Riker's Apocalypse (Book 1): The Promise

by Chesser, Shawn

  “Lee. Lee,” said Tara. She was pointing at the Tahoe. Its right rear blinker was flashing amber, the brake lights flaring red.

  A quick speedometer check told Riker they were traveling the interstate a tad north of ninety. Not quite scratching the bucket list itch, but getting close. When he looked up, he saw they were rapidly closing with their quarry.

  “They’re pulling off,” said Tara.

  “I see that.” Riker eased off the gas and took his eyes from the road only long enough to glance at the squiggly multi-colored lines crisscrossing the navigation screen. “Where are we now?”

  “Van Buren is up ahead a mile or two.”

  “Where do you think the Homeland folks are going in such a damn hurry? The supposed radiological spill, incident, whatever the hell they’re using as an excuse is the other way.”

  Tara was listening but not actually looking at her brother. Instead she was focused on a point in the distance where the Tahoe seemed to be headed. She saw the broadside of the vehicle as it took an off-ramp and crossed over right to left. She found herself again staring at the flashing grill lights as the Homeland SUV doubled back and raced down an elevated road paralleling the interstate.

  “I may be mistaken,” she said, “but it appears they’re meeting up with those vehicles by that RV dealership.”

  Riker looked off to the left, squinting to see what Tara was talking about. Only things readily discernable to him were the stringers of colorful flags popping in the wind above dozens of train-car-sized rectangles sporting shiny chrome bumpers and two-tone paintjobs. He only categorized them as RVs because of Tara’s mention of the dealership.

  Panning left of the fleet of RVs, Riker spotted what at first blush struck him as a field filled with Indiana Department of Transportation vehicles: asphalt pavers, graders, dozers, back loaders, and all of the accoutrements necessary to efficiently execute a lengthy repave job.

  By the time the distance to the off-ramp was halved, both literally and figuratively, several things became clear to Riker. What he’d pegged as INDOT machinery was in fact a smattering of MRAP armored vehicles wearing the tan paint schemes ubiquitous to both theaters of war in the Middle East. He stopped counting at two dozen. Though he didn’t know the specific models, from the multiple different profiles standing out against the setting sun, it looked as if both Oshkosh and MaxxPro’s offerings were accounted for. And mixed in with the bulky armored wheeled vehicles were at least a dozen slightly smaller armored vehicles outfitted with low-profile turrets and riding on four wheels versus the eight or ten of the MRAPs.

  Back when Riker was employed and had kept an apartment and could afford basic cable, he’d seen prototypes of the smaller Mine Resistant Ambush Protected All-Terrain Vehicle, or M-ATV for short, profiled on the Military Channel. They were fast and agile and could pack a punch with its Special Forces operators able to acquire and engage targets with the roof-mounted Crew Remotely Operated Weapons System. The CROWs system, which he’d learned was basically a remotely operated turret, could be fitted with M240 or M2 belt-fed machine guns, 40mm grenade launchers, or, for use against tanks and other armor pieces, the BGM-71 TOW missile launcher.

  Soldiers in full battle rattle milled about among the vehicles. Others were scurrying on and around the MRAPs and M-ATVs, likely dogging down hatches and securing spare parts and personal gear to the angular armor plating.

  Light flared off the south-facing plates of green glass as the Suburban came even with the unlikely assemblage.

  Tara scrutinized the static vehicles until the overpass shadow washed over the Suburban and the concrete structure was behind them and blocking her view. “What did we just see?”

  “Looks like a rallying point for some kind of major joint operation. Pretty sure I saw Homeland, Army, and National Guard vehicles staged together.”

  “For a training operation, right?”

  Riker signaled and moved over to the center lane. Always more options there. Glancing at Tara, he said, “Don’t be naive, Sis. The noose is not tightening around Middletown. I’m afraid the exact opposite is true.”

  As if to add an exclamation point to Riker’s statement, four U.S. Army Chinook helicopters painted in Woodland Desert Sage thundered low and fast overhead. Though he couldn’t see them in the rearview, judging by their southwest heading they were likely going to put down in the vast fields south of Liberty Recreation’s sales lots. The same mostly flat parcels of crushed-down grass where a pair of fuel bowsers, mobile generators, and multiple telescoping light standards had been pre-positioned.

  “I’m not naïve, Lee. I’m trying to be optimistic. That was more of the MRAP things, wasn’t it?”

  “Correct.”

  “What were the smaller vehicles? The SUV-looking things with guns on their roofs?”

  “L-ATVs. Baby brother to the M-ATVs. They’re a few tons lighter and can get into tighter areas. They’re also employed by our Special Forces.”

  “You drove those?”

  “Nope. They’re pretty new to the inventory.” Riker reached down to scratch an itch on his stump. Dug around under the cup for a second, in the process causing the metal of the prosthetic to clank against the Mossberg. “Take this back,” he said, returning the shotgun to Tara in a safe manner. “And plot us a course to a seedy motel somewhere near Akron.”

  Queens, New York

  When Tony woke, several hours had passed, his head was throbbing, and his tee shirt was damp with sweat. Strangely, the street outside his Queens apartment, usually bustling with activity on a Sunday evening, was deathly quiet. Through the vertical seam in the curtains he saw that the flat light of autumn had been supplanted by a dull gray sky quickly turning to black.

  The power-saving feature on the flat-panel television had taken over and turned the Samsung off for him, leaving his tiny front room quiet and a profound sense of loneliness building within him.

  Powering the television back on, he flipped to the local news channel and saw that 4WTC was still burning. A cold shiver wracked his body when he realized the upper twenty stories were now fully engulfed, some of the metal beams seemingly aglow.

  As he watched the flames licking up the mirrored surface, beads of sweat formed on his forehead which he found hot to the touch.

  Tearing his eyes from the surreal sight, he focused his attention on the crawl at the bottom of the screen, quickly learning that a person dubbed the Central Park Biter had struck again, upping his total number of victims to six in the last fifteen minutes. Then a petite female reporter was on, describing similar “copycat” attacks occurring inside emergency rooms at Lower Manhattan Hospital, Gouverneur Health, and NYU Langone Medical Center on Manhattan’s Upper East Side.

  As a story about a Norovirus outbreak in Middletown, Indiana usurped the 4WTC coverage, Tony grabbed the fifth bottle and poured himself another three fingers of Old Crow. Changing the channel to CNN, he saw a wide panorama of Manhattan, likely taken from a helicopter hovering somewhere south of Battery Park. Lights in the skyscrapers were winking on as day slipped away. Slowly defining their outlines, the lights strung on the bridges were becoming visible against the dark waters of the Hudson and East River. And as the camera panned right to left and zoomed in, the Washington Bridge filled up the screen. A number of police vehicles were positioned at each end, their red and blue lights strobing hypnotically.

  To validate what he was seeing, the crawl on CNN began listing closures of bridges and tunnels all leading in and out of Manhattan.

  Tony was pouring himself a third drink when the words Manhattan Island Under Quarantine appeared on the crawl. Before he could process what that had to do with a biter in the park and a brand new skyscraper catching fire or the bridges and tunnels connecting the island with the other boroughs and New Jersey being declared off limits, air raid sirens began to wail, their high-pitched warble fake-sounding coming through the television’s tiny speakers.

  Almost immediately the Manhattan sirens were join
ed by others close by. Faint at first, their undulating peals soon rose to an ear-splitting crescendo. There was nothing “fake-sounding” about these. Even through the double-glazed windows in his efficiency apartment, though he didn’t know their significance, there was no mistaking them for what they were—a portent of bad things to come.

  Chapter 54

  Four hours had slipped into the past and the corn maze lay roughly two hundred and seventy-five miles behind the Suburban when darkness fell and the sky decided to open up on them. Rain pummeled the Suburban and lightning forked in the distance over Akron, Ohio as the wipers struggled to keep up with the deluge.

  The traffic that had picked up east of Fort Wayne where US-24 became US-30 had stayed steady until they crossed the Indiana/Ohio state line. Their entire time spent driving in Ohio, Riker had stayed to the fast lane and made good time, only seeing two patrol cars the entire way, both charging westbound on US-30 and lit up like Christmas trees.

  Their only stop between the Iron Pan Restaurant and their current location on I-76 a few miles southwest of Akron was a much-needed fuel and bathroom break at a Speedway station in Mansfield, some sixty miles behind them.

  ***

  Seeing a sign indicating Akron lay a scant eight miles ahead, Riker slowed to five above the posted limit and slipped over to the center lane. A short while later I-76 swung around east and became Vietnam Veterans Memorial Highway from which downtown Akron presented as a bright bubble of light looming large on the horizon.

  “Steve-O,” said Riker, eyes flicking to the rearview. “You’ve been quiet as a ninja back there. Whatcha got on rotation on that iPod now?”

  Nothing.

  In the passenger seat Tara didn’t look up. She was busy running the Emory board over the badly mangled nail on her left middle finger. She’d split it in two places helping her brother to close the door against the weight of the Bolt back at the high school.

  Riker adjusted the rearview mirror down with one hand but saw no movement in the gloom behind his seat. Raising his voice to override whatever country crooner currently had Steve-O’s ear, he said, “You still with us, buddy?”

  Still no response. There was only the steady hiss of radials cutting the slop on the road and a metronomic scritch, scritch, scritch made by the tool in Tara’s hand as she went about reshaping the nail.

  Slowing to the speed limit, Riker cast a quick glance over his shoulder. Got eyes on Steve-O. He was back there all right but was sound asleep. The white earbuds were still in place, the wires snaking to the lit-up iPod which was on his lap and illuminating his upper torso. His plastic-framed glasses were folded and sitting beside the iPod. Next to him on the seat was the perfectly shaped Stetson.

  A rope of drool stretched from the corner of his lip to the lap belt where a dark stain had already formed on the black nylon. Judging by the angle of Steve-O’s neck, he was going to have one hell of a crick in it once he awoke.

  As Riker swung his gaze around, he glimpsed a lake gliding by on the right. Its surface was black as obsidian and reflected the halide lights ringing its shore. Again focused solely on the three-lane awash in twin cones of light thrown from the Suburban’s headlights, he said, “Steve-O’s sound asleep. How are you doing?”

  Tara kicked off the fake Crocs and put her feet on the dash. “This is nothing like I envisioned it being,” she said, her voice betraying a hint of sadness. “This trip to scatter Mom’s ashes is supposed to be a celebration of her life. We should be enjoying ourselves like Carrie and the Bandit. Or Thelma and Louise. Not hiding from helicopters in corn fields and looking over our shoulders for tails.”

  Trees and cement noise-abatement panels lining both sides of the highway blipped by as a minute ticked into the past. Finally Riker shifted in his seat, cleared his throat, and said, “Who am I supposed to be?”

  A rare smile curling her lip, Tara said, “The Bandit, of course.”

  Riker’s brows hitched as he shot her a questioning look.

  “Thelma or Louise?” he said, gruffly.

  She checked on Steve-O. Saw that he was still out cold. So she asked, “Which one got boned by Brad Pitt?”

  “Thelma, I think,” said Riker. “And J.D. was the name of the character played by Pitt.”

  “Well then,” she said dreamily, “J.D. better be at the motel bar when we get there.”

  “That movie came out a long time ago, you know. You were about to be born … or just had been. How do you know about those old movies, anyway?”

  “I fall asleep with the boob tube on. Usually to Turner Classics. Living alone, I like my background noise.”

  Now Riker was smiling. And looking at her. He said, “You do know that Brad Pitt is like fifty years old now, don’t you?”

  “Thanks a lot. You just ruined my only sexual fantasy.”

  Squinting against the oncoming string of headlights, Riker said, “Just saving you from yourself, Sis.”

  ***

  Ten minutes of silence ensued after Riker’s parting quip. As he was slowing to take the ramp off of I-77, he couldn’t help but pick up right where he had left off.

  Voice dripping with incredulity, he said, “Only sexual fantasy? Man, Sis, you need to broaden your horizons. Maybe pick up a copy of Fifty Shades or something.”

  Steve-O made a snorting noise and was suddenly bolt upright and jamming his glasses onto his face. In the next beat, his wisps of reddish-blond hair were hidden underneath the white cowboy hat. “Where are we?” he asked.

  “We’re looking for a place to stay the night. And when we get there, Tara will be going straight to the bar”—Riker snorted, choking back laughter—“and what she finds there will determine how many rooms we get.”

  “S … e… x,” said Steve-O. He grinned and ran his sleeve across his mouth.

  Riker imagined Tara next to him in the cab turning several shades of red. That it was dark and he didn’t want to leer meant he couldn’t confirm his suspicion. So he chalked it up as fact and went on, “We’re in Akron, Ohio. Figure we get some shut eye, then wake up at the butt crack of dawn and get going.”

  “Good,” said Steve-O. “I’m tired and my neck hurts. Maybe there’s tickling fingers in the bed.”

  Tara looked at Riker, who merely shrugged and began scanning the road ahead for any kind of sign offering Clean Rooms or Free HBO or the availability of a Hot Tub and Heated Pool. The latter amenities of which he would definitely take advantage of. The repercussions from the fast and furious scrum with the Bolt in the school tunnel were beginning to manifest in the way of a soreness running up both sides of his ribcage. Then there was the driving. Ever since the IED explosion, sitting behind the wheel of anything for prolonged periods of time did a number on his lower back and left arm.

  As for Steve-O and his “tickling fingers”—whatever in the hell they were—he was going to let good ol’ fate determine their availability.

  Queens

  The biggest thing Jillian Delinford hated about being on-premise manager for the Waverly Heights apartments was confronting a tenant about any transgression unbecoming of a grown adult. Though disturbances here were few and far between, she abhorred having to play policeman—especially when the one who needed policing knew a thing or two about it.

  She clomped up to the third-floor landing, cursing and muttering the whole way. She turned toward the door to Unit 6, keys in hand and a monumental resentment filling the small landing alongside her.

  “Tony,” she cawed. “Are you drunk again?”

  Nothing.

  Jillian jingled the keys once.

  Silence.

  “I heard you banging around in there, Tony. If you’re going to cook after you’ve had a few, please use the microwave.”

  There was a low rumble from behind the door. Sounded a lot like a heavy piece of furniture being forced across bare floor.

  Jillian thought about announcing herself again but decided against it. Instead, she dragged out her portable phone and hit re
dial.

  A phone rang somewhere deep inside Unit 6. It jangled on for fifteen seconds.

  “I know you’re in there, you old sot.” She stabbed a finger at the phone and instantly the ringing ceased. “Coming in.”

  It took Jillian a moment to throw all three locks with her master key. Finished, she slipped the keys and phone in the deep pocket of her floral-print housecoat.

  “Tony?” She pushed the door inward to the sound of glass breaking somewhere down the hall.

  Once the door reached the wall and hit with a soft thunk, she looked past the jamb and took a step inside.

  “Tony? You okay?”

  A guttural growl answered. Then footfalls, heavy and deliberate, sounded from within.

  Jillian turned to close the door at her back and was hit broadside by two-hundred-plus pounds of lumbering flesh. She went to her knees and felt the bones in her shoulder snap like twigs as her attacker drove her to the floor.

  A scream was just forming in Jillian’s throat when she was hit full on with the sour stink of some kind of whisky. In the next beat, as the howl brought on by the pain from a hundred shards of crushed clavicle and ribs piercing flesh and lung crossed over her lips, the sweet stink of flesh just beginning to decay supplanted the waft of booze,

  Jillian didn’t feel the added pain of her assailant’s incisors rending meat from her neck. The hot, sticky blood matting her hair to the floor barely registered as her eyelids fluttered once and the shock from the attack and vicious takedown graced her with the sweet oblivion of unconciousness.

  Chapter 55

  The King’s Court marquee rose up beside a rambling two-level motor court set a dozen yards off a busy, oil-streaked stretch of four-lane shooting north into the heart of Akron. Glowing red and reflecting off the Suburban’s glossy black hood, the neon sign was mated to a white reader board announcing that the King offered Free Wi-Fi, Clean king and queen beds, and free HBO, the latter statement assuring Tara that basic cable was part of the deal as well. Truth was, she didn’t care a lick about HBO. She wanted to park herself on the end of the bed and surf every available news channel until she gleaned all she could about the happenings in Middletown and beyond. She figured the information would be sanitized and limited. So first things first: There was a list of things she needed to procure to avail her to dig deeper for more intel than the local channels and cable were allowed to divulge. Some electronic items that an out of the way two-star roach motel simply didn’t offer.