Scorched Earth: Book 2 in the Thrilling Post-Apocalyptic Survival Series: (Zero Hour - Book 2)

by Justin Bell

  The fourth time had been a charm, and Javitz had been glad for it, frequenting the small tavern at least once a week for the better part of his twelve years at the job. He’d seen many friends and co-workers come and go, but a core group of them had made Gino’s their second home.

  He needed them now.

  The conflict with those guys in the yellow fatigues had convinced him of that. Just like that, the world was falling apart and the government was staking its claim. If they didn’t act fast, they’d be in a worse place than they were already. Lucky for him, he and his friends had some useful skills in a world such as this, but if he was going to take advantage of those skills, he had to find more friends. In the rush after the initial disaster in Boston, he’d managed to round up half a dozen buddies in an attempt to escape the city and use this new anarchy to their advantage. They’d run into that military team, and he was the only one left.

  That was on him. He hadn’t surrounded himself with the right people, and he wasn’t going to make that mistake again.

  Easing the bike to the right, he could clearly see the unlit sign for Gino’s Tavern extending out from the brick building, normally surrounded in a comforting neon glow, today it sat dull and dark, the built-in LED’s just as black as the windows. As he slowed his ride, he glanced over toward another narrow alley running just to the left of the small tavern. A smirk turned up his lips as he saw three motorcycles down the dark passage, leaning up against the wall.

  Indeed, it appeared as though some of his friends were already here.

  ***

  The man sat on a stool, his knees bent, legs dangling over the edge, elbows resting on the polished wooden surface of the bar. It was a familiar position for him, and a familiar feeling, one of those familiar feelings he really needed in a world that was now so wholly alien to him. He sat alone, one hand wrapped around the thick glass mug of a beer stein, the other hand slowly stroking his graying beard which extended from his chin in thick, wiry strands, coiling together like brush. The man could no longer remember how long he’d been sitting there, though he thought he’d arrived pretty shortly after everything went downhill.

  He glanced over toward one of the tables set deeper into the tavern, a round, oak table, beaten down and worn from a decade of use. Stools and chairs were overturned and had been set upon most of the other scattered furniture, making the bar look like it was closed down for the night, but at one of the tables, the chairs had been pulled off and placed around in a large circle. Every chair was occupied, all five of them, each one by a similar looking man. In their forties or fifties, most with facial hair, a few with long ponytails, each one was relatively broad shouldered, wearing either denim or leather. They spoke in hushed voices, talking about their wives, their families, their homes, none of which were as they used to be.

  But they all had one thing in common. They were all workers in the local steel mill, and they’d all just naturally gravitated toward Gino’s when things went up in flames. It seemed like fire was all around them, chaos and destruction ringing this little downtown neighborhood like a barrier, a wall of heat and smoke to keep everyone away.

  That was fine with them. They were content to sit at the table, shoot the breeze and drink. Gino’s was a tavern, its main product of the alcoholic variety, but he had plenty of food he’d used for small meals and appetizers and slowly the men had begun whittling through it. Beer and liquor was their main sustenance, but every once in a while they took a break with the drinks and consumed some freezer-style french fries, bags of pretzels, and in one case, they’d really splurged and cracked open some sliders. Power had gone out several hours previously so most of the food they either set out and let defrost, or they sucked it up and crunched it down. The fries had been pretty easily broken up and consumed, even while frozen, though the pre-cooked sliders they left out for a couple hours to soften.

  Pretzels, chips, mixed nuts, those all worked great straight out of the bag, but they wanted to be careful. They had to make the food last. Each and every one of them had accepted the fact that they were likely not long for this world. Not being able to see beyond Boston, they had no idea what was happening elsewhere, but they hadn’t seen any police, no firetrucks, no ambulances, and still, two days later the fires raged and chaos ruled over all. It didn’t feel like a situation they were ever coming back from.

  “Can you spare some of those pretzels?” the man at the bar asked, nodding toward the table full.

  “Gee, I don’t know, Mr. McNab. How many pretzels were you sitting at home eating while we were working mandatory overtime, huh?”

  McNab lowered his eyes toward the bar and tried to hide his frustrated smirk. He’d been middle management at the mill. Worked there for five years before being a Team Lead, then was promoted to shift supervisor a year later. He was on his way to department head in another six months, he figured, before everything went south. McNab didn’t make the rules, but he was the one who had to enforce them, and doing so made him no friends at the mill.

  Certainly not these men sitting at the table, only about twenty feet away, yet showing no interest in what was going on with his life. McNab estimated that they may just be the lone survivors of the whole steel mill, a fact that both frightened and amazed him and he wondered just how he’d gotten so lucky.

  Though he didn’t feel very lucky.

  “C’mon, Lutz. Cut me some slack, buddy, will you? I didn’t make the rules, I just had to enforce them.”

  Lutz shrugged. “Well, I’m just enforcing this here bag of pretzels. You want it, you’re going to have to come take it from me.”

  McNab shook his head and lowered his fingers from the tangle of gray hair at his chin, touching a second glass on the bar. He’d been alternating between vodka and beer and was feeling like it might be about time for a refill on the vodka.

  “Tell you what?” Lutz said. “I’ll trade you this here bag of pretzels for your Yamaha out there in the alley. If we decide to take off, I’d rather not have to piggy back with Jerome over here again. That boy hasn’t showered in a month.”

  “Shaddup,” Jerome barked back, reaching over and slapping Lutz on the back of the head. Lutz turned toward him and for a moment, McNab thought they might push their chairs back and start throwing punches. Instead, the two men barked laughter.

  “Sorry,” McNab replied. “The Yamaha’s mine. Maybe it’s time I saddle up and ride on out of here.”

  “Dang, man, you’re gonna break our hearts,” Lutz replied. “I’m hurt.”

  McNab remained seated, his two glasses in front of him, eyes narrowed toward the group of men at the table. He heard scuffling behind him, a brief scrape of shoe on floor and started to turn, his eyes widening, wondering who might be coming in the door in the middle of the apocalypse.

  ***

  McNab started to turn toward Javitz, hearing that slight scuff on the floor, but Javitz moved a little too quickly. Coming up behind the man seated at the bar, he wrapped a large hand around the back of his head and shoved forward, driving his forehead straight down, exploding the glass stein that sat on the bar, beer splashing all over the polished wood. Curling his fingers through the unkempt bush of gray hair, he yanked back, hauling his ruined and broken face from the cracked wood of the bar, blood streaming from jagged glass thrust into his head, cheeks and nose.

  McNab’s eyes opened and drifted, confused as Javitz looked down at his face, his mouth an angry sneer.

  “I never did like you, McNab,” he hissed, and drove his other hand into the man’s throat. McNab gasped and fell back as Javitz released the grip on his hair, and he scratched at his neck, doing what he could to free the airway of his crushed throat. Toppling to the floor, he rolled, flailing and grabbing, trying to cough, but only making muffled, heaving huffs. For several moments he rolled there while Javitz watched, a crooked smile on his face until he laid still, his arms folding in and resting on the worn wood of the floor.

  “Javitz?” Lutz asked, pushing
himself up from the table. “Is that you?”

  The other man turned and pointed at Lutz, nodding. “You know it, Lutzy.” He walked over toward the table. “I’m too stubborn to be killed by whatever the hell this is.”

  Pulling a chair out, Javitz dropped himself into it and Jerome slid an unopened beer bottle toward him. He snatched it from the table, wedged it on the edge of the table and popped the top off, then tipped it back, taking a long, luscious swallow.

  “Man,” he said with a light belch. “Wasn’t sure I’d ever taste that again.”

  “Plenty more where that came from,” replied Jerome. The other men around the table chuckled.

  “Appreciate that,” Javitz said. “But I’ve got another proposition for you guys.”

  “What’s that?”

  “This world is ripe for the taking, boys,” Javitz said, smiling wide. “I’ve seen it. I’ve been out there. Me and some of the other guys faced down a government FEMA group. They’re coming for us. All of us.”

  “For real?” Jerome asked. “FEMA?”

  Javitz nodded. “I was in a gunfight with ‘em. A legit, balls to the wall gunfight. I was the only one left standing.”

  “Holy—”

  “Yeah. We gotta move fast. Where I just was, there’s a bunch more motorcycles there. Riders are dead, but they’re up for grabs. We move now, and every one of us gets a fresh ride.”

  “And what are we doing with these rides?” Jerome asked.

  Javitz smiled. “That’s the best part, man. We’re doing whatever we want. Law and order are dead and buried, my friends. It’s the wild west, and we are next generation banditos.”

  Lutz’s lips spread into a sly, satisfied smile. “Gotta say, I like the sounds of that.”

  The smiles went around the table, accompanied by some small nods. It seemed everyone was in agreement.

  “Someone grab McNab’s keys,” Lutz said. “He won’t be needing ‘em. Looks like he’s trading us his Yamaha after all.” Lutz stood and walked toward the still body of McNab, then looked in his palm where a few stray pretzels remained. He tossed them carelessly over the prone form of the man who lay still on his side, not breathing or moving.

  “There’s your pretzels, scumbag.”

  Javitz laughed out loud, then they all rose to their feet and walked toward the exit, ready to begin their new life of lawlessness.

  ***

  “Give me a SitRep, Lieutenant Burns,” Colonel Reeves said as he walked toward the communications console. The hustle and bustle of the command center had lessened in the past few hours, but the rows of steel tables near the rear of the room were still full of men and women in lab coats, while all the seats behind the comms were full as well. On the plus side, Reeves hadn’t seen the suits in at least sixty minutes. He considered that a small blessing.

  “We are tracking both birds down into the city, both are navigating the western perimeter, coming in low and close to the last reported position of the downed Blackhawk, sir. All is proceeding as normal.”

  “Good to know,” Reeves replied. “Any other interesting news out of Boston?”

  “We’ve been tracking several communications chains coming in and out of the city, though most of those intercepts have been offloaded to National Security,” reported Lieutenant Hayes.

  “And?”

  “We’ve seen one report of a Humvee missing in action, three men on board, as well as reports of scattered violence throughout downtown, bleeding into the areas surrounding Logan Airport.”

  “What sort of violence?”

  “Reports of… men on motorcycles, sir?”

  “Men on motorcycles?”

  “That’s what the comm chatter said. Started out as a random 911 call which somehow got caught within one of our intercepts.”

  Reeves shook his head. “All right, try to parse out some of that useless stuff. I have a conference call with National Security in an hour, providing our landlines don’t crap out by then. I’d like a synthesis of what we’re seeing and hearing on our end by then.”

  “I’ll make it happen, sir.”

  Reeves started to turn away, but halted momentarily and glanced back over his shoulder. “Lieutenants Hayes and Burns?”

  “Yes, sir?” they both responded in unison.

  “When did you sleep last?”

  Burns turned first, her face gaunt and slack, dark circles puffing the skin under her eyes. “I grabbed a couple of hours of rack about six hours ago, sir.”

  Hayes repeated the motion. She looked considerably more awake, though her eyes were also slightly swollen. They didn’t appear to be swollen by lack of sleep, however.

  “I grabbed about three hours worth, sir. I’m good for a bit.”

  Reeves nodded. “I need your heads in the game, obviously, but I understand what you’re dealing with, all right? I’d call in the reserves, but…”

  Hayes looked at him for a moment, eyes locking on his.

  “There aren’t any?” she asked quietly, images of faces running through her mind, faces and names that she’d grown to know over the past several years in her career.

  Reeves firmed up his shoulders. “At this point we’re having difficulties raising the majority of Fort Detrick staff who aren’t already in the building,” he said. “And in fact, even with the folks in the building, we’re running at about ten percent capacity.”

  Burns’ eyes widened slightly as she glanced around the room. “The command center has been so busy, I just assumed—”

  “I know,” Reeves replied. “Fact is, almost all personnel we’ve been able to reach has been through this room. The rest of the installation is near empty.”

  Hayes lowered her gaze, her breath catching.

  “Can you hold it together with that information, Lieutenant?” Reeves asked.

  “Of course,” replied Hayes.

  The colonel stood there looking at the two women for a moment. They both met his eyes without hesitation, waiting for him to say what he was going to say.

  “Have either of you heard from your families?”

  Hayes coughed softly and blinked, looking away from the colonel as if to compose herself.

  “Sir, I have not heard anything,” Burns replied, keeping her face remarkably stable and devoid of excess emotion. Colonel Reeves had no detailed knowledge of her personal life and didn’t know what made up her family unit, so the question and answer ultimately held little meaning.

  “Lieutenant Hayes?” Reeves asked, turning toward the other woman who had her fist pressed to her pursed lips.

  “Sir, I haven’t heard anything,” she replied, not meeting his eyes.

  “Who can I reach out to?” he asked quietly.

  Hayes’ eyes darted up, finally meeting his. “Is that…appropriate, Colonel?” she asked.

  “Nothing about this situation is anywhere close to appropriate, LT. I can’t promise anything, but I’ve got some contacts. Let me know names and locations, I’ll see what I can do for you, okay?”

  Hayes nodded quickly, her head jerking up and down.

  “Burns, are you sure there’s nothing I can do?” Reeves asked, turning toward the other woman. As he did, his eyes scanned the room, locking on each and every one of the men and women working diligently in the command center. He fully intended to reach out to each and every one of them to see what he could do to connect them with the ones they loved.

  If they were still alive.

  “I’m good, Colonel,” Lieutenant Burns replied, then turned back to the console, slipping thick earphones from a peg and sliding them over her tousled hair.

  “Get on the horn with the Little Bird,” Reeves said to Hayes. “Tell them to proceed with caution. The violence seems like it’s steering clear of that area, but we don’t want to take any chances.”

  “Yes, sir,” she replied and hunkered down at her communications station, opening up the channel and beginning her transmission.

  ***

  “Hold up!” shoute
d Broderick as they drew up close to the garage. Clark had separated from the group and was walking over toward the classic Ford Bronco, an audacious looking red and brown old-school sports utility vehicle. He’d been nearly salivating as he wandered toward it, arms outstretched as if he might attempt a warm embrace.

  The rest of the group was walking toward the garage building itself, meaning to check the doors to see if they were locked and perhaps work their way inside to hunt for supplies. The town had been completely empty so far, and they remained at least somewhat confident that food, water, or other necessities might be within the small structure.

  Jackson had forgotten just how hungry he was, and how hungry the rest of the group must have been. They’d grabbed some food from Melinda’s apartment and had spent some of the past forty-eight hours nibbling on it as their stomachs growled, but it had been a mix of crackers, nuts, juice boxes and other small, portable food, which hit the spot short term, but for long term sustainability it wasn’t going to do the trick.

  Both Javier and Jackson looked up toward Broderick as he spoke, pinned to the corner of the garage, wedging tight to the wall.

  “What do you see?” asked Javier.

  Broderick gestured for them to run toward him, and they followed his orders, trotting across what was left of the parking lot, dropping against the wall, just behind them.

  He turned to the two men and the young child. Clark watched them from over the Ford Bronco, holding his position. “I see headlights coming from the east,” he said quietly. “They’ll be on the Main Street in a moment.”

  “That a bad thing?” asked Jackson.

  “I guess that depends on your perspective,” Broderick replied, “but I’m of the mind that we should be erring on the side of caution until we’re certain otherwise.”