“Phil says you’re starting a new career.”
“Oh, yeah. I’m going to be a fighter pilot. Like you. Found a guy who’s going to bring around a Warhawk tomorrow. It’s pretty old, but you got to start somewhere, right?”
“Right.” He pats one of her hands with its long red fingernails. “You think you could hop down now?”
“But it’s so comfortable up here,” she whines. She kisses his cheek and then drops to the tarmac. “It’s too bad you won’t be around. You could teach me some tricks.”
“The most important thing is don’t let anyone get on your six. The rest is just luck.”
“I’ll keep that in mind.” She runs a hand over his chest. “I am really going to miss this.”
“I’m sure I’ll see you around.”
“I hope so.” She gets on her toes; he bends down for one last passionate kiss goodbye. At least her end of it is passionate; his is more relief. He’s glad to finally have some time for his scrapes and bruises to heal.
“See you around, sport,” she says. She waves to him before joining Nation inside the C-130. Hunter sighs and then climbs up into the Harrier to start the next leg of his journey.
***
He has flown over the Rocky Mountains before, but never quite this low. He keeps it low enough that the undercarriage of the Harrier is practically scraping the snow on the tops of the mountains. There’s no way to know what kind of radar coverage the gang with the Russian planes has—if any—but he doesn’t want to give himself away.
If there’s one good thing about this it’s that it requires him to maintain a sharp focus. That doesn’t give him time to think about Casey, Polly, Val, Misuko, or anyone else in his life. He only has to worry about not running into any of the mountains around him.
Flying is always the best medicine in his life. It simplifies everything, giving him a new perspective on any problem. Especially in a dogfight, everything boils down to the basics of survival.
As the mountains start to get smaller, he checks his maps. The area he’s coming up on used to be an Indian reservation, so it wasn’t highly populated even before the outbreak. He drops down even closer to the ground, keeping just high enough not to get caught on any of the few trees. There still isn’t anything on his radar. If he’s lucky, he won’t run into any patrols before he’s able to set down somewhere around Salt Lake City.
When he sees the tiny form of a lone figure shambling below, he shakes his head. As bad as being a zeeb would be, it would be a lot worse out in the middle of nowhere, where you might be twenty miles from your next meal. It’s hard to believe the thing is still walking around. The merciful thing to do would be to finish it off, but there’s no time or ammunition to waste on that now.
A few minutes later, the hairs on the back of his neck stand up, warning him before his instruments can pick anything up. He looks up to see three of them high above him. The two smaller shapes are Fulcrums while the larger one leading the way is a Flanker. He remembers them all too well from over Snowcap Mountain.
They don’t seem to have picked him up yet. He slows the Harrier to hover in place, waiting for them to go past. They’re cruising along fast enough that it doesn’t take long for them to disappear from sight. He waits a few extra seconds and then starts moving again.
At least now he knows Alice was right about the Russian planes operating in this area. How far do their patrols extend? He would imagine all the way to the mountains. He can’t be sure how far south they would go. If they’re operating out of Salt Lake City they would probably go to at least the Provo area. From what his maps indicate, the two cities are connected by a corridor of suburbs, so it would make sense to patrol that entire area. Given how many planes they have, it won’t be the same three he saw either.
With Provo and the suburbs to the south and mountains to the east and west of Salt Lake City, Hunter decides to loop around to the north and come in over the Great Salt Lake. Except for a few islands the saltwater lake’s surface is about as smooth as glass. This makes it easy for Hunter to skim over the water at about a hundred feet.
There aren’t any boats on the surface of the lake to detect him as he’s coming in. Without much in the way of marine life, there isn’t any fishing in the lake. He doesn’t see anyone swimming or sunbathing as he nears the coast. There don’t seem to be any zeebs either, which should make it easy for him to set down.
Near the coast he sees an odd-looking building with towers topped by onion domes. The empty parking lot is more than spacious enough to accommodate the Harrier. This will put him about ten miles from the airport and fifteen or so from the city itself. Once he has the Harrier shut down, he pops the canopy and then grabs his M4 along with a pack containing some food, water, and ammunition. He can’t be sure what the condition of the city is, so he wants to be prepared for anything.
It’s not as hot as the desert in Arizona, but it doesn’t take long for him to sweat through his flight suit. He takes a sip from his canteen and then keeps moving. There’s no time to waste resting, not if he wants to get to the city by dark.
Yet the farther he walks, the more he notices something strange: not a single zeeb. There are no dead bodies or even any cars left on the road. It’s as if the area has been completely swept clean. That’s unheard-of with the state of the world.
The absence of zeebs worries him more than a pack of them would. There are areas that have managed to contain the zeebs, but to clear away all the other debris would take a monumental effort. Whoever is in charge in Salt Lake City is not someone to mess around with.
The sun is starting to go down when he reaches the barricade. Now he sees where all the debris from the roads went: it was used to make a wall about two stories tall that stretches as far as he can see. Whoever built it has stacked cars and trucks on top of each other like in a junkyard. There are two huge panels of corrugated metal to form gates.
Hunter approaches the gates slowly, keeping his rifle on his back and his pistol in its holster. He stops a second before the bullet chips the pavement in front of him. “What do you want?” a voice calls out.
“I’m just looking for shelter. Maybe work if you got it,” Hunter shouts.
“Who are you?”
“My name’s Mac Malone.”
“You a pilot?”
“Was. That bastard Sky Ghost shot down my ride. I’m hoping to score a new one.”
“You got any money?”
“Not much. That’s why I was hoping to find some work. Who’s in charge here?”
“That’s none of your damned business. You kill any zeebs before?”
“Course I have. I wouldn’t be here otherwise.”
“We can always use another wrangler around here. Base pay isn’t much, but there are fringe benefits.” There’s gruff laughter from atop the wall. Hunter still can’t see anyone, not until one of them takes a step forward. The guy is dressed all in black with a white cross patch on the shoulder and the chest. “If you can climb up here, we’ll let you stick around.”
“See you at the top.” Hunter examines the walls of junk. He mentally calculates a path starting with an old semi. He hops on a rusty running board and then uses the broken window to get onto the roof. From there he scrambles onto a pickup truck, followed by a couple of sedans. He reaches out for the mirror of a Hyundai only for it to break off in his grasp. Hunter starts to fall backwards, but at the last moment he snags the doorframe with his left hand. He lets out a sigh of relief as he reels himself back in.
As he crawls onto the roof of an ancient Datsun, he hears the click of safeties being taken off. Hunter gets to his feet and then raises his hands. “Easy, boys. You said I was welcome to stay if I made it up.”
“That don’t mean we have to trust you.”
One guy keeps an M16 on Hunter while the other takes Hunter’s weapons, including his knapsack. “For a guy with no money you came prepared.”
“Yeah. Took that stuff off a guy on my way here.”
“You leave him walking around?”
“Of course not. Put a bullet in his head and then tossed him in the lake.”
They motion for him to step forward, into a hollowed-out armored car they use for their watchtower. Hunter sees a rope ladder that is probably how they get up and down the wall. It doesn’t seem like a fun job; it’s probably reserved for those on someone’s shit list. “Nice view you got here,” Hunter says. From the armored car he can see almost back to the Great Salt Lake in the north, the airport to the east, and the city to the south.
“Yeah, it’s real scenic. You’re going to stay up here until we get someone to take you in.”
‘“Take me in?’ You planning to interrogate me or something?”
“You got something to hide?”
“No. I was just hoping to get a decent meal and a shower.”
“You do stink pretty bad,” one guard says and they both laugh.
They don’t say much else while they wait. After about a half-hour, Hunter sees headlights approaching. A minute or two later he sees the headlights belong to a black SUV that reminds him of when he, JP, and Casey had escaped from the Seabirds in Seattle. The SUV comes to a stop to let out another guy in a black uniform, only the crosses on the chest and shoulder are gold. That probably means he’s someone in charge.
The radio in the armored car crackles to life. “You still have the new arrival?”
“Yes, sir,” one of the guards says, his voice quivering with fear.
“Send him down.”
One of the guards tosses the rope ladder to the ground while the other watches Hunter. Then they motion to the ladder. “You climb down that. We’ll send your stuff along later.”
“Thanks, guys,” Hunter grumbles and then starts down the rope ladder. It sways in time with his movements, but it holds together the entire way down.
He hops down to the ground to find the guy with the gold crosses flanked by two guards with gray crosses stitched to their bulletproof vests. They’re wearing helmets with visors so he can’t see their faces, but the one with the gold crosses wears only a peaked cap. His face is sallow and the right side puckered from a serious burn.
The man with the gold crosses holds out a hand for Hunter to shake. When he starts to speak, his voice is colored by an Eastern European accent. “I am Major Friese. Welcome to Utopia.”
“It’s good to be here,” Hunter says. “I’m Mac Malone. I used to be a lieutenant back in the day. USAF.”
“Ah, yes. Where were you stationed?”
“Ramstein mostly. Missed most of the fighting in the war.”
“How unfortunate. If you’ll follow me, I’ll get you checked in.”
‘“Checked in?’ Like a hotel?”
“No. To protect ourselves, we register every living person who comes to Utopia.”
“And by Utopia you mean Salt Lake City?”
“That was the name for it. Before it was purified.”
‘“Purified?’ By who?”
“We’ll explain all that later. Come along.”
The guards next to Friese don’t leave Hunter much choice about it. He follows them to the backseat of the SUV. One sits on either side of him to make sure he can’t escape. Friese takes the passenger’s seat, turning to look back at Hunter. “I apologize for the rude welcome, but as I’m sure you know, you can’t be too careful these days.”
“No, of course not.”
The SUV backs up and then turns around to start down the road towards the city. Friese continues, “There are places like Mile High that let people come and go as they please. We prefer to maintain a firm grip on whom we allow inside our walls.”
“That’s a pretty impressive wall. Must have taken a while to build it.”
“Yes. It took about three months. We would not have the security we do without it.”
“And that goes around the whole city?”
“What isn’t protected by the mountains.” There’s the screech of jet engines overhead; probably one of the patrols either coming or going. “Plus we have our patrols to keep out intruders.”
“Sounds like a pretty tight ship.”
“Indeed. A tight ship is necessary in these chaotic times. Tell me, Lieutenant Malone: are you a god-fearing man?”
“I didn’t get to church as much as I’d have liked, but yeah.”
“That’s good. Nonbelievers have no place in Utopia.”
“I suppose that’s just as well.”
The SUV takes an exit that loops around to put them on a westbound road. They must be going to the airport. “It shouldn’t be too much longer until we reach our destination. Then we’ll want to know more about your background to decide how best you can serve Utopia.”
“Serve as in slavery? I was hoping to make some money—”
“You’ll be compensated, of course.”
“That’s good to know.” Hunter leans back on the bench seat. This place is starting to give him the creeps. Something tells him it’ll get worse before it gets better.
***
While Hunter would have liked to go to the airport to get a look at how many Russian planes they have, the SUV stops at a nondescript office building in a nearby industrial park. The guards escort him into an ordinary conference room that still has the fabric-upholstered office chairs. Major Friese motions to one of these chairs. “Have a seat, Lieutenant Malone. Then we can get started.”
Hunter shrugs and then takes a seat at the middle of the table. “Is this where you put the hot lights on me? I don’t see a good cop around.”
“This isn’t an interrogation. We just want to get to know you.”
‘“We?’”
Major Friese pats a radio behind his chair. “Our command staff is listening in.”
“Oh. I see. What do you want to know?”
“Start at the beginning. Where did you grow up?”
“Well, I was born in Allentown, Pennsylvania about twenty-seven years ago I guess it would be by now.” Hunter goes on, trying to make his fictitious life seem as ordinary and different from his real one as possible. It’s unlikely anyone listening in would know his real background, but he can’t take the chance when he’s so close to his goal.
“After I got back to the States I tried to go home, but the city had already been overrun. I got myself an F-100 Super Sabre and did some freelance work for a while. Until that Sky Ghost guy brought me down. Then I ended up here.”
Major Friese hasn’t interrupted him the entire time. He leans forward as he says, “That’s very good, Lieutenant Malone. You sound like an able soldier. I will confer with the others and we’ll let you know.”
The guards grab Hunter by the arms to drag him out of the room. This seems a bit too harsh, but there’s not much he can do about it at the moment. They shove him into a cubicle with a nonfunctioning computer and Dilbert cartoons posted on the wall. “So, how’s it going with you?” he asks.
“Shut up,” one of the guards growls.
Hunter decides not to press his luck. He sits in the cubicle’s chair, trying not to make any sudden moves. It seems like an eternity before Major Friese steps out of the conference room. He motions for the guards to stand back. “I’m sorry for the delay. If you could, take Lieutenant Malone to the wrangler barracks. He can get started tomorrow.”
“Started with what? What is it I’m supposed to be wrangling?”
“The damned, Lieutenant. The damned.”
Chapter 19
The “wranglers” have a decent billet in the form of an old motel near the airport. Hunter gets to share a room with a tall black man who is the spitting image of General George. Hunter almost faints when the man introduces himself as Gray George the Third. “You can call me Trip, like Triple. What’s the matter? Don’t want to shake a black man’s hand?”
“What? No, that’s not it,” Hunter says. He shakes the hand of General George’s son. “It’s just that you look so much like your father. I served with him.”
>
“Lots of people served with him. All except me. Pops wouldn’t have that. He got me shipped off to Alaska. Motherfucking Alaska. Can you believe it? Two fucking years I froze my ass off with the polar bears and shit.”
“Sounds harsh.”
“Yeah. Compared to that, this place really is a utopia.”
Hunter sits on one of the double beds. The sheets are stained with what he hopes is coffee or ketchup or something rather than blood. “I was with your father in Seattle for a few months. I don’t remember seeing you there.”
“I wasn’t there. After I got out of Alaska, I went south. Seattle was still run by the Seabirds when I got there. I went on to Mile High for a while. I was hoping to get enough money for a plane of my own, but my deal fell through. Heard there was work to be had here, so I come here. I thought I’d be flying, not playing cowboy to a bunch of fucking zeebs.”
“So what is this ‘wrangling’ stuff they talk about?”
“These guys got themselves a way to control the zeebs. Using sonics and shock collars. Wranglers get to drive them inside and then out to the yard for a little exercise. Sometimes we got to take them to be fed.”
“What do they want with a bunch of zeebs?”
“Beats me. I only been here a few weeks. Some of the older guys say they put some of the zeebs on planes and ship them somewhere. No one really knows where.”
Hunter has a pretty good idea where they ship their pet zombies. He shakes his head. “You shouldn’t be here, Trip.”
“Why not? You don’t think a black man can wrangle zeebs?”
Hunter rolls his eyes at this. “No. These are the bastards that killed your father. The zeebs you’re wrangling, they put them on those planes to drop on their enemies. That’s what they did in Seattle. And Vancouver.”
“The hell are you talking about?”
“I was there. I saw it. I…I shot your father.”
Army of the Damned (Sky Ghost #1) Page 15