Everyone laughed.
“Also have her make up some sandwiches for you. We’re going to need to eat before morning.”
Gene started for the door.
“Gene?” Gibson said.
“Yeah, sheriff?”
“You’d better not saddle the grey. That’s my daughter Nicki’s horse, and she’d never forgive me if I let anything happen to her.”
Gene laughed, and headed for the door. “Sure thing, sheriff.”
Gibson stopped him again. “And Gene?” He paused for the full effect. “Don’t eat all the sandwiches before you get back.”
This created an uproar of laughter as Gene’s face turned bright red. Gene had the reputation of someone who could put the food away. Everyone in the department had seen him polish off a large pizza by himself. Sometimes he’d finish that off with a milkshake and dessert.
Gibson let Gene go and addressed the remaining deputies. “As for the rest of us, we need to do a thorough weapons check and inventory of supplies before Gene gets back.”
As the men started to disperse, Deputy Lou Vasquez shouted down the stairs from the roof, where he’d been on guard duty.
“Sheriff! I think I hear a truck coming.”
Gibson scrambled up the stairs. Sure enough, he could see an olive-drab Ford F-350 slowly working its way up the street, weaving in and out of the wrecked cars.
“It’s from the base.”
He rushed back down the stairs, grabbed a shotgun, and ordered two deputies to accompany him.
Nirsch and Palmer pulled up to the sheriff’s office and were greeted by three armed men holding 12-gauges.
“You know them?” Nirsch asked.
“It’s Sheriff Gibson and two of his deputies.”
“I’m going to let you do the talking.”
Luke waved at Gibson as he got out of the truck. “Howdy, Bill.”
“Howdy, Luke. You mind telling me what you’re doing in Klamath County, and in a truck from the base?”
“We need to talk, Bill, and you’re probably going to want to be sitting down when I tell you what I’ve come to say.”
“All right.”
The sheriff waved for them to follow him inside. Gibson grabbed a couple of lit candles and led them toward an interrogation room.
“Sorry about the smell,” he said. “My wife seems to think we need scented candles in our emergency supplies.” Gibson pointed at a couple of seats on the other side of an old metal table. “Have a seat.”
“Bill, this is Levi Nirschell. Levi, Bill Gibson.”
Nirsch stood back up and shook the sheriff’s hand. He smiled at Sheriff Gibson. He appreciated the firm grip and the fact that he looked him in the eye.
“Nice to meet you,” Gibson said. “You mind telling me what’s going on?”
Luke spoke first. “Well, I don’t know much, but Levi here can fill in the blanks. We were attacked, Bill. It was terrorists.”
“Why would terrorists care anything about attacking rural Oregon?”
“It wasn’t just here, Bill.” Luke took a deep breath. “A group detonated several nuclear weapons. Every major city in North America may have been leveled.”
Sheriff Gibson turned white and swore. He had the pallor of death in the dim candlelight. “Dear God!”
Luke continued. “That’s not all, Bill.”
“There’s more?”
“They also unleashed a deadly virus before they detonated the nuclear weapons. The CIA was able to send out the makeup of the virus before the power was knocked out. Every hospital that wasn’t destroyed has the ability to work on a serum once their power is restored. So far, no one has come down with it locally, so it may never reach here.”
“What about the power? How long can we expect it to take before they get it fixed?”
Nirsch jumped in. “The power may not be fixed for months or even years. There are several theories on what’s affected by an EMP, but there’s never been a definitive answer. Some said just power grids would be affected. Some said it wouldn’t affect vehicles. The transportation department did a study back in 2010 and concluded that some cars would not be affected. The U.S Department of Energy also ran low-scale EMP testing. They concluded that radios and other small portable electronic devices would probably not be affected. From what we’ve seen, they were both wrong. It looks as though anything with an electronic circuit was fried. That’s why the smell of ozone and burned plastic is so prevalent.
“The military was ready for this. They’ve been storing vehicles and electronics underground since the height of the Cold War. Until the population is secure and the damage is assessed, they won’t even be able to start rebuilding infrastructure. That’s why I’m leaning more toward years rather than months.”
“What about help from other countries?” Gibson said.
“We won’t know what countries were affected until new satellites are in place or the ones that were on the other side of the planet when the EMP hit orbit back to our side. The other America-friendly nations could also have been attacked. We also have to start preparing for invasion. There are a lot of countries in the world that have been waiting for America to be knocked down a peg. Our southern border has the greatest potential for invasion, as well as Alaska. If Russia wasn’t hit, I can almost guarantee they’ll be taking advantage of our vulnerability. Chances are with Putin’s close relationship with Iran, they are already moving on our northern border. The Mexican drug cartels have been in charge in Mexico since at least 2010. I know for a fact they will be flooding over the southern border. I certainly would not want to be in a border state right now.”
They sat in silence a few moments, each of them watching a movie in their minds with different scenarios playing out. Nirsch thought of his niece Debbie, who lived in Austin, Texas, with her son, Jake. She’d been raising her son alone since her husband, Tom, had been killed by a roadside bomb in Iraq. Nirsch knew Debbie was tough, and Tom had taught her how to think on her feet and survive, but he still worried about her safety. She was an attractive girl, desirable to any man with ill intentions. He muttered a quick prayer for her and continued his narrative.
“There is the real possibility that you and any survivors will not be allowed to stay here. It will be too difficult to lend assistance, or feed, care for, or control the population, as spread out as we are. I wouldn’t be surprised if, as soon as the military has a full assessment of the damage and a full inventory of vehicles, aircraft, equipment, and food stores, that they’ll begin relocating small-town America to more centralized locations. They’ll probably divide the unaffected areas into regions and concentrate resources.”
“What if we choose to stay,” Gibson said, “and fend for ourselves?”
“Those in charge may not give you that choice. Any resources you have locally will be seen as needed for the good of everyone. Food, water, livestock, wild game, all these things will most likely be controlled and distributed evenly by those with the power to do so. Any survivors in the larger cities will want to migrate toward the rural areas with the most resources. If the military allowed that, in their eyes they would lose control. The best way for them to have control is to concentrate the population.”
A deputy rushed in, nodded at Gibson, and said, “A guy from the base just came in and wants to talk to you.”
They got up from the table and walked out front. An airman about twenty years old was leaning on the front counter, looking exhausted and out of breath.
“Get him some water, deputy,” Gibson said.
The airman finished the water in one gulp.
“What’s happening, sheriff?” the airman said.
Gibson started to explain, but Nirsch cut him off. “We really need to be on our way, sheriff,” he said. “I brought you a couple radios from the base. If you want to follow me out, I’ll give them to you.”
“All right.”
“Luke here will fill you in a little, airman. We’ll be right back.”
> Nirsch waited till they were at the truck before he spoke again. “Sheriff, Luke and I are headed out of here and back toward Lake-view as soon as possible. I have to get Luke back to Lake County. He needs to be there to coordinate things. I need to get to my ranch in Seneca and see about my family. We’re taking this truck, and we’d prefer those at the base didn’t know we were gone for at least a couple of hours. There’s nothing more we can do here to help, and my family needs me.
“Besides,” Nirsch said, “I doubt I’ll be missed.” He laughed nervously and smiled at Gibson. “It seems my position with the federal government was just eliminated.”
Gibson thought for a few moments, not returning the smile. “I don’t know you,” he said, “but I’ve been a friend to Luke Palmer nearly twenty-five years. If he needs me to cover for him, consider it done.”
The sheriff reached out and shook Nirsch’s hand.
“Thanks, sheriff. I’ll pray for you folks in Klamath.”
They walked back into the sheriff’s office just in time to hear the end of a sentence from the airman. “—back to the base when you go, I’d appreciate it.”
Crap! thought Nirsch. “What’s up Luke?”
“Airman Ledbetter here was driving in town, picking up food, when everything happened. He and his buddy were hit head-on by a delivery truck. His buddy didn’t make it. He saw our truck drive by him a couple miles from here and ran after us. He asked if we’d take him back to the base when we go.”
Nirsch swore under his breath. “Yes, we can take him back.” He realized he’d better start building an excuse to leave the base again. “Sheriff Gibson, have you seen or heard from anyone at the state police office?”
“No one.”
Nirsch glanced at his watch. “The colonel wanted us to get them radios and have them start checking in at 8 o’clock. Since we’re closer to the base than the state police office, we’ll run Airman Led-better back first. That only gives us fifty-six minutes to get there. We better get moving.”
Nirsch shook Gibson’s hand. “Thank you,” he said.
Luke said his goodbyes and they headed for the truck. Nirsch stopped and turned back around.
“Sheriff Gibson, watch yourself. Don’t trust everything you’re being told. Be ready to get your family someplace safe. You may have to get up into the mountains unless you want to be herded someplace you won’t like. I’ve worked for the Federal Government for thirty years, and dealt with the political elite for most of my career. I guarantee you that some within the government will use this attack to grow their power. ”
They got into the truck and waved goodbye to Gibson. He seemed lost in his thoughts. Gibson didn’t return the wave or make eye contact as they drove away.
15
OCHOCO MOUNTAINS
7 P.M.
IT WAS SLOW GOING, BUT AFTER AN HOUR OF WALKING DOWN THE mountain in snowshoes, the ground had finally started to flatten out. Larry and Amanda came out of the tree line to a large field and stopped to look around.
“Which way do you think we should go?” Larry said.
“I’m not sure. We came from there,” Amanda said, pointing at the mountain. “I remember the lights I saw before we wrecked were kind of that way.” She pointed in the opposite direction.
“All right, that’s the direction we’ll go. I didn’t notice any lights before we wrecked. I was too busy daydreaming.”
They skirted the edge of the field and came to a gravel road that had been freshly plowed. They took off their snowshoes and walked until they came to a closed gate. Larry looked up at a gatepost with a sign that read: “Trespassers will be shot! Survivors will be shot again.”
“Not much of a welcome,” he said, “but I don’t think we have much of a choice.”
They opened the gate and headed down the driveway. They were greeted halfway by three cow dogs that barked and wagged their tails. Larry slowly reached out and let the first dog sniff his hand. The dog lay down and rolled onto his back, allowing Larry to rub his stomach.
“Hiya, big fella.”
Amanda reached down to scratch the other two behind the ears. “If the owners are as friendly as their dogs,” she said, “we might be all right.”
They continued down the driveway and came to a white, two-story house. Candles burned in the windows. Larry cupped his hands around his mouth: “Hello!”
The front door opened a crack. Behind it was a leathery-faced, gray-haired man holding a Colt Peacemaker at his side.
“Can I help you?” he said.
“I hope so, sir. My name is Larry, and this is my wife, Amanda. We had a car accident up on the highway, and we came to get help. I’m a police officer from Washington, D.C. Our cell phones don’t seem to be working, and I can’t get my portable police radio to work either.”
“I don’t think it will work. Come in out of the cold and we’ll help you if we can.”
They entered a large, candlelit living room. There was a brown leather couch and a brown recliner in the corner. John Wayne pictures hung on the walls. An old lever-action Winchester was mounted above a stone mantle and a fireplace with a roaring fire. The man gestured toward the couch.
“Have a seat,” he said. “Betty, we got company!”
A wiry woman barely five feet tall, with gray curls falling across her forehead, entered from the kitchen. She wore a red, checkered apron and was wiping flour off her hands.
“Hello, I’m Betty.”
“I’m Larry Collins, and this is my wife, Amanda.” They stood and shook Betty’s hand, then the old man’s.
“I’m Jerry Lufkin,” he said.
“We don’t mean to impose,” Larry said, “but we had a car accident up on the highway and we’d noticed lights down here. We didn’t have anywhere else to go.”
“We’re just sittin’ down to supper. Would you like to join us? I made plenty.”
Larry remembered throwing up the Chinese food earlier. His stomach growled “If it’s not too much trouble,” he said. “We ate a couple hours ago in Prineville, but after walkin’ down here in the cold—”
“It’s no trouble at all,” Betty said with a grandmother’s caring smile. “You just come into the kitchen and sit yourselves down to the table. We’ll fix you right up.”
They sat at an antique dining table. Amanda smiled at Betty. “This certainly is a beautiful table,” she said.
Betty smiled back with a twinkle of pride shining in her soft brown eyes. “It was my grandmother’s,” she said. “It’s way too big for the two of us, but I could never get rid of it. It’s where I ate as a child, and my mother before me. Too many memories.” Betty stared off, apparently thinking of a distant moment.
Jerry sat down. “Betty, could we get some coffee?” he said.
Betty blinked. “Land sakes, where are my manners?” She walked over to the cupboard, took down four mugs, and reached for the tin coffeepot that was percolating on the wood-burning cook stove.
“Cream or sugar?”
Amanda and Larry spoke in unison: “Black, please.”
They got their mugs of coffee, and Larry took a deep sniff of the thick, black brew. It instantly woke him up, bringing everything into sharper focus.
Jerry scratched his white hair, bit off a plug of tobacco, and spat a long gooey stream into a brass spittoon on the kitchen floor. “So you say you had a car accident?”
Larry looked up from his coffee. “Yes sir, we lost all the power in the car and slid into the ditch. We tried my portable police band and our cell phones. Nothing would work.”
“I reckon it’s not gonna work. None of our electric gizmos work either, not even our flashlights.”
“What do you mean?”
“I think we were hit with one of them EMP things. Sometimes big sun spots and such will cause a little one, but I’m thinkin’ this one was a lot bigger. The kind that might come from a big nuclear bomb. We learned about ‘em in the Army.”
Larry saw Amanda stiffen. She cleared h
er throat. “He’s right, Larry,” she said. “That must be what happened.” She took a deep breath. “What I’m going tell all of you is classified. I couldn’t tell Larry everything before. Now I don’t think it matters.”
Jerry looked confused. “What do you mean, classified?”
“I’m a secretary,” Amanda said. “I work for the NSA. Two days ago we were alerted to a group of terrorists in the United States that had nuclear weapons ready to be detonated. My boss left yesterday to try to find them and stop them. I’m assuming he couldn’t do that.”
Betty dropped the pan she was holding and hurried back to the table. “Oh, my-y-y!”
Amanda waited for her to sit before continuing. “No one knew exactly where the bombs were. They weren’t even sure if the intelligence was true. They didn’t want to warn anyone and cause panic until they knew for sure. That’s why we’re here. My boss has a ranch in Seneca, and he invited us to go and stay there until this all blows over.
“Seneca?” Jerry said. “I know some folks up that way. What’s his name?”
“Levi Nirschell. He has about twenty thousand acres in Bear Valley.”
A light of recognition blazed from Jerry’s eyes. “I’ve met him. He’s a good man.”
They sat in silence, Amanda’s words sinking in. Larry spoke first: “How far is Seneca from here?”
“If you go over the mountains, it’s about sixty miles,” Jerry said. “If you go on the highway, it’s about a hundred and ten.”
“I guess to get there, we’re going to have to walk,” Larry said. “Over the mountain seems like the closest route.”
Jerry cocked his head at Larry. “You’ll never make it walking over the mountains this time of year.”
Everyone fell silent again. Larry stared into space and sipped his coffee. Betty got up from the table and finished preparing dinner. It was, Larry, thought, too much to take in.
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