Despite the desperate need for inventory, it clearly wasn’t happening anytime soon, not without communications and transportation. Clearwater needed help.
Buckley went inside the medical truck to address that very need, climbing the metal steps with purpose and determination. He needed to find FEMA’s Field Commander, John Howard.
The three medics who’d manned the injection station had their backs turned to the entrance door. Their hands were busy putting items away, stuffing them into locking compartments along the sides of the truck.
A biohazard container the size of a 30-gallon trashcan sat nearby. Buckley knew from watching the men work that it contained hundreds of cotton swabs and other medical waste from the day’s activity.
Buckley cleared his throat. “Excuse me, gentlemen.”
One of the techs turned his head and looked at Buckley. The others seemed to be ignoring him, almost as if they were in a hurry to get home and nothing else mattered.
“I’m looking for your boss. Have you seen Commander Howard?”
The tech pointed to the left, then spoke in a crisp tone, his Australian accent rushed. “He’s in communications. Two trucks down.”
“Thanks, I appreciate it. And thanks for all the hard work today. You guys did a bang-up job, especially with the kids. I know some of them were terrified. You guys obviously know what you’re doing.”
The tech nodded, but didn’t respond, his eyes looking content and proud. Buckley understood the lack of response, the man wanting to remain professional and detached.
Buckley took the steps down to street level, then turned and traced a straight line to the second truck, just as the medical tech had instructed.
The communications dish mounted on the back of the trailer was moving when he arrived, turning south a few degrees in measured increments. Someone was inside, that much was clear. But who?
The side access door to the truck was closed.
Buckley knocked. “This is Mayor Buckley. I’m looking for Commander Howard. If he’s in there, I need to speak with him. It’s urgent.”
The door opened a few seconds later. Commander Howard’s eyes met Buckley’s. “Can you wait a bit, mate? I’m just finishing up my communiqué. I’ll be with ya in a flash.”
“Sure,” Buckley said, getting his response out only a split second before the door slammed shut in his face. The rush of wind smacked him in the face. So did the rudeness.
Buckley blinked, taking a moment to calm his temper. Sure, he didn’t have an appointment, but the man had told him earlier to ask for help anytime he needed it. It was back in his office, when they were meeting privately with Bill King in attendance. The same resident who was now headed his way.
King looked calm, but something inside Buckley told him that was about to change. After all, this was Bill King. Nothing about the man was ever easy. Why should this moment be any different?
“There you are, Mayor,” King said after he stepped close.
“Yes, here I am. Like I’ve been ever since FEMA arrived.”
“That’s what I wanted to talk to you about. FEMA.”
“I figured as much. It’s all anyone wants to talk about. Not that I blame them.”
King pointed at the techs across the square—three of them on the left. Then he aimed his finger at nine on the right. “Notice anything?”
“Yeah, they’re busy. Like everyone else.”
“Look again,” King said, hesitating before he spoke again. “Putting stuff away.”
“Yeah, the day’s injection work is finished. Seems reasonable to expect a cleanup.”
“But why? They’re supposed to be here for the next twenty-nine days. Why not leave everything set up? It’s not like someone around here is going to steal anything.”
Buckley nodded, thinking it through. The man was right. He didn’t want to admit it, but the FEMA crews did appear to be closing up shop. And now that he thought about it, so were the three med techs in the injection station, their hands working quickly to stow items away. “Okay, I see your point. What do you want me to do about it?”
“Find out why.”
“As a matter of fact, I was just waiting for Commander Howard,” Buckley said, sending a quick head nod in the direction of the communications truck. “He’s inside making a call. Just waiting for him to finish.”
“I don’t think we should wait. If these men leave, we all die.”
“I see your point.”
King pounded an angry fist on the door of the truck. He waited for a two-count, then pounded again with heavy thuds. “Open up. We need Commander Howard out here on the double.”
Howard finally opened the door and stepped out, closing the door behind him. His face was usually the bastion of calm, but right now he looked pissed. King’s pounding on the door was surely the cause of the sudden change in mood.
“I said I would be out when I was finished,” Howard said, sliding past King and taking position a foot in front of the Mayor. He pointed at King, his eyebrows pinched. “Why is he here?”
“He has a question to ask you. And frankly, so do I. We need some answers.”
“Fine, make it quick.”
“See, that’s just it,” King snapped, moving around and taking a position next to Buckley. “We’re wondering why it appears that you guys are leaving. And in a hurry.”
“Our work is done.”
“For the day, or forever?” Buckley asked, needing clarification before he took the conversation to the next level.
“I thought I explained it all before. In your office. This is a thirty-day process. Was I not clear?”
“Yeah, you were. But why pack up now?”
“Look, Clearwater isn’t the only town in danger.”
King shook his head. “Nice try, Howard. But you’ve still got those turbo-charged Mavericks out in the field. There’s no chance you’re leaving those expensive toys behind.”
“We’re not. They will be joining us at our next stop. Everyone has their orders, including me.”
“Will you be back tomorrow?” Buckley asked. “Same bat time. Same bat channel.”
“I’m sorry, what?” Howard asked with a look of confusion.
Before Buckley could explain his superhero reference, a rumble hit town. It was coming from behind him, somewhere down the street near the entrance to the town square.
The Mayor spun his head.
So did King. “What the fuck?”
“Wal-Mart?” Buckley quipped, counting five semi-trucks rolling into view. Each one had the mega store’s logo stenciled on the side in trademark blue.
“I’m guessing one of the items you wished to speak to me about was a resupply of the local supermarket. Charmers, I think you call it. Well, gentlemen, may I present to you the mother of all resupply convoys—Wal-Mart.”
“Here? In Clearwater? Just like that?” King asked, shaking his head the entire time.
“Wow,” Buckley said, his tongue unable to find any other words to say. Once again, FEMA had surprised him, calling in supply trucks right on cue.
King didn’t look as impressed. “So let me get this straight. Not only do you guys show up within hours of a disaster to save all of our lives, now you just happen to have more big rigs around that work after the EMP? And they belong to Wal-Mart? Filled with stuff we need? Seriously?”
“Gentlemen, it’s been a pleasure today. Please see to it that these supplies get where they need to be,” Howard said, turning for the open communications door. One of the techs inside was standing in the doorway. “Let’s roll out,” Howard told him. “Stage two is a go.”
Buckley watched the FEMA drivers start their engines and pull away. The Wal-Mart trucks waited until the FEMA trucks left the town square before pulling into position around the grassy area.
King put a hand on Buckley’s shoulder. “Normally, I hate all things Wal-Mart related. All they do is run the little guy out of business. But today—”
“I know, Bill. You
don’t have to say it. Lifesavers come in many forms. Ours just happens to be FEMA and Wal-Mart. I’m sure Grace Charmer is dancing a jig right about now. All that free inventory headed her way.”
King didn’t appear to be listening. “I wonder which town FEMA is going to next?”
Buckley didn’t really care. “More importantly, I think we should be asking ourselves will FEMA be coming back?”
“You know, now that I think about it, Howard never did answer that question, did he?”
“Nope. It was almost like he was stalling until Wal-Mart showed up. I wonder if that’s who he was talking to inside the communications truck.”
“Probably. None of this is happening by accident,” King said, shaking his head slowly.
“I’m starting to get the sense that we are all pawns in some master plan, whether intended or not.”
“Yeah, I hear ya. It’s like we’re on a roller coaster, heading toward the end of the ride with zero control over anything.”
“I hate roller coasters,” Buckley said, tugging on the cuffs of his suit coat before adjusting his tie.
King nodded. “Me too. They always make me puke. Sort of like Wal-Mart.”
“Except not today,” Buckley added. “Let’s go help these drivers get where they need to be.”
CHAPTER SEVENTY-FIVE
Bunker climbed over a dead, mangled tree lying on its side, then dragged his weary feet between two moss-covered rocks along the bank of the river. He’d been hiking for what seemed like hours, but the sun’s position hadn’t traveled far enough in the cloudless sky to support that assessment.
Either way, he figured he had to be getting close to the original spot where he’d been knocked off the cliff. He had to be; otherwise, he was just wasting time, looking for a horse that was probably long gone.
He took another step, then spotted a thicket of waist-high bushes along the shoreline ahead. Green bushes with red berries—lots of them, glistening in the sun for all to see.
Was this the location?
He craned his neck to look up, checking the ridgeline above. It was certainly high enough, but the mountains were full of scenes like this. No way to be sure. Not from here.
Bunker picked up the pace, taking longer strides through the uneven terrain. A glint of sunshine slammed into his eyes from something shiny. It was nestled in a twist of deadfall ahead. Deadfall that had collected in a heap along the shore, acting as some sort of marker leading to the next bend in the river.
He changed course, heading for the object while keeping the reflection locked in his vision. Last time he’d seen something like this, it was only a plastic water bottle—refuse discarded by some punk who only drank the premium stuff.
The bundle of branches stopped him cold when he arrived, its tangle of thorns heavy and imposing. The reflecting object was deep inside but visible, the sunlight bouncing off its flat surface. It was made of metal all right, and lying sideways, but he could only see about an inch of its length peeking out from beneath the collection of wood and leaves scattered on top of it.
Bunker slid his hand inside, figuring he’d need to bury his arm up to the bicep in order to reach it. The thorns tore at him, ripping the top layers of his skin as he penetrated deeper and deeper into their lair.
The farther he went, the more they attacked, sending stabs of pain racing up his forearm and into his shoulder. Despite the backlash, he wasn’t about to stop, not until he recovered the object.
When the tips of his fingers made contact with the steel, a cold dampness came with it. He brushed away the leaves and other decaying matter, exposing the compact shape facing him. It looked half-buried but intact, the clip visible on top. He moved his hand a few inches over, digging his fingernails under one end.
Right then, his mind turned to thoughts of his trusted k-bar knife, its handle inscribed with the letters J and T. Those were initials from his former life. His life before the fabricated legend of Jack Bunker came into existence. J. T. stood for Jack Terrier. His birth name. AKA Bulldog if you happened to wear the colors of The Kindred and ride a Harley.
“Bingo,” he said, grabbing hold of the Benchmade folder knife and pulling it free, focusing less on the safety of his arm and more on the value of the edged weapon.
Blood dripped from his arm as he released the blade with a satin finish. He opened it and tested the Reverse Tanto style edge with his fingernail. It was still razor sharp and ready to go to work.
He closed the knife and tucked it into his pocket, feeling as though his life was starting to merge itself back together with some sort of equilibrium. Eventually, the universe rights all the wrongs, he figured. The question was, which side of that correction would he end up on?
Time to get moving, he decided. This was the spot where he’d landed after the mortar shell nearly tore him apart. The towering boulders he could see across the river loosely resembled fingers sticking up, but from this low angle they looked different than they would from high up.
Regardless, the hill before him wasn’t going to bend over and give him a lift up. He needed to climb. It wouldn’t be easy, not with sore arms and an exhausted body.
It took twenty minutes or so to traverse the ridge, dragging his legs over the top edge and onto the semi-flat plateau of rock and dirt. He stood up and admired the view, seeing the familiar rock formations standing proudly in the water below.
This was definitely what he remembered—fingers pointing at the sky, aiming their intent at the Almighty. This was the exact spot where he’d been launched into a new possible future, courtesy of the Russians.
He spun his head to the right and let his eyes find the crater from the last impact. Dead ahead and up a noticeable incline was the detonation point. Trees were missing and several tons of dirt had been relocated as well. He still couldn’t believe it—no shrapnel from the near-miss explosion.
“Sometimes you get lucky,” he mumbled, thinking about how close he came to being torn apart. But of course, luck was a matter of perspective. It all depended on your expectations out of life and what you figured was due to come your way.
If someone had asked him a week ago, he would’ve said he welcomed a brutal, painful death, figuring he deserved it for all the hurt he’d caused. That’s what he had coming. No doubt about it, hitting a new low point in his life.
He remembered the moment well, the despair so profound that he figured he’d never feel normal again.
But of course, normalcy was an illusion. It was something only happy people felt. For all others, misery dragged them along, leading them to make one bad decision after another even though they were fully aware of the dark, unforgivable path before them.
A guilty conscience was a powerful thing, secretly driving people to destroy themselves. He wasn’t sure if that propensity toward self-destruction was simply human nature, or something specific to him. Regardless, that was the old Jack Bunker.
The new version had found a renewed purpose in life and he wanted to hang on to it. Clearwater may have just been a sleepy mountain community that few on the planet knew existed, a town barely on the map and filled with regular people who had no idea who he was or what he’d done.
But to him, Clearwater was more than that. It was a salvation of sorts. His salvation. At least, that’s what it felt like inside. He didn’t have the words to accurately describe it, but it was there and it was real, something he’d never experienced before.
He took a few seconds to search his memories, but couldn’t pinpoint when the change took place. But it had.
Maybe it was when the kids on the bus wrapped their arms around his legs to thank him.
Maybe it was Stephanie and her judgmental ways getting under his skin.
Maybe it was Jeffrey and his bright blues. And his endless questions.
Daisy was part of the equation, too, covering his six during battle, then pulling a gun on him.
The Mayor and Sheriff had earned some credit as well, always trying to do righ
t by the people they served.
Then there was Tango—a powerful, graceful force with a simple goal in life—just live another day. Maybe that’s when it started? A gentle rub of his hand while looking into the serenity that filled Tango’s eyes.
Then again, maybe all it took was the simple act of setting foot inside the town limits of Clearwater. At the time, Bunker was more than desperate to find a new place to call home. Someplace where he could start over and find meaning to his life.
Guilt used to be the driving force in his life, speeding him toward annihilation. But now it was Clearwater pulling him toward something else. It felt like a powerful magnet, latching onto his hardened soul and drawing him in.
One word kept popping up in his thoughts—survival. That was his motive now. Not penitence or retribution. Maybe it was time to stop hating himself.
Before he could turn around, he heard the ratcheting sound of a rifle bolt being pulled back and rammed forward to close the chamber. Then the snap of twigs. Someone was armed and standing behind him.
“Hold it right there, mister!” an agitated male voice said. The high tone and pubescent inflection of the words indicated a young person, teenager maybe. “Put your hands up where I can see them.”
Bunker froze for a moment, needing to formulate a plan.
“I said, hands up,” the voice said again, this time with more urgency in the words.
Bunker did as he was told, raising his arms slowly.
“Now turn around, but no sudden moves. I’ll shoot if I have to.”
Bunker spun slowly, bringing the gunman’s face into view. It was a young male, as he suspected. But this boy couldn’t have been more than thirteen, his round, puffy cheeks peppered with acne. His eyes were wild with fright and his finger was resting on the trigger of a hunting rifle. The bore of the barrel suggested a 30-06 or something close in caliber. Enough to kill just about anything in the area. Including him.
“Easy there now, son. Let’s not get trigger happy,” Bunker said, keeping his tone soft and even.
“I’m not your son, old man,” the kid said with a snarl, raising the rifle higher against his shoulder before sliding his eye behind the rear of the scope. The weight of the rifle was giving the kid fits, his arms straining to keep it locked into position.
Bunker: Boxed Set (Books 1, 2, and 3) Page 46