Bunker was about to nudge Tango in the sides with his heels, but stopped when he heard the grind of an engine. But not just any engine—a high compression diesel engine, chattering and knocking as it processed the heavy fuel within its bowels.
Tango’s feet became restless and his ears twitched, turning from side to side like a pair of radar dishes in search of an unidentified object.
Bunker leaned forward and rubbed the equine’s neck, wanting to keep the twelve-hundred-pound locomotive quiet. And still. The attention worked, allowing Bunker to study the sonic waves vibrating through the humid atmosphere of the forest.
The engine noise was a constant rattling chug, traveling somewhere beyond his field of vision. Even though the pitch wasn’t changing, the angle was, indicating the vehicle was headed north. North meant the traveler may have been on an intercept course with the miner’s camp—a locale choking in blood and guts.
He ran through it in his mind, crunching the possibilities. It couldn’t be Stephanie. She never would’ve returned to the camp, not with the children and Franklin in tow. The huge cowboy needed medical attention and the kids sanctuary.
It probably wasn’t Daisy, either. The Land Rovers were gasoline engines, not diesels. Unless, of course, she changed her ride before doubling back.
But how? Theoretically nothing else was working. They were fortunate to find two working trucks as it was, so that likelihood seemed remote at best.
No, the vehicle cruising nearby belonged to someone else. Someone with an EMP-proof machine. It was also possible the vehicle wasn’t within the blast area when the electromagnetic pulse hit. Possibly stored underground or in a metal barn that doubled as a faraday cage. He figured it was one of the anonymous men in black. Men who had a hard-on for Pokémon, as Daisy had quipped. Men who were prepared for this EMP event.
When the engine whine faded, it gave way to the harmonic timbre of the Rocky Mountains. Birds chirped, whistled, and sang, sending invitations of courtship to each other, their ballads interrupting the near-constant backdrop of the breeze pushing its way through the dense thicket of leaves.
Bunker tugged the reins to one side, swinging Tango around to investigate the new arrival. Two taps of his heels sent the animal forward. Two more sent him into a fast trot.
CHAPTER FIFTY-THREE
“I wish I could disagree,” Buckley told Apollo as they walked into the Sheriff’s Office together. “But you’re right. Burt isn’t going to stop taking advantage of people. Not if there’s money to be made.”
Apollo nodded, not looking happy about it. “There’s not much we can do about it if the citizens are desperate enough to hire him.” The portly uniformed man sat in his chair behind the desk, letting his backside land on the cushion with more force than was necessary. He spun around to face the window that peered into the town square with his hand on his chin.
Buckley took a seat on the end of the desk, his knees facing the same window. “Who I worry most about are the older folks. Most of them are on fixed incomes.”
“Aren’t we all,” Apollo smirked, his eyebrows pinched and nose wrinkled.
Buckley cleared his throat, hoping to avoid a conversation about salary. “On a different matter, Gus, I don’t think we can wait any longer for Daisy and Bunker to return on their own.”
Apollo didn’t hesitate. “Agreed. Time to send out search teams.”
“Who are you thinking?”
“Me, for one. And I’d like to commandeer your grandson, if that’s all right with you. Rusty’s already been to Atwater’s ranch and I figure I can use his eyes and ears. Plus I’ll need to know if anything has changed since he’s been out there. He’s our only real witness.”
“I know he’ll want to help.”
“Do you know if he can ride a horse?”
Buckley didn’t know the answer for sure and didn’t want to mislead his second in command. He decided to answer with more than a simple yes or no. “Probably, but I’m betting he’ll want to make the trip on his racing bike.”
Apollo sucked in his lower lip before he answered, nodding slowly. “I’m sure we can make that work. Though I’m still taking a horse, because pedaling up and down these hills isn’t gonna cut it for this old dog.”
Buckley laughed, the smile growing by the second. “Yeah, you and me both. Like Mother Nature, Father Time does not negotiate.”
“Nor does he take prisoners. This getting older thing sucks,” Apollo added, his tone friendly. “Had I known what this would be like when I was younger—”
“No need to go there, Gus. I’m already way ahead of you.”
“Good to know we’re on the same page. About a lot of things.”
“You know what they say, great minds and all that.”
“Definitely,” Apollo said, sitting forward in his chair with his eyes locked on the bustle of activity outside. “I’ll go round up a couple of my deputy teams and get them moving as well. We’ve got a lot of forest to cover.”
“New or old teams?”
“New, I’m afraid. Doc Marino wants the reserve unit to rest. They’ll need several days to recover from their hike back to town. Dehydration is some seriously nasty business.”
“Sounds prudent. Though I’m not so sure about those two, Albert and Dustin. They’re not exactly what I would call physical specimens, plus they’re a little green around the edges.”
“Yes, they are. But I’ll get them up to speed, eventually. Assuming I can ever find the time to do a little training. So far, this train wreck of a situation hasn’t stopped for a moment.”
Buckley couldn’t hold back a nod. “I’m sure Bunker would agree. Train wreck and all.”
Apollo stood up and faced the Mayor. “Rusty and I will investigate Tuttle’s place first. Then we’ll head over to Atwater’s stables. I wanna get a look at everything first hand.”
“Tuttle’s place, huh? Isn’t that across the street from Martha Rainey’s place?”
“Yes, as a matter of fact.”
“You’re obviously worried about her fine-looking daughter, Allison,” Buckley said, refraining from ribbing Apollo about his obvious infatuation with the new waitress in town.
“Her and everyone else. Wish I could’ve stopped her from heading out there until we knew more about what’s going on, but that’s where her mother lives. People are gonna do what they do. There’s only so much I can stop legally.”
“Roger that,” Buckley said, taking a few seconds to run a few more thoughts through his mind. There was one more scenario they needed to cover. “What if Daisy and Bunker happen to stroll into town while you’re gone?”
“If that happens, then great. But make sure they stay put. I’m gonna want a full report when I get back.”
Buckley paused, his eyes drifting into a long, unfocused stare. He suddenly felt a thousand years old, his energy levels draining the needle toward empty.
“Is there something else, Mayor?” Apollo asked, his tone genuine and concerned.
Buckley exhaled a slow breath, letting the words line up on his tongue. “I don’t know, Gus . . . right now, it feels like we’re swimming in quicksand.”
“What do you mean?”
“Every time we try to take a step forward, it seems like we’re dragged three steps back.”
“I know how you feel, Mayor. It’s exhausting.”
“The word exhausting doesn’t begin to cover it. Just look at all we’re facing. We’ve got important people missing, no communication equipment, a fuel supply under threat, citizens doing their own thing, no power, no electronics, no real transportation, limited manpower, limited food and medical supplies, and our plan to send out recon teams in all directions has gone nowhere. Oh, and let’s not forget, a possible invasion,” he said, feeling his blood pressure spike. “Even I’m starting to wonder if we’re the right men for the job.”
“We are, sir. I’m sure of it,” Apollo answered, his tone confident. “We’re just a little shorthanded, that’s all. E
ventually something will break our way. Until then, I think it’s important that you and I stick together and stay the course.”
“No, you’re right, Gus. A united front is the key.”
“Absolutely. As long as we make sound, rational decisions, I’m confident everything will work out. You know what they say—two heads are better than one.”
Buckley nodded, feeling better than he did a few seconds ago. “Because if we don’t take the lead, who will?”
“Exactly, sir. The good citizens of Clearwater are counting on us, whether they realize it or not.”
CHAPTER FIFTY-FOUR
Albert Mortenson put his hand on the lift handle of the garage door, twisting it ninety degrees before yanking it up. The four-panel steel door slid open, allowing the sun to flood the space. The rays of light instantly highlighted the dust in the air, showing a medley of swirls and streaks dancing in the turbulence.
He stood on his toes to push the door into its overhead locking position. It would’ve been much easier if his dad had installed backup power on the property when he was alive. A generator. Solar. Something. Anything to avoid the constant manual work to open and close this heavy door.
At least the door was insulated. So were the walls, keeping the temperature inside the garage from getting out of control. Drafts of air still found their way into the car shelter, but it was better than it would have been without the extra attention to detail.
Fellow deputy and legendary string bean Dustin Brown walked in first, heading for the lengthy, tarp-covered vehicle parked inside. “How long has this thing been in here?”
“Since before I was born. Dad would only take it out on Sundays,” Albert said, following his new friend and rookie meth cook. “Dad bought it brand new from a Plymouth dealer in Denver when he and Mom first got married. I swear he loved this car more than her. Definitely more than me.”
Albert rubbed a layer of dust away, then grabbed the strap on the front of the cover. He pulled it back, revealing his father’s most prized possession, a 1957 Plymouth Sport Suburban four-door station wagon.
The tarp caught air as he tugged on it, floating atop the vehicle’s massive hood. He continued to remove the wrap, giving Dustin a prime view of the abundant glass surrounding the seating area and the acres of nearly-flat steel making up the cab.
“Holy shit, that’s big,” Dustin said, running his hand across the red paint. He traced his finger along the flaking white of the vehicle’s pinstripe, tracing the contour of metal from the front fender well to the set of rear vertical fins. “Even has a luggage rack. Cool.”
“Not that we ever took a trip in it.”
“I wish I could’ve seen this thing back when it was new. It must have been beautiful. Look at all that chrome.”
“Yeah, Dad was really proud of it. I’m pretty sure it was his first and only new car.”
“Can’t be many of these on the road anymore. In fact, I don’t think I’ve even seen one before.”
“Most people haven’t. At least not our generation.”
“With all that steel, I’ll bet it feels like a tank when you drive it.”
“I wouldn’t know. Dad never let anyone but him take the wheel.”
“How many miles on it?”
Albert tossed him the keys. “I don’t know. Why don’t you get in and find out?”
“Really?” Dustin asked as the keys hit him in the chest. He made a wild two-handed stab for them but missed, sending them to the concrete floor in a jangle. He picked them up and unlocked the door. When he opened it, the hinges creaked and groaned like an old man trying to get up from an afternoon nap in an easy chair.
Dustin sat inside, gripping his fingers on the vintage steering wheel. His eyes looked down at the dash. “Wow, only 21,066 miles.”
“Like I said, only on Sundays. When he was alive, at least.”
Dustin hesitated for a moment before he spoke again, his fingers playing with the knobs on the dash. “When did he pass?”
“A little over a year ago,” Albert responded, wondering if he should share the cause of death. If he did, it might add to the bond they were forming. “Dropped dead during a church volleyball game, if you can believe that shit.”
“Your parents were religious?”
“Not exactly. Dad was there to weather-strip their doors when one of the nuns talked him into playing in a charity match. I guess someone didn’t show up and they needed one more guy.”
“Jesus, that must have been a shock.”
“Yeah, it was. Mom went six months later and ta-da—I inherit everything. Well, after the state did its thing during probate. Took forever, but it’s all mine now. Including this old clunker.”
“I’m sorry about your parents.”
“Don’t be. I really wasn’t that close to them. All we did was argue whenever I was around. Usually about my weight. Or my choices. Especially my dad. He never really approved of anything I did.”
“Most fathers don’t.”
Time to change the subject, Albert decided. “I have to say, you look damn good behind the wheel. Why don’t you go ahead and start it?”
Dustin smiled, then inserted the keys into the ignition. His eyes flared as he turned it. Nothing happened. Not a sound. “Hmmm, battery must be dead.”
“Actually, I’m sure the whole engine is dead. This thing hasn’t been started in a long time. Cars are machines and you have to use them or they seize up.”
“So . . . how exactly is this station wagon going to help us with our transportation problem? I mean, I get that’s it’s big and all, with tons of room for our first batch of Clearwater Red. But it seems kinda useless if it doesn’t run.”
“Remember the guy who tried to break my thumb at the gas station?”
“You mean Burt?”
“Yep. He’s the best mechanic around.”
“You think he can fix it?”
“No doubt.”
“But how? He hates your ass.”
Albert reached into his pocket and pulled out a Ziploc bag filled with brilliant red crystals. “A trade.”
“He’s into meth?”
“Wouldn’t put it past him. He’s obviously a weak-minded man with self-confidence issues. The perfect customer.”
“What if he isn’t?”
“Then I’ll convince him to sell it and make some serious cash. Either way, I’m sure he’ll get this sled running for us.”
CHAPTER FIFTY-FIVE
Bunker slowed Tango to a trot as they grew closer to the deteriorating miner’s camp. He continued the slower pace for another hundred yards or so before he decided to pull back hard on the reins. Tango responded, allowing him to dismount in one smooth motion. He secured the horse to a stout branch of a seasoned cottonwood tree, its broad canopy providing a welcome respite from the sun’s fiery glow.
He decided to use a Clove Hitch, something he learned to tie during his extensive underwater training sessions. It was the preferred knot when attaching detonation cord to an obstacle and he figured it was strong enough to hold Tango. As was the branch he’d chosen, unlike the overgrown twig he’d used before.
His traveling companion was a clever escape artist, but Bunker couldn’t afford to let Tango work himself free again. Not until he figured out what was going on with the new arrivals.
Bunker grabbed his rifle and headed up a long, steep incline, pushing his burning thigh muscles to their breaking point. The steep ridge ahead overlooked the camp, a fact he learned while Daisy and he were searching for the insurgents’ vehicles.
When he neared the apex, he put the AR-10 in his left hand, then dropped into a low-angle crawl, slithering the remaining twenty feet on his belly.
A stand of underbrush was his target—scrub oak, packed together like a skirmish line on the edge of the ledge ahead. Their orange leaves were interspersed with patches of brown and red, giving them a festive aura. The flora’s rainbow of colors would help conceal him, he figured, as he neared the steep drop
-off. His arms trampled a handful of discarded acorns. They were yellowish-brown with shallow, warty cups, flattening against the hardpan soil as he moved.
Once in position, he allowed himself a few seconds to take in the view. The scene was almost beyond words. Majestic peaks rose like imposing sentinels in every direction, proudly reaching to the heavens. Trees of every shape, size and color lined the undulating tapestry, huddled together like willing soldiers on a march.
The blue sky held wisps of cirrus clouds, each with curling streaks of moisture leading the way. They looked like massive sprays of paint, floating free in the jet stream as they worked their way toward oblivion.
Birds with mighty wingspans were soaring—four sets of them—spread out across the blue in pairs. Their all-black wings banked hard around a different surface point, waiting for their respective prey to draw its last breath before they swooped in for an easy meal.
The pair of airborne carnivores circling above him might have been eying him, thinking his health was failing. He was moving slow like a dying animal, drawing them ever closer.
Bunker brought his eyes down to the clearing before him. The miner’s camp had visitors. Men, by their size and stature. However, they weren’t dressed in all-black civilian garb like the last group who’d taken residence here. These were troops, fully armed and covered with tactical gear. Head-to-toe forest green camo was their outfit of choice. A few carried assault rifles with grenade launchers attached, other’s without.
Yet seeing troops in camp wasn’t the only surprise. They’d arrived in three GAZ Tigr all-terrain infantry mobility vehicles plus a heavier armored personnel carrier. It was a fifteen-ton BTR-80. Russian made. Amphibious. Formidable.
Its high-angle turret, twin deployment doors, 7.62 coaxial machine gun, and 30mm cannon were easily recognizable. So was its welded steel hull and eight-wheel design, something he hadn’t seen since his stint in Afghanistan.
“Looks like we were right,” he mumbled, wondering how many more Russians were in the area. If this wasn’t a lone patrol, then the enemy might already be in country en masse.
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