Scott sighed, already fed up with the day’s drama.
“Gary is so jealous of Darwin. Of what he has accomplished, and how he is treated by others. This goes back a long ways, James. Dad left the farm to Darwin, and we received a buyout for our portion of the estate. Not that much money, honestly, because until Darwin started working the farm, there wasn’t much to the place but raw land and some rundown buildings. The man really is a good farmer, and a really good businessman to make a living and prosper in the economy before the pulse destroyed everything. Gary, for his part, managed to squander his inheritance and still makes noises like he got cheated. At least my ex-wife stole mine, fair and square,” Scott concluded with a wry chuckle. Then he continued, more softly this time.
“Some folks around here see Darwin as their savior, even if he discourages that kind of talk. Darwin has all the attention and adulation that Gary always wanted and never seemed to receive. On the other hand, Gary is looked down upon as being a screw-up and less than trustworthy.”
James shrugged.
“Not my monkey, not my circus. I just don’t want to get caught in a bind. With Glenn living with us, and all. I know he says he doesn’t get along with his father and I’ve seen some of that, but blood tells.”
Scott, feeling relieved at being able to discuss this touchy subject with someone who wasn’t directly connected, let out a chuckle.
“Not when it comes to Glenn. That kid purely despises his father. Can’t say I blame him.”
James just shook his head. “Not like we ain’t got enough problems outside.”
“Don’t let it worry you. Gary was almost accommodating this evening and Darwin slapped him down. He knows he will need to keep his nose clean. Otherwise, I’ll be prepping a grave in the family cemetery.”
CHAPTER SIXTEEN
The trip to Lowell went off without a hitch for the two Humvee scout element, but with an extra body in Scott’s truck. Yalonda Butler, hearing of a mission to recon the horde, caught Nick after the meeting and volunteered to go as their medic. She took one back seat, Keith the other, and Ben made do with manning the turret, while Scott drove and Mike rode shotgun. Or in this case, carried the M-249 SAW. In case of trouble, Ben would grab the M-240 in the cupola and lay down fire, but the scouting party saw nothing moving as Scott eased down the dusty, deserted streets. No surprise, as Sergeant Barden and Scott had mapped out a roundabout route that avoided any areas likely still inhabited.
They drove past gutted car dealerships and long-looted liquor stores, and never even saw a dog out in the open as they rolled down the littered side streets. The scattered bundles of rotted rags Scott spotted every so often told him this area hadn’t always been so quiet, though.
“So, you think we are going to see any Mad Max shit, Scott?” Mike asked, his tone distracted as he continued to scan his sector. They were following the Guard vehicle, but Scott stressed the need to keep their own watch at all times.
“I don’t know, man,” Scott muttered in response, keeping his voice low so only the other man could hear. “Old Walter, he wasn’t much for chit-chat.”
“Even when you cut off his feet with a blow torch? Dude, that’s hard core.”
“What?!” Scott was baffled by the question, and the trend this rumor was taking. “We didn’t use no blow torch on that old guy. Who said something crazy like that?”
“Uh, that’s just what people were saying, you know. That’s why you took Sarah, right? ‘Cause she wouldn’t care what kind of crazy shit you had to do,” Keith replied defensively, joining the conversation.
“Hell, guys, all it took was a little waterboarding and a gallon of alcohol, and he gave up what he knew. The waterboarding just got his attention, I think. No, I didn’t do any crazy shit to get him to talk, alright? You tell whoever gave you those ideas I said so, too.”
“You gave that cannibal bastard booze?” Yalonda yelled from the back seat, and Scott just shook his head. She sounded downright incensed by the idea. Well, Scott hadn’t exactly been pleased, either.
“He was a drunk, Yalonda. An alkie. Heck, when Sarah started pouring, he couldn’t answer our questions fast enough. We took him through everything three, four times, trying to trip him up. I have a little experience in that field, you know?”
“What? Torturing drunks?” Yalonda countered, her voice cheerful.
“No, smartass, interrogating suspects. I used to be a game warden, you know? I can usually tell when somebody’s lying to me,” Scott replied, trying to keep the grin off his face. He liked Yalonda and despite her crashing this mission, he appreciated having her along. She was a top-notch medic and had no trouble dropping the hammer on a hostile if necessary.
“Oh, I didn’t know that,” she replied, somewhat sheepishly. “So, am I in trouble for shooting that deer out of season the other day? He just jumped out at me, looking all scary and all, and I was worried he might try to attack me or something.”
Scott laughed, really laughed, at Yalonda’s halfhearted attempt at justifying the kill.
“No, that was clearly self-defense. Plus, I think all the game laws have been suspended for the duration.”
“How long is that? The duration of what?” Ben finally chimed in, joining the conversation. He had to speak up to be heard over the engine noise, and unlike Yalonda, he didn’t have the voice for it so Scott barely heard him.
Scott paused, thinking about that question as he drove.
“Until we get a new government, most likely. I mean, we’ve all heard the governor is dead, nobody’s seen the Lieutenant Governor, and the state legislature is out of session for the foreseeable future. Seeing as how some asshole burned down the State House and all. The Arkansas National Guard is basically operating on orders set out by dead people, but don’t tell them I said that.”
“But aren’t we our own government now?” Mike asked from his seat in back, and that made Scott think. Heck, maybe they were. At least on the local level, his brother was like a mayor of their community, and maybe Nick was like the Sheriff. Nobody had seen the old one in months now, anyway.
“Maybe so, locally,” Scott replied, “and maybe that’s something for a later discussion. You know, when we aren’t heading into a dangerous situation.”
“As long as we don’t start listening to those idiots in Washington again,” Yalonda announced. “I don’t just mean those crazy Homeland goons under Chambers, or what’s-his-name, the National Security guy, either. So far, this president just sat on his ass and let us die out here while he sits in his bunker. Asshole.”
“What about this other guy? Dandridge? Speaker of the House and all that. If I remember from my government class, he’s next in line if the president is unable to act and the VP really is dead. Dandridge is the guy, then?”
Keith said a mouthful in those few sentences, and Scott didn’t want to ponder the what-ifs at the moment. But those issues were on the minds of many people, after the surprise radio announcement a few weeks back.
Scott wasn’t surprised by what was said in the short broadcast. Through his family connections and ties with the National Guard, he was privy to certain information that wasn’t exactly common knowledge. For example, he knew the president’s own doctors had pronounced him a vegetable, or suffering from a severe psychotic break, and how a small cabal of interests near the president, including the Secretary of Homeland Security, Jeffrey Chambers, conspired to keep that information from leaking.
No. What had surprised him was that David Dandridge, himself only recently liberated from virtual house arrest at another unnamed government facility, had the balls to go on what passed for a national radio broadcast and lay everything out there for the American people. The president’s status, the treasonous government officials trying to claim control, and even going so far as confirming the federal government had advanced warning of the CME event and had chosen to downplay or ignore the danger.
Scott didn’t know the details of the operation but apparently,
at least some higher ups in the military finally remembered their oaths and acted accordingly. Rumor had it, a SEAL team was deployed and they succeeded in rescuing the man from his Homeland Security guards. Probably following a trail left for them by MARSOC Marines, Scott thought with a dark chuckle. Once a Marine, Scott knew, always a Marine.
Then came the three-tone chirp from Barden over the radio, signaling it was time for the Humvees to lay up and for the teams to continue on foot. Like Scott’s vehicle, Sergeant Barden had a total of five in his Humvee, but he would be leaving one soldier behind with Yalonda to secure their rides home. The medic might not be happy about being left in the rear with the gear, but she’d already known the score before they’d left. She also was smart enough to realize that she didn’t have the training to be sneaking into enemy territory for a quick peek. Or in this case, a long surveillance op.
As the troops unassed from the Humvees inside the shell of a burned-out mechanic shop and began corralling their gear, Scott and the sergeant stood overwatch at the two ways into the building. With other troops, the two team leaders might have been busy supervising the load outs, but these were hand-picked men and besides, the packs were already set up and ready to move.
Besides, both Scott and Barden wanted a few minutes to survey the area around this, their primary rally point. Once they stepped off, the two teams would not be going far, at first anyway. Barden wanted to spend four hours watching the six-block area around this, Point Seahawk, their rally point before heading on to the final destination. Yes, the sergeant might be young for his rank, but Scott respected both his brains and the experience he brought to the job.
“You think they’re still there?” Barden asked softly as they met up for one last skull session.
Scott shrugged. “I like your idea of laying up here. Let’s us not only secure our vehicles, but gives us a chance to catch one of their teams if they are sweeping the area. But to answer your question, yeah, I do. Something says we are going to find these animals, and we aren’t going to like what we find.”
“No bet, Sergeant Keller.”
“Jeez, just call me Scott. I start looking around for Nick when you say that.”
Barden laughed softly, and then they were moving.
CHAPTER SEVENTEEN
Scott was proud of his boys, young men, he mentally corrected. They might lack the military polish of the Guardsmen, but his three scouts moved with careful steps through the overgrown brush and kept to concealment better than the soldiers. Barden was good, too, but you could tell his experience was mostly in desert or a low scrub environment. He was quiet and smooth, but not as good at using the trees and tall grass to hide himself.
After laying up for the required four hours to scan the neighborhood, they spotted a few vehicles patrolling the area, but nothing close to their rally point. Satisfied for the moment, Barden signaled his desire to head out, and the eight-man file stepped off with a determined stride. They would split off later, and closer to the area of interest.
Scott struck out to the northwest, where they all thought Walter had meant when he’d tried to describe the industrial park situated on the outskirts of Lowell. The light manufacturing complex had employed quite a few locals at one time, and Scott remembered reading the lawn furniture plant alone covered at least ten acres of real estate, including the yard and railroad sidings. The description matched Walter’s ramblings, so the scouts would head there first.
They’d covered nearly four miles before catching the scent on the shifting breeze, and Scott instantly figured this was the right place. The stink of roasting human was sadly not that uncommon these days, but the amount of smoke he spied on the near horizon told the grisly tale. That was going to be a big cook fire.
Scott angled slightly away from the nearest approach, bringing the men around in a large semi-circle. He was looking for listening posts and guard positions, and the eagle-eyed Sergeant Barden was the first to signal he’d picked up one of these outposts. Such a precaution seemed unlikely for the horde, but Scott knew the Homeland stooges had probably insisted on such measures. Those paramilitaries he’d engaged in Gentry hadn’t seemed entirely clueless, anyway.
Using hand signals again, Barden and Scott dispatched their respective two-man teams to observation sectors roughly consistent with points on a compass. They wanted as much area surveyed as possible, and their continued survival demanded that the work be done without being spotted. They had two days, less the hours already spent watching the rally point and however long it took for each team to get situated. Unlike the mission to check the massacred campers, none of them planned to withdraw unless they were compromised, but they all had a clock on their ‘time over the target’.
A daylight approach might initially seem unwise, but the plan took that into account. Each team would approach slowly, literally at a crawl, so each picked a building, clamored into their Ghillie suits and began edging towards their objectives. No one expected to claim their hides with much daylight left, anyway.
The suits, heavy and stuffy outfits festooned with strips of camouflaged cloth and intermixed with real foliage, seemed to soak up the Indian summer sun and Scott found himself sipping from his Camelback in an effort to avoid dehydration. He’d heard of SpecOp versions of the suits with built-in cooling systems and battery-operated circulating pumps, but the only model Scott ever saw for sale retailed for over $1,200 and didn’t look very sturdy. Now he was rethinking that decision, and kicking himself for not making the purchase as he broiled in the oppressive sunshine.
Scott and his partner, Mike Evans, one of the Branson crew, selected separate paths to worm through the tall stands of seedhead-heavy grass, and the crawl to their post involved a four-hour belly crawl interspersed with cutting two security fences. Fortunately, since they were so low anyway, the cut fences only needed to be split on the lower halves, and Scott sealed the breaches immediately after sliding through and turning around.
Scott reached the corner of the massive steel building about ten minutes ahead of Mike, and he used that lead time to clear the shadowy interior of the structure. A row of skylights running down the center of the slightly arched roof offered some illumination in the aircraft hangar-sized building, or otherwise the chore might have taken hours. As it was, Scott found the building to be completely empty. Well, empty except for a tiny office in back and a straight ladder attached to the side of the building and extending up to the roof. Scott found no sign of life; not even rat droppings. Whatever purpose the giant structure had served was clearly over, even before the lights had gone out. Well, he was sure the plant that’d been relocated overseas, with the outsourced jobs, was just as useless now as this site.
Exhausted by the tedious and demanding approach, the two men took five minutes to piss, rehydrate, and choke down a meal bar before tackling the roof hatch.
“I’m getting too old for this shit,” Scott wheezed as they climbed the ladder with the older man in the lead. “I need to leave this field shit to you youngsters.”
“Just say the word, Gramps,” Mike managed to quip, though in truth, his ass was dragging as well. The crawl in had been nerve-wracking as well as physically demanding, and Mike was amazed the man well over twenty years his senior not only managed to complete the crawl faster, but did it without being seen. Not even by Mike, who knew he was there.
Despite Scott’s constant protests to the contrary, many of the newcomers to the self-defense force swore Scott had to have received some kind of advanced military training over and above that of a common Marine grunt. Or an airframe mechanic, for that matter. Mike knew some of the Guard troops believed the same thing. The man was just too good at certain things. Like sneaking in the woods, or tracking the most dangerous of predators.
“Alright, junior,” Scott replied, “but let’s finish this op first.”
Once he reached the top of the ladder, Scott was disappointed but not surprised to see a sturdy padlock securing the roof access. Shrugging his
pack around to the front, Scott pulled the short-armed bolt cutters free, wedged his body against the metal of the ladder, and thrust one foot through the space between the rungs, locking his leg into place. He might slip and fall through up to his crotch, but he wasn’t falling. He’d take a shot to the nuts over a forty-foot fall any day of the week, though he preferred to avoid either of those options if possible.
Working with his shoulders and his arms, Scott squeezed the twin handles together until he felt the metal give, and then he was grabbing to catch the now-freed lock. He mostly succeeded, though a tiny sliver of steel eluded his grasp and tumbled to the concrete floor below, making a slight clatter that sounded like a dropped box of bone china cups to the pair suspended high overhead.
“And that went well,” Scott whispered as he secured both the cutters and the lock in his pack and heaved open the heavy metal hatch. The gasket around the door was brittle and stuck at first, but when Scott got his shoulder wedged against the sheet metal, he pried the bulky door open enough to peek outside.
From what Scott could see, the roof was a slightly-sloped expanse of treated sheet metal and rows of exhaust vents. These one-foot tall, manhole-cover-sized protrusions housed solar-driven vent fans designed to pull the hot air from the building and distribute it outside. Sort of like massive versions of attic vents found on homes, if Scott understood the concept. From the faint whirring sound in the background, he figured at least some of the solar systems still worked after the CME.
“Where you want to set up?” Mike asked as he followed Scott out of the hole and onto the hot roof.
Scott gestured, indicating a small structure built near the peak of the roof, nestled between the stacks and the strips of plexiglass. An old air conditioning unit of some unknown vintage, now as dead as the dinosaurs, stood on legs and provided shade and concealment.
Lines in Shadow: Walking in the Rain Page 12