Jenny's lips pulled into a tight unhappy grin. “Baxter's War.”
Moraine shivered. “For where I go, peace flees at my approach. And death shall follow.”
36
General Grisby hated to lose. He sat in the lead helicopter as four Delta Force operators from the second Blackhawk fast roped to the Labs rooftop and vanished into the building. Gunfire echoed up to him, followed by a small detonation. Fifteen minutes slipped by before the Labs crumbled in a ball of fire beneath him.
He cursed, grabbing an overhead support bar as alarms wailed. His Blackhawk tilted sideways from the concussive blast. The delivery chopper, pausing above the Labs, disappeared in the flames. Its main rotor blades rendered to a slow spin as the helicopter plunged into the fiery chaos.
Grisby considered Jenny Chow too gutless to blow up her beloved Labs. She spoiled the Labs and its scientists, cooing over the projects she oversaw. Now the entire complex roiled in black smoke. Heat from the destruction buffeted against his face.
He directed the remaining seven choppers to refuel at a local airport. Grisby composed himself as anger birthed a frontal lobe headache. The explosion erased every experimental project owned by the government. He gritted his teeth, veins bulged from his neck. A frustrated scream clogged his throat. The plans, the items he desired the most, burned.
Grisby stayed silent, wondering if Jenny survived the blast. He planned an internal checklist, placing Milpitas at the top after refueling in Palo Alto.
The general scrutinized the outlying towns and cities below him. Smoke billowed up from those distant structures. The dogs did more damage than he expected. He deemed it important for Black and White to stay alive. The dogs needed to complete their mission with no interferences.
Once the choppers arrived at Palo Alto airport, he rushed to a toilet inside the deserted terminal. He removed his soiled underwear, wiped his ass, inhaled and exhaled ten times. He reemerged from his completed task ready for battle.
He spent the next few hours on plans and sent a request for Moraine's military file. What he read astonished him. The bitch almost received a Medal of Honor but blew the award over the death of General Paterson. Yet she received other citations and awards for bravery and leadership under fire.
After deciding what needed done, Grisby returned to his helicopter. Topped-off, the birds hurtled up into the sky as the sun darkened to a deep orange.
Below him, the Bay Area glistened with vast amounts of seawater. Water smothered areas once dry. The quake devastated the city no longer teeming with people.
The Blackhawks reached Milpitas minutes after Moraine departed. Two choppers landed, and the others pulled security above the camp. Grisby jumped out, eager to study Black and White's carnage for himself. He surveyed the abysmal parking lot and abandoned National Guard center. Watching the action on the drone screen did not satisfy him.
Grisby spotted the overturned Hummer and approached for a better inspection. Stiff bodies wearing black jumpsuits rotted near the truck. He squatted and pressed his gloved hand against the Hummer’s door and peeked. Shell casings, days old blood, and an identification card rested amongst broken glass. He plucked up the laminated card.
“Livermore Labs,” he said aloud. “Jenny’s entire team flamed out.” He tossed the card and bounded to where Moraine’s body should have been. Nothing.
Grisby focused on the spot where Moraine fell. His operators surrounded him. Dogs called in the distance. A few nearby.
“Sir,” Sergeant Robinson said. “I see dogs.”
Grisby followed where the sergeant pointed. Dogs emerged from the shadow steeped crevices. He drew his Smith and Wesson forty-five from its holster. “Sergeant, prepare your men to fight.”
“Sir, they’re just dogs.”
“These dogs are enemy soldiers, Sergeant,” Grisby said.
Sergeant Robinson made quick hand movements. “Yes, Sir.”
The dogs padded forward growling. He counted forty canines, the ones bold enough to show themselves. “Call the other teams, Sergeant.”
Sergeant Robinson did as ordered, and within seconds thirty armed men repelled from helicopters hovering above the developing skirmish.
Grisby steadied his nerves. His adrenalin surged through him as sweat dotted his forehead. The dim world around him brightened once the Blackhawks washed the camp in spotlights.
The Canines arranged themselves in a concave formation. Their glistening eyes lacked the fear inherent in humans. Dogs in different sizes, shapes, and breeds confronted General Grisby and his operators.
Grisby didn't consider the challenge an ambush. The dogs warned them using low growls. He salivated in his eagerness to experience Black and White’s abilities, even if the hostilities meant a high risk to himself. The noted danger might go on his personal record as his proof of bravery.
A heavy Rottweiler leaped from the line, starting the clash. Gunfire resounded. The big dog yelped, slamming its muscled body into a soldier. They hit the ground fighting. Other canines launched their attack after their leader.
Grisby shot six medium-sized dogs. The animals tumbled to a stop. Blood pulsed from their wounds. He pumped a few more rounds into their heads. Shouts filled the air. Several dogs broke into his defensive barrier. A miniature poodle clamped its sharp fangs onto a soldier’s ankle. He howled and cracked open the animal's skull using the butt of his rifle.
Grisby waded into the brawl, firing at the determined targets. He assumed the same responsibility as Jenny chow, yet he didn’t want to kill Black and White. He involved himself in the Petri dish California became. The weapons must work, and its outcome unfolded before him in an incredible display of violence.
The brutal contest ended with a sudden abruptness. Defeated dogs splayed the field, or scattered from where they originated. A Chihuahua with its right front paw lifted, tried limping into the darkness. The general shot the animal. Its body popped upwards and dropped in a crumpled pile against a curb.
Sergeant Robinson yanked his combat knife from a wad of fur and lifeless flesh. He swiped the blood off his steel against his cargo pants. “General, with respect, Sir. What was that?” The sergeant’s eyes shown large and bright.
“An experiment, Sergeant Robinson.”
Sergeant Robinson slid his blade into its sheath. “Thank you, Sir.”
Grisby delivered Robinson a curt nod. His stomach twisted at the iron tang of dead dogs. Dead dogs carried their own unique stench of wet feces and rotten chicken. A funk he forced himself to get acquainted with if he intended on his experiments to succeed.
Grisby gathered his calm and with five men neared the cordoned off tents. He stepped over shattered bones sucked free of marrow by hungry dogs. The putrid odor watered his eyes. One soldier retched not far away.
Grisby passed through the cyclone fence surrounding the site. Above, a helicopter trailed him, drowning the camp in white light. He found the event surreal and gruesome. Ripped clothes drenched in dried blood, hair, more bones, detached limbs. The attacking dogs came to scavenge Black and White’s leftovers.
Grisby walked further into the camp until he discovered the command tent. His five men entered first and swept the place clean. Sergeant Robinson started up a gas generator. The interior lights flicked on, enhancing the scene.
Grisby took in the devastation. Tipped desks and chairs, tattered uniforms splashed in dark red covered the plywood floor. Both dead dogs and soldiers lay in clumps, frozen in various death poses. A thick bloody trail spread on the floor leading to the officer in charge living quarters.
Grisby faced a jumbled heap propped near a corner desk. He knelt, his knees cracking as he stared at the human remains mixed in with a military uniform. A name-tag stitched on the uniform shirt read Lyons. On the collar sat two silver stars speckled in blood.
The general gazed at the fleshless skull. The dogs ate the hands, cleaning the meat from the bones. It surprised him the skull with its hollow eyes remained intact. The mess bo
thered him.
Grisby stood, stretched his aching back. After fifty-eight, he promised himself no more fieldwork. But, he wanted the fourth star and not end up like the poor sap at his booted feet.
The general shook his head. He figured Jenny Chow and Moraine Baxter lived. Those two bitches destroyed the Lawrence Livermore National Labs, insuring no one else reactivated the Damascus Chips program.
Grisby turned from the fallen Lyons and spat. Satisfied with what to do, he headed out the command tent. In his mind he rejuvenated his purpose to save the dogs.
“Let’s go, Sergeant. Time is not waiting for us.”
37
Moraine took the ramp to 680 San Jose. She sped up, realizing the highway patrol might not be pulling people over tonight. Yet, before she pushed the Unimog to a full one-hundred and twenty miles per hour, she eased her foot off the gas.
Her eyes darted from one stopped car to another. No lights covered her path, just shadows, and low humps she kept mistaking for dogs. Dead bodies littered her approach, ripped apart, or in whole.
Her breath shortened. She wanted to step outside the Unimog and hunt dogs. An echo from her tour in Afghanistan searching for Taliban fighters came to mind. She steered between the abandoned cars on the freeway. Up ahead red light bloomed against night’s velvet blanket. She slowed the Unimog.
Jenny bent forward in her seat. “People.”
Moraine stayed patient. “Are they the right people?”
“Meaning?”
“Not assholes,” Moraine said. “We are not picking up anyone. We'll avoid them.”
“The off ramps are beyond that Santa Cruz bonfire.”
Moraine sighed and stopped the Unimog. She cut the engine, killed the headlights. “I’m going on foot then.”
“Out there? It’s dangerous.”
Moraine snagged the black motorcycle jacket she discovered earlier from the rear seat. She shrugged on the jacket and eased into the sturdy gauchos. Dressed, she snatched up her rifle and worked her way pass the sleeping Robert to enter the Unimog’s spacious back compartment.
“Moraine, you can’t leave us here.”
“Lock the doors, Jenny.” Moraine glanced at Robert. She figured the stress overwhelmed him and sleep sufficed as his escape. He evaded the unfolding reality. She numbed herself to reality, no hiding, and nowhere to hide.
Moraine grabbed a night vision goggle set, gave Jenny a two-fingered salute, and exited the Unimog’s back door. Jenny closed and locked the door behind the energetic huntress.
Moraine crouched in the darkness, waited a few seconds, absorbing the uncanny quiet, doing her best to pick out low growls or whimpers. She strained her hearing for any sound a dog might make while hidden within the night’s shaded folds.
Distant howls echoed from the urban areas, random gunfire popped. Screams and car alarms wailed in the distance. Comfortable no four-legged problems snuck towards her, Moraine donned the night vision goggles and pressed the on button.
Her world glowed a crisp green. The goggles gave her the ability to see, but restricted her peripheral vision. She needed to move her head left and right, turn behind her to take in her surroundings.
Moraine swallowed a breath and zigzagged between the cars. She checked her rear. The Unimog sat silent with its dark interior. She guessed Jenny watched her progress towards the big bonfire.
She turned and continued, fast enough not to miss any dangers. Moraine loved the cloaking darkness.
However, she hated being without her husband and her little girl. Regret and embarrassment rolled inside her head. Enough to make her insane, but she decided not to lose her sanity yet. Maybe after she found her family alive and well.
Moraine pushed on until she neared the amber glow. Fifty feet to her front cars formed a wagon circle. A few armed people meandered. A larger group gathered before the flames either sitting, or standing.
She studied the ones who walked around the camp’s inner perimeter. To her right she eyed a quick flash of fur. A figure dashed into the darkness. Two eyes gleamed from the firelight, the rest shrouded in shadow. Her stomach tightened. She flipped up the goggles to inspect the scenery.
Moraine hung her weapon and stepped into view with spread hands.
Moraine inhaled, calming her nerves. She abhorred having guns pointed at her. “Hello there,” she said. Another flutter dipped behind a van outside the circle. “Can we talk? I need to pass your road block.”
“Come forward,” A man’s voice shouted at her.
Moraine moved slow, wary of the rifles held in jittery hands.
“Keep walking.”
Moraine continue until she faced a young black man with fright jammed eyes. “It’s ok. I want to get around this.”
“Lower your weapons,” the man said to his group. “Slide over the trunk of that car. Be careful.”
Moraine lowered her hands and hustled over a compact Scion. She stared at the gaggle numbering a hundred plus. Their vehicles organized in a tight circle, bumper to bumper. The fire in the middle burned bright and strong, the warm flames made her sleepy.
“Can I get my truck by here?”
The twenty-something year old wearing an afro approached Moraine and offered his hand. “Pete,” he said.
Moraine shook Pete’s hand. “Nice setup, Pete.”
“Thank you. We're here waiting for our friends.”
Moraine nodded. She performed a visual sweep over weapons, vehicles and their commitment for a good fight. Too many young people surrounded her. Untested, innocent. “Where you guys going?”
“To Oregon,” Pete said. “We got scared with the dogs acting crazy.”
“From where?”
“The San Jose Christian College. The city is not safe.”
Moraine remembered the blurry flicker she detected minutes ago. “Not everyone coming this way will be nice to you.”
Pete smiled.
Moraine almost slapped Pete. His baby face, not toughened by war, appeared ready to die. “How long have you guys been here?”
“Two hours,” a female said walking up to Pete. “We won’t abandon our Christ mates.”
Moraine heard the finality in the woman’s arrogant tone. Several people clustered before the blaze, eating, one strummed a guitar. All oblivious to the Canine threat. “Do you know what happened?”
Pete frowned. “The earthquake, the dogs attacking.”
Moraine realized getting through to them an impossible effort. “So, I can pass?”
“Yes, Moraine.”
Moraine, satisfied with her recon, slid over a car hood and strode away. The guitar player sang a song as soon as she fled the permitter. His voice, smoky and mellow, drifted up into the cool air.
They should have been on a beach in Carmel fucking underneath blankets and smoking pot. The man’s singing reminded her of Erik and camping, roasting marshmallows. Despite her struggle for detachment, tears soaked her cheeks.
She returned to the Unimog and knocked her fist against its armored door. “Jenny, let me in.”
Jenny swung the door wide.
“You didn’t ask who it was.”
“I saw you,” Jenny said. “Can we go?”
“Yup.” Moraine climbed in and shut the door. She saw Robert, awake and reading a book on computer engineering. Everyone, including herself, needed to stay available. No checking out when things got rough.
Moraine got behind the wheel and started the truck. Its powerful engine rumbled to life. The headlights poured its European glow over the freeway. She spied a lone McDonald’s wrapper drifting along a breeze. She licked her lips and fantasized biting into a hot cheeseburger. Casey loved the greasy cheese paper.
Jenny plopped herself into the passenger seat. “What is it?”
“College kids waiting for friends. I warned them to keep aware.”
“Yea, and they listened?” Jenny climbed to the back.
Pete brought old memories to Moraine. Young, not too concerned with the nex
t day. She encountered soldiers in her past life with the same expression. After a while those looks hardened or stilled in death.
Moraine got the truck rolling. She eased pass the derelict cars she walked through earlier. Her eyes searched out the darkness and whatever her headlights struck.
A space yawned on the camp’s left, large enough for the Unimog to fit. The guitar strummer rose to his feet, no one protected the perimeter as they held hands. A woman sank to her knees in prayer.
The first dogs materialized from Moraine’s right, crawling on their bellies towards the cars. Moraine pounded on the Unimog’s horn, blaring a warning. The group waved at her goodbye with smiles on their faces. One kid lifted prongs displaying a speared hotdog. Pete raised a hand loaded with a hamburger.
Moraine slowed her approach and gazed at the dogs. The Canines ignored her, quickening their pace when she tried to warn the Christian College group. “Jenny, Robert.”
Jenny crawled to the front first, resuming her position in the passenger seat. Robert squatted near the center console. “What?”
“Look,” Moraine said, captivated at the animal's uncanniness.
“The dogs,” Jenny said. “Are you going to help them?”
Moraine became fascinated with the dogs and their stealth and speed. “They're adults, Jenny.”
Jenny’s mouth parted in shock. Next, Jenny grabbed her rifle, swung the passenger door open, and jumped out the slow moving truck.
38
Moraine prepared to shout a warning before Jenny Chow jumped out the rolling truck. She wanted to cuss, even more so when Jenny slammed the door close and sprinted for the barricade of cars.
“Robert, up front now.” Moraine eyed Jenny, her black hair splayed as she rushed away. Jenny skirted the dogs low crawling for the vehicular wall.
Moraine maintained a snake dancer’s cool as her heart thrummed hard in her chest. Once Robert plopped in the chair, Moraine locked the brakes. The Unimog’s tires rumbled to a halt.
“Where’s Jenny?”
Baxter’s War Page 14