The Third Wave: Eidolon

by John O'Brien

  “Unfortunately, not really. We’ve encountered what we believe to be reapers eating those who have died, but that’s not verified. They’re eating something, though, and it could be that they are able to find animals. With regards to locations, those are great ideas, but all of them except Canada and Alaska will have large contingents of reapers near any livable area. We’ve thought about finding a suitable island and using our remaining missiles to help clear it, but that puts a crimp in our options down the road. The Washington is new and has a few years left in it, but it will require maintenance that we’ll be unable to accomplish before the fuel is spent. If we run into trouble on an island down the road, we won’t be able to just pick up and leave. So, Canada, Alaska, or the interior United States are perhaps better options,” Lawrence said.

  “Sounds to me like we hang out on the island, see what happens with the winter and whether the reapers can sustain themselves in the long run before making a decision. It may come about that they all die of starvation, leaving us with a lot more choices,” O’Malley responded.

  “That’s our plan, Sergeant.”

  “Very well, sir. We’re under your command, after all. Has it occurred to you, sir, that you may be the highest-ranking officer in the entire world? There may be officers and Air Force guys in the silos, but those are mostly captains, aren’t they?” O’Malley replied. “As a matter of fact, according to the chain of command, that would make you president of the free world.”

  “I don’t really care about that at the moment.”

  “No, I guess not. It’s just food for thought.”

  During the passage, trust built between the crew and Afghanis. The language was still a barrier, but they were able to make do with gestures and facial expressions. Two weeks later, the Washington slid through the narrow channel and docked on the island.

  Sam Donaldson—Part 2

  With the early morning sun filtering through the plate glass windows, Sam opened an atlas on the table and pondered the best route back home to Washington. Part of his reason for wanting to go was that he would feel more comfortable at his own house, surrounded by things that were familiar. He felt better suited to survive there, knowing the terrain and water and food sources. Another reason was that he wanted to find out if whatever they were dealing with was localized or whether it was much greater. The last trip to the town north showed that it extended at least that far. The fact that he hadn’t seen any observable response to the situation made him nervous; he needed to know what they were up against.

  If he and Erin were going to make the journey, they needed to leave relatively soon. By his estimation, it would take them nearly a month and a half to make the trip as they would have to traverse or go around two large mountain ranges. They needed to be through the Cascades before bad weather set in. That wouldn’t be for a while yet, but if they were delayed for some reason, they could become trapped on the wrong side and have to find shelter for the winter. It would make scavenging or hunting for food much more difficult.

  Food itself would be hard to come by. Even if they packed all they could on the horses, they wouldn’t be able to carry enough for the entire trip. At some point, they’d have to scour the countryside for it, or take time to hunt, further slowing them down.

  As he pondered the hurdles they’d have to overcome, his finger traced various routes. There were basically three options: north along or near Interstate 90, cut through the Bitterroot Mountains along the Salmon River, or swing south and cut around the edge. The northern and southern routes would have the largest populated areas, and assuming they were anything like the town, they’d have to avoid those by a wide margin.

  Although not shown on the maps, there were a lot of farmhouses and small communities along the back roads. The communities they’d avoid, but the scattered homes might provide food and shelter if there weren’t too many reapers in the area. Sam didn’t harbor any great heartache about taking down reapers they came across, but the sound of the gunshots could bring more, just like before.

  He stared at the map, at the miles of countryside they had to cross. Being on the road could bring about greater dangers, either in the form of reapers or from some kind of accident . A horse startled by a rattlesnake, for instance. There was no doubt in his mind that the journey would be a difficult one.

  He looked at Erin, who was staring out of the windows, her fingers reaching into a half-eaten box of cereal and stuffing small handfuls into her mouth. She was the only thing that mattered to him and he was torn between decisions. Staying where they were would be safer, but harsher during the winter. They could stock up on wood, cutting trees nearby and hauling them off the hills using the horses, and raid the local area houses for food supplies. There was also the nearby river for fishing, and he was fairly sure he could find good hunting nearby.

  Plus, there’s the cattle.

  Sam felt frustrated that he didn’t know the right answer. Erin was a trooper and could make the trip. That wasn’t what he was worried about. It was the unknown around every corner.

  Is getting home worth the risk?

  At the very least, he wanted to venture further out of the area just to see the extent of whatever had happened. And, if they decided to come back, then he’d have to round up the cattle and figure out a way to feed them. The need for food and warm shelter would be a factor wherever they went. Their current residence was safe and had resources, so he wondered why he had a nearly overwhelming urge to get home.

  Comfortable surroundings…is that a reason to journey almost a thousand miles?

  The other possibility was to prepare this place and wait out the winter, then head out next summer. If they were to do that, then he’d have to make sure that any reapers in the area were taken care of. There was also the hope that the winter months could kill off those exposed to the bitter cold.

  “Okay, Sam. First things first.” he muttered, turning back to the map. “We’ll take a short trip out to the west. We’ll head south and then cut cross-country through the valley between these two mountain ranges, working our way to Interstate 15, and see what we see.”

  “What did you say, Daddy?” Erin inquired.

  “Huh? Nothing. Let’s go see about those horses. I’m thinking we can take them out for a ride. We’ll be gone for a couple of days, so think about what you’ll need,” Sam answered.

  The glee in Erin’s eyes was unmistakable. Ever since he first took her for riding lessons, her fascination with horses had been unquenchable. Sam made a list of things they’d need to take. How much they could bring along would depend on what equipment the ex-horse owner had.

  With the sun climbing higher, Sam grabbed one of the AR-15s and holstered a 9mm. Sam opened the door and gazed out, searching for movement in the nearby fields or along the highway. Several large black shapes circled high overhead, but there was nothing else to be seen. Staring at the clear blue sky, he searched for the white line of a contrail, or anything that would be evidence that the civilization they’d left behind still existed. The skies remained empty.

  With a sigh, Sam fully opened the door and stepped onto the porch, anxious to be getting on with things. The indecision still weighed on him and he knew that the upcoming trip was a baby step toward making a decision. He did want to find out how widespread the trouble was, but also knew it was a way of avoiding having to make a final choice. If he found the going easy enough, he may just keep going.

  They took off straight across the fields in order to avoid the corpses rotting in the dusty road. If they did remain, there would be a lot of cleaning up to do. First the bodies, and then the fridge that he’d been scared to open. Climbing through fences, they approached the neighboring house, the horses in the pasture following them as far as possible. Pausing at a nearby line of shrubs, Sam listened for movement, whether that meant shuffling footsteps, a door opening or closing, or the muffled scream of a reaper inside the house. There was only the soft breath of the breeze as it gently wafted through the
nearby trees and bushes.

  “You stay here. If anything happens, you hightail it back to the house,” Sam told Erin.

  “There’s no one here, Daddy. You killed the one who lives here the other day,” Erin replied.

  “There might be others,” Sam cautioned.

  “There aren’t.”

  “How do you know?” Sam inquired.

  “I don’t know. I just do,” Erin answered.

  “Well, I want to be sure, so stay here.”

  Erin shrugged, then smiled. “Okay, Daddy.”

  With a return smile, Sam crept forward, edging around the bushes. The house was surrounded by outlying buildings, including a large stable. In the dirt driveway near the house sat the obligatory 4WD pickup with a camper and large horse trailer attached to it. Next to that was another mid-sized pickup. A slight gust of wind stirred up a small dust devil in the lot as it blew through.

  Cradling the AR, Sam squatted next to the outside wall of the stable, observing the house and its environment. Another small flurry of wind caused the front screen door to squeak on its hinges, sending a sudden rush of fear into the pit of Sam’s stomach. It was nearly the same way he felt seeing a ghost of movement flash by a dark window while patrolling the streets in Afghanistan.

  Not seeing or hearing anything, Sam slid around the corner of the stable, crouch-walking along the front. His eyes scanned the entire ranch, trying to pierce every shadow and nook. With a dry mouth and his heart pounding, he crept toward the stable doors. He’d need to clear each of the buildings before allowing himself to feel somewhat safe. And even then, he wouldn’t feel entirely sure. His senses were so highly tuned, he could hear the faint creaks of the wood expanding in the rising heat, as if the building were slowly moving on its own.

  At the double stable doors, he waited, listening. He wished he had a squad so he could enter with a measure of firepower and speed.

  Wishes and politicians…both useless.

  Grabbing one of the wooden handles, he swung the door open, stepping back and to the side while bringing the carbine up and ready. Sam kept the barrel trained on the opening, ready to squeeze the trigger should anything appear. If it did, he wouldn’t stop firing until the figure was eating dust and the bleeding stopped. Cooler air flowed from inside, but that was the only thing. Cautiously, while keeping his ears tuned to his immediate surroundings, he stepped sideways, bringing more of the interior into view.

  A wide dirt corridor stretched the length of the barn, sliding stable doors branching to either side. Tack and gear were pegged to the wall along the length, several pitchforks and shovels leaning near the entrance. At the far end, another set of double doors leading into the pasture was closed.

  With the carbine butt firmly against his shoulder, he walked inside, the barrel swinging from side to side as he scanned the stalls: all empty. One of the rooms had a concrete floor, a hose coiled and attached to a faucet. One shelf held brushes and plastic containers. Next to it was a tack room with saddles, packs, and reins stowed neatly. At the back was a large room housing bales of hay and alfalfa.

  Satisfied that there weren’t any reapers hidden within the straw bales or about to leap out from the empty stalls, he worked his way to another barn-like structure. This one had one big open area with all kinds of tools for camping, hunting, and fishing. The person who had lived here was obviously quite the outdoorsman, apparently having been fond of hunting and/or fishing expeditions on horseback.

  Clearing the outlying buildings, Sam headed toward the house. Outbuildings were one thing, but houses were more cramped and more apt to have reapers inside. At the entrance, the front door was wide open and the attached screen door ajar. Sam contemplated just standing in the dirt lot in front and yelling. He was accustomed to moving quickly into buildings and delivering overwhelming firepower if required, or sneaking quietly depending on the circumstance. Having any reapers inside come charging through a choke point was a much better idea than having one suddenly leap out of a closet.

  Realizing that it was the better solution, Sam backed off the porch and into the dirt yard. Holding his carbine ready, he shouted, hearing a little yelp of surprise come from behind the shrubs where Erin was hiding. Chastising himself for not warning her in advance, Sam called out that everything was okay.

  Nothing came charging out of the door or from the surrounding area. He waited for a moment, then hesitantly headed back to the covered porch. The hinges on the screen door creaked as he slowly opened it fully, the noise making Sam cringe. The realization that he’d have to do this on a regular basis if they were going to truck across the country made him feel tired.

  He eased into the foyer, placing his carbine against the wall and easing the 9mm out of his holster. Enclosed areas and longer barrels didn’t make for the quickest reaction times. The interior, like the other house, was mainly one big open area with pillars reaching up to beams overhead. A hallway branched to one side with open doors along its length. A smell much like that in the other house emanated from a fridge leaking onto the floor, puddles forming a gooey mess.

  Ignoring the smell, Sam searched the main room, the barrel of his handgun tracing where his eyes looked. The far and near corners were clear. He rounded the long couch, checking every blind spot. He wasn’t overly comfortable having to check the back rooms, knowing that that his back wouldn’t be covered, but he had to check every conceivable space before he could feel marginally at ease saddling the horses. The last thing he needed was to be caught by surprise. He was the only one protecting Erin; if he made a mistake, then she could be left all on her own, and that wasn’t something his soul could handle, even in death.

  As he inched down the gloomy hall, a rank odor grew stronger. It was one he’d smelled a hundred times. Somewhere in one of the rooms, someone was dead and decaying. He pushed the first door open wider, revealing a neatly organized darkened bedroom. Pushing into the room, he checked the closet, under the bed, and around the furniture. Nothing.

  The next room was obviously some kind of trophy room with mounted game animals and fish hanging from the walls. Clothes hung from one set of elk antlers that were being used as a drying rack. Against one wall was a gun cabinet with a compound bow and crossbow on a nearby rack. After checking that the room was clear, Sam opened the gun cabinet to find several calibers of hunting rifle and a carbine much like the one he had left by the front door. In the closet, he found a couple dozen arrows and an array of arrowheads. In addition, there were a number of crossbow bolts.

  He exited without touching any of the weapons, quickly checking a bathroom. At the rear of the corridor, a door stood ajar. Edging up to the opening, on the verge of gagging from the stench, he peeked through the crack. A body lay on the bed, the blankets rumpled and sheets deeply stained from the decaying corpse. Sunken eyes stared blindly at the ceiling from an ashen face. A pale arm poked out from the covers, the lightness turning to a bruised color on the lower portion. A rounded lump raised the covers in the area where the torso was, attesting to the state of decay. Sam backed away from the door, not wanting to enter, and then down the hall. At the entrance, he raised his weapon and whistled, waiting for the door to fling open and a reaper to come rushing out. Again, nothing.

  He quickly headed into the trophy room, gathering the crossbow, compound bow, arrows, and bolts. Exiting the house, he placed those on the porch and extracted his carbine. Calling to Erin, he wondered how she’d known there weren’t any reapers in the house.

  Wishful thinking, perhaps, he thought, watching as his daughter came into sight.

  In the barn, he opened the back door to the pasture and found the horses standing nearby. They eyed him in a questionable manner as he approached, but they let him grab the reins, one by one. He led them inside and into separate stalls where he tossed a few handfuls of alfalfa into their food bins. In the storage room, he shook several saddle blankets to ensure they were clear of burrs, and then proceeded to saddle each horse. As with all horses, he
heard the sharp intake of breath when he wrapped the cinch under their bellies.

  “This isn’t my first rodeo,” he muttered.

  He played the waiting game with strap in hand. When he saw them exhale, he cinched the strap tightly. He then led two of them out to the pasture, climbing onto one and then the other to test their temperaments. Neither one attempted to buck or play the “move when you try to climb on” game. Next, he helped Erin onto one. The horse didn’t balk, and the two of them rode around the pasture. Satisfied that they’d take to strangers riding them, and after getting Erin comfortable, they rode back to the barn. Erin beamed so much that he wouldn’t have been surprised to see light radiating from her.

  He unsaddled the horses and gave them a quick rubdown. The first ride was a test to see if they could be ready to go at first light. They’d ride the two and put the packs on the two others to carry food, water, and camping supplies.

  The next day, Sam did a careful check of the neighboring house even though Erin assured him that there weren’t any reapers in the area. With Erin’s help, Sam saddled and loaded the horses. Before leaving, he tested the compound bow on a small range set up near the barn, with bales of hay stacked and stakes planted in the ground for yard markers. With 125-grain broadheads, the lighted pin markers on the sight were almost perfectly set up for 20, 30, 40, 50, and 60 yards. Sliding the bow into one scabbard on Erin’s horse, he placed one of the hunting rifles into another on his own. An AR-15 was strapped to his back and a 9mm was at his side. Together, towing the two pack horses behind by a long lead of reins, with the sun climbing above the eastern ranges, they headed out of the barn and turned south on the highway. Sam would have liked to keep to the fields, but the numerous fences would have slowed them down to a crawl.

  The slow clop of hooves and the creak of leather were the only sounds until they came to a dirt road leading off the pavement. Checking his compass, Sam turned his horse onto the forest service road. Not far down the road, he stopped at the sight of a steel girder bridge that crossed the Madison River. Dirt parking lots were on each side of the river, each with a couple of parked vehicles and horse trailers. Pulling out his binoculars, he glassed the area without seeing anyone.