Lieutenant Benoit died from wounds obtained while inspecting a faulty weapon. I am the ranking Marine at this post.”
“Understood, Gunny.” If his own experience at McMurdo was any guide, he doubted if the Marine lieutenant was the only one to have had an accident with a faulty weapon.
“Long story short, Gunny, I am sorry it has taken so long to get here, but we started in Antarctica. The good news is the virus has abated, and I am ready to transmit the authorization codes upon your request.”
The excited shouting at the other end of the phone was loud enough, he immediately thought there was problem. He heard the phone drop and slam into something before sounds of a scuffle came through. A sharp bang was loud enough that his whole party heard it via the tiny speaker in his handset.
“Gunny!” he yelled, as he could feel the odds of survival drop precipitously for everyone who had decided to come with him.
“Apologies, sir.” The gunny came back on the phone, breathing a little hard. “There was a little bit of excitement at our end. I had to remove one of my guys. We’re all good, sir.”
“Anything to worry about, Gunny?”
“No, sir! Just a three-hundred-pound Hawaiian who hasn’t seen the sun in a long while. He was just celebrating your announcement.”
“Understood. Where were we?”
“Sir, if you’ll bear with me a moment; can you confirm that you are using the Lima Alpha Tango dash 8 dash 3401 tactical landline?”
“Unless there is another phone down here at the bottom of this pit, attached to a bulldozer, let’s assume I am.”
“I’m sorry, sir, I am. I’m reading off the playbook for outside authorization, and it says at the top, in big, bold letters, that each step must be followed in strict order. Sir, I really can’t afford to fuck this up, sir.”
He mentally sighed with relief. The gunny sounded a little squirrely, but in balance; he couldn’t imagine anyone in the man’s position who wouldn’t be climbing at the walls. He was still a Marine, though. “Agreed, Gunny, run your checklist.”
“Number Two.” He could hear the tension in the voice on the other end of the phone. “Is the person I’m speaking to a member of the United States Armed Forces, in good standing, duly authorized to . . . WHAT THE FUCK? I’m sorry, sir, going to skip that one.”
It was nearly ten minutes later when he heard the words he’d been waiting for. “Sir, you should have a live keyboard at your end. You are to enter the pass phrase, and press enter.”
He typed out a code he’d never forget. He’d been allowed to choose the pass phrase himself before he’d boarded the plane to McMurdo. “Stacy01-21-72Stef08-03-2002” At the time, he’d thought that his wife’s and daughter’s birthdays were a nice touch. Now it just pissed him off.
“Code authenticated, sir.” The relief in Gunny Bruce’s voice was evident. “The outer access personnel door should be opening.”
“I can confirm that, Gunny.” A small door-sized, rock-walled access panel was sliding into a recess, revealing a large stainless-steel elevator lobby within the sheer rock wall of the quarry. “We’ll be down to you momentarily.”
“No fu—” The gunny caught himself in mid-shout. “Apologies, sir. I strongly suggest we come up to you.”
“That sounds like a plan, Gunny. See you topside. Skirjanek, out.”
He hung up the phone and smiled to himself. He should have suggested that from the get-go. Hoyt Sweet was shaking his head, laughing to himself.
“What?”
“Just remembering a MEU float in my younger days.” The Navy chief pointed at the elevator lobby. “Back in the mid-’90s, we had warning orders, a typhoon and no dock space. It kept us out to sea for six weeks longer than we’d planned. By the time we tied up in Hong Kong, the Marines we had onboard were chewing the anchor chain, sir. We’d been at sea for nearly ninety days, and they had daily runs and PT on the Iwo’s flight deck. They were at each other’s throats. These guys have been in a tin can for a lot longer than that.”
“It’s a big tin can.” He nodded. “But you’re absolutely right. We’ll give them some space.”
He didn’t know what to expect from the Marines. Given what these men had been sitting on for ten months, he’d half expected some type of paranoid suspicion. Mr. Sweet’s prediction had been spot-on. The elevator doors had opened with a chime, followed by a rush of bodies that came together at the rock-lined doorway, jammed tight amid flying elbows, curses, and verbal threats. Inertia overcame friction, and the mass of men popped out like a champagne cork.
Gunny Bruce hadn’t been joking about the three-hundred-pound Hawaiian. The man looked Samoan to him, and he’d been the primary cork in the bottle, with smaller, unluckier Marines trapped between him and the walls of the narrow entrance on either side. The behemoth shot forward, landing on his gut with a cry of joy. He was on his feet in a flash, sprinting up the road to the surface. He was followed in a rush by two more Marines who quickly overtook him.
He looked back as three more Marines emerged, carrying their assault rifles, followed by a fourth, a very tired-looking gunnery sergeant with the name tag of Bruce.
Their salute was picture-perfect.
“You are relieved, Gunnery Sergeant Bruce.”
“I stand relieved.” The Marine dropped his salute. The gunnery sergeant was a lifer, older than he’d expected from their phone conversation.
“I’ve got a very good idea of what you’ve all been through, Gunny. Why don’t you and your men take a break for the night? When you are comfortable with the idea, I’d like a tour of the facility.”
“Thank you, sir.” The gunny pointed at the ramp road; two of his men had reached the first turn and were still burning for the top. The Hawaiian was lagging well behind but still moving steadily. “I considered standing them for inspection, but . . .”
“Never give an order you know won’t be obeyed?” he finished for the man.
“Yes, s
ir. Thank you for understanding, sir.”
*
Chapter 8
Northern Virginia
Pro felt a little bit guilty. Not because he and Rachel were sneaking around following the newcomers, but because Michelle had asked them to do it without telling Daniel or Reed. After a week of good behavior, Daniel and Reed had decided to let the new folks in, officially. That meant they were trusted, sort of. Michelle had argued with both of them, but had lost. Reed had basically said, people had too much other shit to do to babysit folks who seemed as harmless as they were helpful. Daniel had agreed. He and Rachel had been in the room, and he’d been surprised when Daniel asked him what he thought.
Reed had laughed at his comment that he didn’t trust anybody who wasn’t in the room with them. He of course would add Jason to that list; he’d trust Jason far above anyone else. It wasn’t until after the meeting was over that he realized they had all thought he’d been joking. He hadn’t been.
Rachel was still in the weird, moody funk they’d all been dealing with since Jason had left. Pro knew she was only half listening to the conversation going on around her. He’d been mad at Jason for not taking him along, but he’d gotten over it in a day or so. Rachel was worried about the simple fact he’d left, and she seemed to get worse every day.
Michelle had grabbed the two of them following the meeting and given them the mission to keep tabs on Carla, Tom, and Ray. None of them were worried about Sammy; the kid had been pretty much adopted by the whole community. The old man was, in his mind, just really old. Besides, he’d been sick the last couple of days and was holed up in his room. They’d promised Michelle they would do as they were told.
The meeting over, he and Rachel had headed back to the house in Great Falls. Elsa was staying with a friend at the hotel, and Reed spent most nights there as well. They’d been in the kitchen when Michelle’s voice popped over the radio—the tactical radio. Jason had pretty much put an end to using the hotel’s big transmitter. He’d described it as a giant neon sign advertising where they were.
Seasons of Man | Book 2 | Reap What You Sow Page 5