“Then you’ll suffer the effects when the contamination makes its way here. Trust me, you don’t want to be in that situation.”
“When it makes its way here? I thought you said this was precautionary?”
“It was. However, my second-in-command just informed me that the winds have shifted. We no longer have the luxury of time.”
“Are we talking fatal?”
Howard nodded, his face devoid of emotion. “Unfortunately, yes. Everyone will need treatment. No exceptions. I have my orders.”
“What about livestock and pets?” Buckley asked, trying to gauge the nature of the threat.
“They won’t be affected.”
King grabbed Buckley by the arm and led him to the far corner of the office. His voice went into a whisper. “Do you buy any of this?”
Buckley’s gut wasn’t sure, but his logic was. “FEMA and the CDC obviously sent these men and their equipment here for a reason. We need to listen to them.”
“But they’re a bunch of volunteers who aren’t even from the US.”
King was right. Buckley didn’t like what he was hearing, either. But as Mayor, he couldn’t let his suspicions take over without more concrete facts. He had a job to do and that meant he needed to show strength, even though his emotions were boiling over just like King’s. “I understand what you’re saying, but I don’t think we can gamble with the lives of everyone in town. There’s obviously a threat. A serious one. Why else would the feds send in all these resources? I think we should be thankful they’re here so quickly.”
“I see your point,” King said after a short pause, his words less uptight.
“Then it’s settled?” Buckley asked, not wanting to pull rank and overrule the man’s apprehension. The day would go much smoother if King was onboard.
“What about the people out of town, like my son? If we do this, FEMA can’t just focus on whoever happens to be in town at the moment.”
“Of course not. My grandson, Rusty, is out there, too. So are the Sheriff and a number of other people.”
“I think you need to demand that they take those four-wheelers out with the vaccine right away. If a hazard cloud is on its way here, then the out-of-town people are at the greatest risk.”
King was right, again. “Let me see what I can do.” Buckley walked back to the FEMA commander. “Mr. Howard,” he said, taking a moment to formulate the words he wanted to bring to bear. “Are you aware that we have residents who are outside of town right now?”
“Yes, Mr. Mayor. I am. We have a list. Nobody will be skipped, trust me. My orders are clear.”
“What about those four-wheelers?” King asked, not waiting for Buckley to address them. “Why don’t you send them out first?”
“We plan to do just that. In fact, we’re gearing up now.”
Buckley nodded, feeling a sense of calm wash over him. His logic was correct. These men had it handled.
King held quiet, though he still didn’t look convinced.
“Is there anything else, gentleman?” Howard asked in his thick Australian accent. “I need to get back to the staging area.”
Buckley looked at King, waiting for an answer.
King shrugged, then nodded.
“I guess that about covers it,” Buckley said. “But if we have more questions—”
“Just find me and I’ll answer them. We’re here to help,” Howard said, not waiting for Buckley to finish his sentence before he headed for the office door.
CHAPTER SIXTY-TWO
Burt Lowenstein stood on the paved forest road, staring at his recently purchased 1932 Indian motorcycle with his hands on his hips. He was fresh out of ideas after spending the last twenty minutes tinkering with the engine after it quit.
Luckily the motor failure happened after he dropped off his first paying customers—the Raineys—at their remote homestead on Old Mill Road. Otherwise, word would have flown around town that his new rig was unreliable.
There were piles of money to be made with his new taxi service, but breakdowns weren’t an option. Not when ferrying around the elderly and the lazy.
He figured he was at least ten miles from town, but couldn’t be sure. The bike’s odometer was useless since he didn’t get a chance to hook up the speedometer before the first fare. Allison Rainey was in a hurry and so was he, needing to jump on the cash flow immediately.
Even if he had a working odometer, he wasn’t paying attention to the time or distance traveled during the trip back to town. His mind had been focused elsewhere, mainly on the power and speed of the antique machine purring between his legs.
There was something exhilarating about a maiden ride through the mountains of Colorado, the lush peaks and their magnificent scenery zipping past in random flashes of sunlight, offering glimpses of nature’s splendor in his peripheral vision.
He could still feel the adrenaline pumping in his chest after navigating the seemingly endless series of blind turns, each one challenging his willingness to push the throttle even farther with a rickshaw in tow.
Stan Fielding sold him the old bike at a rock bottom price and now Burt knew why. Somewhere inside this aging beast was a flaw. One serious enough to stop the engine cold, but small enough that he’d missed it during his initial assessment.
Burt conceded that he’d been blinded by greed, thinking he’d hit the mother lode with a functioning motorcycle—one of only a few in the entire area, he figured, after the EMP had fried everything else in sight.
Burt was confident he could fix the problem, but he’d need his shop tools and the time to diagnose. He prayed it wasn’t anything involving new parts. They’d be scarce for an antique like this. Plus, with communications down and transportation choices limited, he couldn’t order them. At least not anytime soon. Fabrication would be the only answer. Or cannibalization. To accomplish the latter, he’d need a second bike that matched the first.
Regardless of the cause of malfunction, an adjustment was needed to the deal with Stan. Burt needed to decide on which type of adjustment he’d deliver to his old high school pal.
“Head or gut” was usually the question when one of them had a grievance to settle—a question Stan would most certainly understand.
Burt’s old pal had softened a bit after the birth of his twin girls, but that wasn’t going to change anything. Not from Burt’s perspective. Rules were rules and Stan had to know an adjustment was coming.
Some might think a sharp jab to the seller’s face might be overreacting, especially since Burt hadn’t taken the time to inspect the bike thoroughly with a vigorous ride at high speed. But he wasn’t overreacting, nor was it too harsh, not when someone gave you their word and then shook on it.
Small towns run on deals made man-to-man, and they only hold water if you enforce the trust aspect of the agreement. Friend or not, Burt needed some payback. Payback in the form of a little chin music.
It was time to get the motorcycle to the shop, but that meant pushing the two-wheeled tank up and down hills—a grueling trip to be sure.
Normally, he’d just leave the bike on the side of the road and come back for it with his tow truck, but the flatbed wasn’t an option after the EMP had turned it into a 9500-pound boat anchor.
Burt unhooked the homemade trailer from the custom hitch he’d welded onto the rear of the bike’s frame, pushing the rickshaw off the road and onto the soft shoulder.
He figured it would be safe until he returned. He hadn’t seen anyone on the road since he’d left town with old hag Rainey and her pushy daughter. The kid wasn’t much better, but at least they paid in cash.
Burt took a few seconds to visualize what it was going to take to get the bike back to town. He sighed, then shook his head.
The next part was gonna suck, no two ways about it. He walked to the handlebars and latched on with a firm grip before releasing the kickstand he’d customized with a flip of his foot. “Come on, Burt. Suck it up and quit complaining like a little bitch. Just get
it done already.”
A mile or so later, he stopped to catch his breath. The last uphill grade had kicked his ass, reminding him how out of shape he’d become since high school. Burritos and beer were a mean combination, even though he spent a few sessions a week pumping the dumbbells in the shop’s office. Curls were his favorite, with tricep extensions coming in second.
Just then a male’s voice came at him from the trees on the right. “Well, look who broke down. The mighty purveyor of all things grease and steel.”
Burt snapped his head around to see who it was, following the near continuous sound of pine needles crunching underfoot. It was Albert Mortenson, the grossly overweight rent-a-cop, and his pencil-thin friend.
“Are you shitting me?” Burt said quietly, his tone sarcastic. He sucked in his lower lip, fighting back the urge to utter an angry comeback. Every fiber in his being wanted him to lash out—it was who and what he was, never taking grief from anyone. Even in jest.
Yet he needed to keep his cool now that help had arrived. Three men pushing the machine back to town would make the trek a lot easier, and faster, even if two of the group weren’t exactly prime physical specimens.
“Did you remember to put gas in it?” Albert asked with barbed words, laughing at the end of his question. “It’s that cap thing on top of the tank.”
“Of course I did,” Burt answered, visualizing what he could do to this smartass. But he had to let the anger go and focus, at least until they delivered the bike back to his shop. “Just died. Not sure why.”
“That thing looks ancient,” the skinny deputy said, the straps of a backpack clinging tightly to his nonexistent chest. A deputy’s badge hung loosely from his shirt, almost like the tin star was embarrassed to be associated with the guy, trying to get as far away as possible.
“Yeah, but it still ran after the EMP hit,” Burt answered, wanting them to know he understood the situation and was smart enough to take advantage of it. “People are going to need to get around and I intend to provide a solution. For a steep fee, of course. A man’s gotta earn.”
“So you agree? An EMP?” Albert asked.
“Me and everyone else in town. That seems to be what everyone thinks. Why don’t you guys help me get this bike back to Clearwater? It’ll be a cinch with three of us pushing.”
“I’ve got a better idea,” Albert said as his hand went into his pocket. He pulled out a clear plastic baggie with red crystals in it.
“Is that what I think it is?” Burt asked, not believing what he was seeing—or hearing, wondering what Albert meant by a better idea. Was he talking business or pleasure?
“Yep. Clearwater Red. A full pound.”
“Wasn’t sure there was any of that left in town. The supply dried up a while ago.”
“That it did, and for good reason.”
“I’m guessing it’s back and you just used that new badge of yours to steal it from some junkie in the area.”
“Not exactly, but that’s what I wanted to talk to you about. We were coming to see you.”
“Oh really,” he said, putting the bike’s kickstand down to free his hands from the handlebars.
A sudden thought came storming into his brain—this might be some kind of trap. Albert hated his ass and he needed to be ready to take these chumps down. “What does Clearwater Red have to do with me? You know I never touch that stuff.”
“Yeah, right. Come on, Burt. Everyone knows you partake in a little ice now and then,” Albert said, holding the baggie up and shaking it.
Burt couldn’t seem to stop staring at the crystals. Their glistening red color was almost hypnotic. “Ah, you got no evidence of that. Look, you two need to turn around and go try to fool someone else. I’m not gonna fall for it.”
Albert scoffed. “This isn’t a sting operation, Burt.”
Burt took his eyes from the bag and scanned the tree line, looking for shadows that didn’t belong. He pointed, moving his finger from left to right. “So I’m guessing the Sheriff is hiding out there in the woods somewhere. Probably the Mayor, too.”
“Why would you think that?”
“Because you and Slim over there would never be stupid enough to try to arrest me way out here, by yourselves.”
Albert shook his head, sending his long, curly hair into a wiggle. “I already told you, we’re not here in an official capacity. We’re here with a business opportunity. Nothing more.”
“That’s a little hard to believe, especially with those badges on your chests.”
“I’m telling you the truth. Dustin and I are here with only your best interests at heart.”
Burt rejected the obvious lie, turning his head to the right. He sucked in a full breath to charge his vocal cords, then cupped his hands around his mouth. He knew the Mayor and Sheriff would do anything to stop his new rickshaw service and it was time to force their hand. “Come out now, Sheriff! I know you’re there. This ain’t gonna work, so you might as well show yourself. I’m not falling for any of this.”
Albert’s eyes tightened and his voice grew more to the point, emphasizing each word with more volume than before. “You said you needed to earn. That’s what I’m proposing here—a chance for you to earn. Especially since the EMP fried your main source of income.”
Burt thought about it for a moment, his defense systems still on high alert. He didn’t trust this guy and neither did his gut, nagging at him that something wasn’t right.
Despite all of that, Albert was correct about one thing—he did need to make some cash, and quick. His repair shop had become a ghost town after everyone realized what took out the vehicles and electronics in town.
Burt took a long second to think about it, then made a decision to listen to Albert’s pitch. He didn’t think it would hurt to hear the man out. “Okay, I’m all ears, but this doesn’t mean I’m admitting to anything.”
“I understand completely. But trust me, you won’t be sorry. I know we’ve had our differences in the past, but there’s no reason for any of that to get in the way of generating some seriously fat stacks of cash. Lots of it. And we think you’re exactly the kind of man we need.”
“Come on, dude. Out with it. You don’t have to lube me up so hard. What the hell do you want?”
“Two things. First, you’re going to need a new front operation. Something that will help you hide all the money we’re gonna make for you. You know, to keep the eyes of the law off you.”
“You mean like you guys?”
“If you want to label people, then sure, guys like us. However, I’m talking about others in town who are not going to be involved with the second part of our little venture.”
Burt nodded, feeling his interest pique. “The Sheriff and the rest of his staff.”
“Exactly.”
“I knew you two were never legit.”
“Yeah, like they say, looks can be deceiving. And as it turns out, that’s a perfect analogy. These badges help us hide in plain sight.”
Maybe Albert wasn’t a complete waste of skin after all. “What’s the second part?”
“I have a connection to get as much Clearwater Red as we can move. But we’re gonna need a distributor with the muscle and the motivation to get this done. That’s where you come in.”
Burt stood a little more erect than before, tugging on the end of his shirt sleeve with pride. Finally, a little respect coming his way. “Okay, I get that. You guys obviously recognize the skills.”
“But you’ll need to forget the motorcycle. We have something better. Something that will not only allow you to give more comfortable rides to more people, but also serve as a transport for the second part of the business.”
“What kind of transport?”
“It’s a 1957 Plymouth Sport Suburban four-door station wagon. I’m sure you know what I’m talking about and why.”
“No electronics,” Burt said, sifting through his memories. “Seems to me, I remember working on a classic like that for your old man.”
“Yep. It’s sitting in my mom’s barn, just waiting to be brought back to life. If you can get it running, we’ll have the perfect vehicle not only for your new taxi service, but also to move the ice where we need it.”
“And do so in broad daylight,” Dustin added.
Burt understood where these two clowns were going with their proposition. “You want me to create hidden storage areas inside your old man’s wagon, then use the taxi service as a cover while we’re moving the drugs.”
“You catch on fast, my friend.”
“Well, I wouldn’t go that far.”
“About what?”
“The friend thing. We might end up being in business together, but we’ll never be friends.”
“Sure, if that’s what it takes, I can live with it,” Albert said, swinging his eyes to the man standing with him. “What about you, Dustin?”
“I’m good. All that matters is that we build a network we can trust. Something safe and reliable. There’s plenty of money to spread around.”
Burt was starting to like this idea, but he wasn’t done putting restrictions on the deal. “Then we might just be able to work something out. But I’ll need my tools and it’s a long way back to town. You guys up for it? I’ll need help getting everything I’m gonna need to your father’s place. My tow truck is useless.”
“That won’t be a problem. We gotta do whatever it takes to get set up. Anything else?”
“Yeah, there’s one more thing. If you guys try to screw me, I’ll dig a hole in the forest and bury you in it. We do this 50/50, and none of that bullshit you pulled in high school when you had me expelled.”
Albert put his hand out for a shake. “Then we’re in agreement.”
Burt took Albert’s hand and squeezed it with a firm grip. He shook it three times, then said, “I’m deadly serious, Albert. I’ll kill you where you stand if this is anything other than what it appears to be.”
“Won’t be a problem. Just do your part and we’ll all make tons of money.”
Burt let go of Jumbo’s hand and pointed at the motorcycle. “Okay, then let’s go. I’ll grab the handlebars and you guys push.”
Bunker: Boxed Set (Books 1, 2, and 3) Page 38