All these things Frank dreaded for his country, but he still prepared for them as he grew surer with each year’s passing that the systemic risks of a collapse became far greater than during the previous one. Many of his buddies, even those whom he served with, thought him paranoid. Frank knew they suffered from the same normalcy biases that most Americans did, but then evidently he did too. In spite of his warnings for them to prepare for the worst, he was also sure they would be blindsided by this event.
He suspected that the Pentagon had been blindsided as well. None of their Middle East enemies had the capabilities to launch nukes. So, that left the North Koreans, the Chinese, or the Russians. He figured one of them must have taken advantage of the situation, though any one of them would have made an odd bedfellow with the Islamists. At least, he was pretty sure of this fact: Islamic jihadists were behind this attack on the US. One man’s dying words proved this to him. For his own immediate safety, he had to figure out why they were in his home town and why they had targeted him so early.
Frank once again examined each of the bodies and what they were carrying on them. They were all dressed in the same camo-colored paramilitary outfits, and all carried brand-new AKs and lots of ammo. These of course he would add to his inventory, along with one of the trucks.
Vehicle one, a beautiful 1958 red Chevy, was only good for parts—he’d shredded the engine during his successful campaign to stop it. The second was a ’79 Chevy C/K, and it was in perfect shape except for the bullet hole in the windshield and reddish brain matter spattered all over the inside of the cab. The fact that both vehicles were older, without electronic ignition systems, wasn’t lost on him.
There was no identification or anything useful on any of the three bodies, their tactical vests, weapons and ammo already salvaged. Frank dragged each body about two hundred yards away from his house and down wind. He would let nature’s scavengers clean up this mess.
After careful inspection of the vehicles, he found no identification in the cabs or glove boxes. Not even registration or insurance. It wasn’t until he went underneath the seat of the newer one that he found a useful clue: a yellowed receipt from Stowell Grain & Feed. The name of the purchaser on the receipt was Bart Maldonado. Frank knew Bart and his family pretty well. They didn’t see eye to eye on some things, but he certainly didn’t expect this kind of behavior from any of the Maldonados. So, probably the truck had been stolen or purchased from Bart. Most importantly, he had a place to start, which was far better than waiting around for them to attack.
After moving the terrorists’ trucks around the back of his detached garage, behind his house, he parked his truck inside and loaded up his ATV.
He would head down the mostly dry river bank that bounded the back of his property and follow it all the way to Maldonado’s. With any luck he’d find out why these terrorists invaded his property and his little community in Texas. If they were there, maybe he’d reap a little American justice and send these bastards back to Allah, gift wrapped Texas-style.
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Bunker (A Post-Apocalyptic Techno Thriller Book 5) Page 26