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

by Justin Bell

  Javier and Jackson both nodded. Broderick lowered himself to a crouch and eased forward, so he could see better around the corner and Jackson stepped up, peering over him from the other side of the wall. He got a good view of Main Street then, looking across the two-lane road toward a collection of small houses and home offices, a police station within view near where the road crested up to meet the throughway. The headlights were visible and growing closer, three pairs of round orbs floating slowly through the darkened street, dimly lit and shaded by twin rows of overgrown trees.

  “You recognize those headlights, don’t you?” Clark asked as he came in from Jackson’s left, looking directly at Broderick as he spoke.

  Broderick nodded.

  “What do you mean?” Jackson asked.

  His question was answered in short order as the throttling rumble of engines broke free of the thickening trees and a trio of military Humvees finished cresting the slight incline, coming up onto Main Street, driving slow.

  “The Army?” Jackson asked, looking back at Broderick and Clark.

  Clark shrugged.

  “I’m not exactly in that line of communication anymore,” Broderick replied.

  In the stillness of the afternoon air, over the low rattle of engines a door slammed and Jackson whirled, looking out into Main Street. One of the houses across the street sat wide and vacant, no lights visible in the small windows, looking like a postcard for small town New England. The front door was pinned open, pounded against the wall, and a figure burst from the house at a full sprint, a woman, Jackson could tell from his vantage point, her arms raised and flailing.

  “Help us help us!” she screamed as she ran. “Everyone is dead! Help us!”

  Jackson twitched as if he might move forward, but a firm hand clasped his shoulder, fingers tightening and holding him still. He looked back and saw Clark there, pressing a thick finger to his pursed lips.

  “Help!” she screamed again, and the three Humvees ground to a halt, tires skidding on the gravel scattered over the paved surface of the two-lane road.

  His eyes wide and fixed, Jackson continued to watch the scene unfold, not entirely sure what to expect, but a dull stone of fear hardened in his belly, a rock of pure horrific uncertainty, this nagging sensation that something was going to go wrong.

  As he watched, he saw the woman run toward the vehicles, her arms pinwheeling, her mouth opening and closing. He saw the passenger door of one of the Humvees swing open and saw a soldier emerge, a young man in camouflage who lurched from the vehicle, then pressed himself back against the sloped rear of the truck.

  He was lifting a weapon.

  Jackson’s mouth parted, the word no starting to form on his lips, but his mouth was dry and the words caught there, not being verbalized even as he saw it all happening before him.

  The woman slowed for a moment, as if confused, but didn’t stop entirely, continuing to lurch forward, shouting something incoherent about sickness, dead people, and she was the only one in her family left. It was a nonsensical string of gibberish, sounding afraid and frantic, and the young man shouted for her to stop.

  She didn’t stop. Jackson didn’t know if she could.

  He told her she had one more chance, but still she stumbled forward, begging and pleading, crying out for them to understand, willing her own emotion to somehow infect them, make them realize just what was happening.

  As Jackson watched, the weapon in the soldier’s hand barked and jerked upward, a swift muzzle flash and brief cloud of smoke bursting from the barrel. The woman screamed and flailed, whirling to her left, another cloud blooming into the air, this one a cloud of crimson. The soldier fired a second time and she shouted a second time, stumbling straight backwards. Even as the gunshots echoed in the small town, she struck the ground back-first, a muffled, animalistic grunt from her lips before she spasmed once and laid still.

  Jackson’s mouth opened, nearly as wide as his eyes and he tensed his muscles as if he might charge forward out into the road and confront the entirety of the United States Army all on his own. He actually took a step forward before Clark reached out and grabbed his arm, pulling back around the corner of the building.

  “Don’t do it, man,” he hissed. “Let’s move. This isn’t a place we want to be right now!”

  Jackson glared at him, his mouth moving, but no sound coming out.

  “I know,” Broderick said. “Believe me, I know. Senseless. Stupid. But they can’t take any chances right now.”

  Both of Jackson’s fists were clenched as the engines roared to life again out on the main street, the sound carrying over the roofs of surrounding houses.

  “We need to hit the road. This town isn’t safe. I’m not sure any of them are.” Broderick snatched the canvas bag from the narrow sidewalk on the rear of the garage and slung it over his shoulder. “Come on! I saw a dirt road in the back over here. Let’s get moving. Keep going west. We’ll find what we’re looking for!”

  Jackson drew in a deep, unsteady breath, but nodded, checked his backpack straps to make sure they were tight, and plunged forward, running after Broderick, with Clark, Javier and Melinda falling quickly in line. Every stop they made ended in gunfire and disaster… more and more it was becoming clear that their life was now a nomadic one, and they’d better get used to it quickly.

  Chapter 5

  They could still hear the steady chatter of machine gun fire in the distance, a faint echo beyond the trees, and although it sounded as if it were very far away, they continued running, legs pounding, feet thumping on the frozen dirt. Forty-eight hours ago it had been unseasonably warm, what felt like a gorgeous spring day, but as the weather often does in New England, things had changed, and the wind and cold bit at them as they ran, jerking and weaving through the narrow, leafless trees.

  Javier held Melinda in his arms, his biceps and back straining with the lift. She was almost ten years old and wasn’t a toddler anymore, and as he ducked under a branch and moved to the left of a tree, he was thinking she had to be almost sixty pounds. He cradled her in the crook of his left arm, his right hand clamped over her lips as she huffed and puffed, tears streaming down her face. She’d been scared, he couldn’t blame her for that, but right now, silence was the most important thing.

  Not that anyone could hear them over the continued blasting of automatic fire.

  “What are they doing, going house to house?” Jackson asked as they ran, his pace keeping him at the head of the group, intercepting outstretched branches, trying to roll with the snatch and grab of cold, hard twigs at his face and arms.

  “Sounds like it,” Broderick replied, keeping a decent pace with Jackson, even with the heavier fatigues on.

  “Why? Why would they do that?”

  “Quarantine procedures, I’m thinking,” Broderick said. “Trying to mitigate the risk of spread.”

  “So this really is some kind of contagion? I thought you said it was a genetic weapon. One and done kind of thing?”

  Broderick nodded as he ran, veering left under a group of outstretched branches. “It is. But the data reporting that information was with the team that got gunned down two days ago. We never got a chance to transmit to headquarters.”

  “So they’re killing all of these people for nothing?” Jackson asked, his voice straining.

  “Not in their minds,” Broderick replied.

  A fierce gasping came from behind them and they turned to see Clark struggling to keep up. Each of them slowed their pace, not realizing they had gotten so far ahead.

  “You holding up, Clark?” Jackson asked, moving now at a light, slow jog.

  “I’ll be fine, kid,” he replied. “But maybe we can stop running? I think we’re far enough away.”

  Jackson and Broderick slowed even further, turning slightly to make sure nothing was pursuing them through the trees. The woods were silent and still, with no extraneous sound except the huffing gasps of their breathing.

  “You doing okay, Mel?”
Javier asked, and Mel nodded softly. He pulled his hand from her mouth and she sniffled as he set her down on the ground. She stood, but remained hugged tight to his leg. Jackson took a few steps toward her and lowered himself into a crouch.

  “It’s going to be okay, Melinda,” he said softly.

  “I miss my mom and dad,” she replied.

  “I know you do,” he replied. “Were you ever in Girl Scouts or anything?”

  She shook her head.

  “You and your family ever go camping?”

  “Nope.”

  Jackson chuckled. “You’re a tough nut to crack, kiddo.”

  Melinda smiled gently. “That’s what my dad used to tell me, too. I don’t even know what that means.”

  “It’s a good thing,” Jackson said. “It means you don’t take crap from anyone. You’re a strong kid.”

  Mel nodded. “I’m strong.”

  “That’s good,” he continued. “You need to be. The world is different now, do you understand?”

  “Those men. Were they killing people?”

  “I don’t know, but it sounded like it.”

  “Why? They looked like soldiers. Soldiers are supposed to defend us. They’re helpful. My dad told me.”

  Clark walked over, dropping low, next to Jackson. “You’re right,” he said. “Normally that’s true. I was a soldier.” He gestured toward Broderick. “He’s a soldier. And we’re helping people. But like Jack said, the world is a little bit different now.”

  “I want my old world back,” she replied, her voice cracking.

  “I think we all do, honey,” Jackson replied. “But we have to accept this new world as it is. Just try to do what we can to change it. Or at least live with it.”

  “Is the whole world like this, or just Boston? Is there somewhere safe we can go?”

  Jackson could see her gears turning, he could tell the shock and numbness of the past two days was starting to wear off, which he considered a bit of a mixed blessing. This conversation was probably twenty-four hours overdue, but better late than never.

  “Honestly?” he said. “I don’t know, sweetie. But I know the little town where I used to live… last I heard, it was safe there. That’s where I want to go. That’s where my family is.”

  “I don’t have any more family,” Melinda said. “Dad left Mexico when he was younger. Mom barely knew my grandma and grandpa.”

  “That must be very hard,” Javier said, coming down to her level as well, with Clark and Jackson. “But you know what? We’re your family now, okay? We’ll protect you. Keep you safe.”

  Melinda nodded. “Will you teach me to fight?” she asked.

  Jackson and Clark glanced at each other, then Jackson looked back at her. “Do you want to know how to fight?”

  She shrugged. “I probably should.”

  “We’ll see what we can do, kid,” Clark replied, patting her on the shoulder.

  “I’ve been scouting as we’ve been walking,” he said. “Things look clear, though I don’t see any other access roads or anything. And it’s getting colder.”

  Jackson nodded. “Yeah, I noticed.” He looked down at Melinda who was wearing a purple parka that they had grabbed from her apartment and stuffed in her backpack. She was more or less dressed for the weather, but nobody else really was.

  “Next town we run across, we need to not just find a car, but find some more supplies,” Clark said.

  “Then we better get moving,” Broderick said. “We’re all flying blind here. No maps, no compasses, no clue where we’re supposed to be going, and as the sun sets it’s only going to get colder. We spend a night out here, we could be screwed.”

  Jackson nodded. Already his arms were feeling the chill through the thick flannel shirt he was wearing. Broderick had his fatigues, which were also thick, though not particularly insulated. Clark wore a windbreaker and Javier had a sweatshirt, but nobody was truly equipped for the upcoming winter weather.

  “I should have thought of that before we left Boston,” Broderick grumbled. “Total amateur hour.”

  “None of us were in the right frame of mind when we left,” Jackson said.

  “Well, we’d better get there,” Broderick replied. “Quick. This new world has no mercy for the weak.”

  He turned and walked away, his stride firm and long and Jackson looked at him retreating toward the thickening trees. There was a hardness there, a rigidity and firmness that Jackson hadn’t noticed before, almost as if he were covering himself with some kind of protective shell. What was he steeling himself for, Jackson wondered. Would they get caught in the crossfire?

  Clark followed after him and Jackson trailed behind. He looked to his right, flashing a smile at Melinda, who smiled back, her right hand clasped in Javier’s left, her only small connection to a world that once was.

  ***

  The Humvee banked wide around the thick building, tires grabbing pavement and holding, rubber streaking across the rough asphalt surface of the road. South of Boston the tall buildings had begun to drop away, and Scarface had managed to keep the helicopters’ trajectory in clear view, picking up speed and using his experienced military eye to try to calculate where they were going to land.

  He’d seen the wreckage from a bridge he had traversed, taking a shortcut across two crossroads, leaning out the driver’s side window to keep an eye on the aircraft. As he crested the gentle curve of the bridge, he saw the smashed and shattered wreck of the downed Blackhawk, smoke lifting from it, a scattering of small orange flames flickering within the crushed metal and scattered about the surrounding debris. As soon as he saw it, he knew that’s where the other two were going. They were checking for survivors. Perhaps retrieving evidence.

  What they were doing there made little difference to him, just the fact that they were going there was important. It meant something was there to find. And it meant opportunity.

  He’d punched the accelerator, taking the Humvee up close to its maximum speed, descending from the bridge and crossing several lanes of empty pathways where traffic congestion might have slowed him a week earlier.

  Now, here he was. Here he was, reaching the landing zone before the two approaching birds, just how he wanted it, the perfect situation. The kind of situation a decade of training and operations in Soviet Special Forces had taught him to put himself in. The upper hand, never letting himself be surprised or cornered. Looking out of the window, he could make out the shapes of both helicopters against the persistent curtain of dull, gunmetal smoke, and he eased the Humvee around the final corner, pulling out into the open area.

  His eyes widened at the scene. He hadn’t noticed it from the bridge, but down here at street level, he could see that a firefight had occurred here. Several bodies clad in yellow fatigues were scattered across the pavement, a wide lot between several buildings, extending out into the wider parking lot area behind where the previous Blackhawk had gone down. To his left he saw several motorcycles overturned, a tangle of bodies under and around them, weapons discarded as if unwanted refuse. Those weapons would be very helpful, but he didn’t have the time to get them now, he had to get in position.

  He had to prepare. They were coming, and he had to be ready.

  ***

  Maxine Verragio could see the darkened shadow of the Little Bird just up ahead as it drifted down, angling toward the tops of the buildings bordering the northern edge of Quincy, Massachusetts. The smoke was thinner here and their visibility was better, though flying this close to the largest city in New England made Verragio more than a little uneasy. Never mind the fact that she was executing an actual military evac operation within the borders of the United States, but skating just west of skyscrapers still smoldering from recent disasters was unnerving, and for a Warrant Officer who normally had a titanium backbone, this was an unusual sensation for her.

  “Coming in on LZ,” a voice said over the communication channel. “Just south of the golf course.”

  “I see it,” replied Ve
rragio, then looked over to her co-pilot. “Fernando, we have clearance?”

  Uwe Fernando was a twelve-year veteran of the United States Army, and like Verragio felt uneasy about their current trajectory, but kept his unease to himself. He’d flown dozens of missions in Afghanistan, and even partnered with Special Forces in Syria, but none of those overseas operations had prepared him for flying into the city of Boston, a smoking wreckage of its former self.

  None of it had hit him harder than when they skated just west of Fenway Park and he’d glanced out the window to see it below, the park itself mostly unmarked by the recent chaos, but on the streets and sidewalks surrounding the legendary baseball stadium he thought he could make out the shadowed shapes of corpses. Not a few corpses either. It looked like dozens. Maybe hundreds. It was the off season for baseball, this cold winter November, reaching into December, but even without the draw of the Red Sox, the streets surrounding Fenway were consistently packed with pedestrians.

  Most of them appeared to have collapsed where they stood, just toppling over like puppets with cut strings. Cars and trucks sat in the road as well, many of them right where they had been driving, a bizarre museum exhibit of life in Boston in the twenty-first century. Most of the city was on fire or cloaked by smoke. Getting a glimpse through the makeshift cloud cover at the visceral scene on the streets below had caught his breath in his lungs and his heart in his chest in a way that no other previous military operation had done.

  “Fernando?” Verragio barked again. “Stay with me, Uwe.”

  “I’m with you,” he replied. “Sorry. Yes, we have clearance.”

  Verragio nodded, seeing the Little Bird banking slightly right, dipping the egg-shaped nose downward toward the shrinking buildings. Houses were visible just beyond as well, as the city cascaded into suburbs.

  “Get ready, Santamaria!” Verragio called from the pilot’s seat, looking back into the cargo area of the Blackhawk. Pedro Santamaria sat behind the side-mounted fifty caliber and looked toward her, flashing a thumbs up to signal he was ready. Across the way, Yadier Roman repeated the same gesture from the same place on the opposite side. Rotors thudded, and the Blackhawk followed the trajectory of the Little Bird ahead, tilting slightly right, turning a lazy, shallow arc, buildings drifting down below the aircraft, revealing the last tendrils of smoke choking the slate gray sky above.