Bunker (A Post-Apocalyptic Techno Thriller Book 4)

by Jay J. Falconer

  “A QR code?” Rusty asked, his voice an octave higher than usual.

  Dustin looked just as surprised “What the hell?”

  Albert folded his arms across his oversized gut before raising an eyebrow. “There’s a first time for everything.”

  “Wow, I didn’t expect that,” Apollo added.

  “None of us did,” Bunker said, his eyes drawn to the detail of the artwork.

  “What’s a QR code?” Martha said, her question defining her age.

  “It stands for Quick Response code,” Albert answered.

  Dallas added, “Normally you use a smart phone to scan it, then it takes you to a website on the Internet.”

  “Didn’t Japan’s auto industry invent it?” Dustin asked.

  Albert shook his head. “I don’t think they invented it, but they were the first to use it widespread. At least before the Internet crashed their party.”

  “Well, that’s pretty frickin’ useless,” Burt said. “No Internet. No website.”

  “Angus obviously didn’t expect the EMP,” Bunker said, running through the logistics in his mind. The man must have created a special webpage somewhere on the Internet that contained the Russian formula, then had a tattoo artist draw the code on his head. “It’s damn fine artistry.”

  “Time to fill the hole back up. Then I need some food,” Burt said, looking at Martha.

  “Look, just because I’m a woman doesn’t mean I’m stuck with all the cooking duties.”

  Burt laughed. “Your daughter then. She’s had plenty of experience at Billy Jack’s.”

  Martha stopped her approach next to Bunker, then answered Burt. “You’ll need to take that up with Allison. But I’m pretty sure she’ll tell you the same thing.”

  “To go fuck myself,” Burt said in the middle of a chuckle.

  “You said it, not me,” the old woman answered, leaning in close to the tattoo. She held her eyes on the matrix of squares for a few beats. “Are these supposed to be all black?”

  “Yep, just like any other barcode,” Albert answered.

  Martha stood upright and said, “Well gentleman, I hate to tell you, but that’s not a QR code.”

  “How the hell would you know?” Burt snapped. “A minute ago, you didn’t even know what it was.”

  Martha pointed at the upper left corner of the tattoo, drawing Bunker’s focus. “You see here, the center of that larger square is not black like everything else.”

  Bunker studied the dot before he spoke again. “Looks black to me.”

  She scoffed. “No. It has a tinge of burgundy to it.”

  Bunker shook his head. “I don’t know. Black is black.”

  Albert laughed hard.

  “What’s so funny, dude?” Dustin asked.

  “Most people don’t know this, but women can see shades of color that men can’t. More so in the red spectrum. It’s all about them rods and cones.”

  “Okay, if it has some red to it, what does it mean?”

  Bunker answered Dustin, “It means I need a magnifying glass.”

  “What are you thinking?” Apollo asked.

  “A microdot.”

  “Something a spy would use.”

  “You’ll need more than a magnifying glass,” Albert said with confidence.

  “A microscope?” Dustin asked.

  Albert nodded. “Got one back at my place.”

  Bunker agreed with their line of thinking. “Just need transportation.”

  Apollo spun to face the fenced-off area of Tuttle’s back yard where Tango stood with his snout buried in the short grass. “I’m guessing four-legged transportation. Not four-wheeled.”

  Bunker laughed. “We’ll need to map out a route. Figure I’ll do some scouting while I’m out there.”

  “I can help with that,” Burt said.

  “Actually, you need to get back to work on the projects. There’s a lot more welding to do.”

  “Hey, wait a minute.”

  “A deal is a deal, Burt. That TrackingPoint rifle isn’t free.”

  “If we follow the routes Tuttle put on the map, I’m hoping we can get you where you need to go,” Apollo said.

  “Time to gear up,” Bunker said, getting to his feet.

  “All the gear is in the bunker below the barn,” Apollo said.

  “I’m glad you’ve decided to stay,” Bunker said to the Sheriff. “Someone needs to keep an eye on things till I get back.”

  “It’s not that, exactly. I still need to head back to town, but since we only have one horse, I’ll wait for now. Besides, I don’t think Tango wants my fat ass on his back, too.”

  Bunker smiled. “Or mine, either.”

  “Yeah, as if.”

  “What about my mom and sisters?” Dallas asked. “You promised.”

  “Don’t worry, I’ll look for them. They’re probably in town, if my hunch is correct.”

  The kid nodded, but didn’t respond.

  Bunker held out his hand. “I’ll need that photo you found.”

  Dallas took it from his pocket and unfolded it. The scorch marks on three of the corners obscured some of the scene, but the rest of the image was useable. Well, mostly useable, if you discounted the heavy crease down the middle. The kid had obviously opened and closed the photograph a number of times, cherishing the lone surviving memento from the house fire.

  Dallas gave it to Bunker with a trembling hand. “Mom’s hair is black now.”

  Apollo cleared his throat. “You might want to talk to Daisy before you go. I’m guessing she needs someone to swing by her trailer and feed her cat, Vonda. I left food and water out when I was there before, but I’m sure it’s running low by now.”

  “I’ll take care of it.”

  Burt huffed. “You guys are worried about some cat?”

  Apollo ignored Burt’s jab, still speaking with Bunker. “I’m sure she’ll appreciate it.”

  “I’ll make the rounds with everyone before I head out. Make sure they’re all on the same page.”

  “Well, that and say a few goodbyes. Just in case. God forbid.”

  “Copy that.”

  Martha pointed at Cowie’s bald, naked body. “I think you’re forgetting something, Bunker.”

  “Oh yeah. Right.” Bunker moved to Cowie’s feet, then motioned to Burt. “Grab the other end. Let’s get him inside.”

  CHAPTER 17

  “Where are we going?” Mayor Buckley asked Rico Anderson after they entered the main entrance to Charmer’s Market and Feed Store.

  Rico didn’t respond.

  Buckley hadn’t planned to visit this establishment today, not with a pending meeting with the Russian General on the horizon. But Rico convinced him to follow along, claiming it was Priority One.

  The mercantile owner, Grace Charmer, waved a quick hello as Rico led the Mayor past the front registers in silence.

  Buckley nodded back at her.

  The nervous, red-faced look on Grace’s face sent a chill down his spine, almost as if the old woman had just been sentenced to life in prison for mass murder. It was the strangest feeling. One that Buckley couldn’t shake.

  “Hopefully everyone is here,” Rico whispered, his feet marching down the center aisle. The man’s step was deliberate. So were his words.

  “For what?” Buckley asked, his gut telling him the stockroom door was their destination. It stood between the grain bags and the animal feed piled along the rear wall. He remembered those stacks well, he and Rico carrying the inventory through the store when the Wal-Mart supply trucks arrived in town.

  Rico stopped, then glanced around with hunched shoulders and determined eyes, obvious paranoia fueling his movements. “Not here, Mayor,” he said, his voice barely a purr. “Wait for thirty seconds, then follow me in through the back door.”

  “Why?”

  “Could be sympathizers around. Can’t be too careful.”

  Buckley nodded, even though he had a long list of questions boiling in his brain. Especial
ly about the word sympathizers.

  He looked around to see what had Rico spooked. Three customers occupied the same aisle as he did, two of whom held baskets in their hands. The other was behind a full-sized cart, all of them seemingly busy with their shopping duties.

  Unlike the chill he’d received from Grace’s body language, everyone else in the store appeared engrossed in their own worlds. Nothing out of the ordinary.

  Buckley stood firm as Rico turned and walked away, continuing his original path down the center aisle. At the end, he took a ninety-degree right.

  Buckley could see the top of the Hispanic’s jet-black hair moving above the racks as Rico made two lefts, then a right. A handful of seconds later, the door to the back room opened and Rico’s head disappeared from sight.

  “Afternoon, Mayor,” one of the residents said as she slipped past the Mayor with her shopping cart leading the way. One of the front wheels fluttered in epileptic mode, shuddering side to side in a lightning quick wobble.

  Buckley recognized the overweight seventy-year-old woman. She was Jane Flacco, a round-faced senior who always kept her gray hair short—short enough to resemble a recruit fresh out of Basic Training. No makeup either—a scary thought to say the least.

  “Afternoon, Jane. How’s George doing these days?”

  She tucked in her upper lip before she spoke again. “Meaner than a God damn snake. That’s how he’s doing.”

  Buckley expected a negative response since this woman never seemed content about anything, except when she took down the prize at Bingo and ran with gusto to the front of the hall to collect. The sight of all of her extra weight flopping and wiggling was a sight he could never un-see. “I take it his gout is acting up again?”

  “Yeah, that and the fact that he’s a total pain in my ass. I’ve had hemorrhoids I liked better.”

  Buckley held back a laugh, remembering the celebration party involving the Flaccos from the year prior. “Didn’t you two have an anniversary recently?”

  She nodded. “Sixty-one, if you can believe that.”

  “That’s quite an accomplishment, Jane. Congratulations.”

  She shook her head. “Just between you, me and the lamppost, I’m pretty sure that ass-hat of a man won’t make it to sixty-two. But you didn’t hear it from me.”

  Buckley smiled out of courtesy, having heard her same rhetoric a number of times over the years. Yet the Flaccos were still alive and still married, despite their loathing for each other.

  He figured the very nature of their tumultuous relationship was the one thing keeping them both alive. That communal hatred gave them something to look forward to when each new day arrived.

  Buckley had learned over the years that most people only need a single reason to crawl out of bed and keep plowing forward, even if it’s one filled with nausea for another.

  Mrs. Flacco snatched two items from the shelf in front of her and put them into her half-full shopping cart as Buckley started a silent count to thirty.

  One of her items was a shovel and the other was a length of braided rope. The rope landed on top of a bear trap. The shovel nestled in next to a king-sized container of lighter fluid, its metal moving the plastic bottle over an inch.

  The rest of her cart was full of items that Buckley could classify as weapons, if he didn’t know the woman: framing hammer, black-handled axe, crowbar, and a blue nail puller. Not a single morsel of food.

  She pointed at the front windows of the store. “You gonna do something about all those cock-sucking Russians? Those assholes are really starting to piss me off.”

  Her heavy tone didn’t catch him off guard, but her extra foul language did, sending his tongue into a stammer. “Uh, well, yeah . . . I’m working on it.”

  “Well then, work faster. Some of us don’t have all day.”

  “I’m doing my best, ma’am.”

  When Buckley’s count hit thirty, he found his way to the back room where Rico was waiting inside with two additional members of the Sheriff’s full-time deputy team: Zeke Dawson and Russell Thompson.

  “Good to see you guys up and about,” Buckley told them, their eyes glassy and movements slow. The roadway bandits did a number on them, but at least they’d found some shoes to wear. “I didn’t expect Doc Marino to release you so soon.”

  “He didn’t,” Zeke said. “But we couldn’t wait any longer.”

  “What’s going on?” Buckley asked, his eyes landing on each man in succession, hoping for some insight into this clandestine meeting.

  Rico waved his hand. “Follow me, Mayor.”

  Buckley did as he was told, following Rico through the mess of empty boxes covering the storeroom floor, then into the small break room along the back. Rico stopped in front of the door-sized refrigerator on the left.

  The stainless-steel model had been built into the wall and featured a pair of magnetic Green Bay Packer stickers along its front. Below them was a series of football schedules from the previous three years.

  Buckley expected Rico to reach for the handle on the door, but that was not what happened. The man’s brown-skinned hand went under the cabinet on the right, where his fingers yanked on something. Buckley heard a dull noise that sounded like a latch giving way.

  Zeke grabbed the back edge of the fridge and pulled with an outstretched arm. The entire unit swung open, frame and drywall included.

  The depth of the steel fridge reminded Buckley of a bank vault door opening. Behind it was a short passageway that led to another door.

  “Seriously?” Buckley muttered.

  “Leads to a panic room, sir,” Rico said, stepping inside the chamber first. “Grace’s husband had it built when they remodeled this store.”

  “Grace said he barely got it finished right before he died,” Zeke added. “Poor bastard.”

  “After you, Mr. Mayor,” Russell said, extending a hand toward the opening.

  “I take it Grace knows about all this?”

  Rico didn’t hesitate with the answer, his face looking even sterner than before. “Absolutely. She’s the one who offered the space, so all of us could meet in private.”

  Buckley went inside. “All of us?”

  Zeke and Russell followed, closing the secret door behind them.

  Rico opened the next door, then stood aside as if he expected the Mayor to react. Three men were huddled inside, standing around something about four feet high and covered in a padded moving blanket.

  Two of the men had their backs to the door, so Buckley couldn’t see their faces. One had extra-long gray hair pulled back into a single ponytail that hung down to the middle of his back. The other was a tall, shorthaired blond with a thick waist and broad shoulders.

  The third man was facing Buckley. It was Bill King, the Silver King Mine owner.

  Before Buckley could blink, his feet took off in a sprint, bringing him to King’s position in a flash. Buckley hands came up on their own, planning to wrap the traitor’s throat in a stranglehold. However, before his fingers made contact, the stout man with short blond hair spun on his heels and jumped in front of Buckley.

  When Buckley’s eyes took in the man’s face, his heart skipped a beat. It was Bill King’s convict of a brother, Kenny.

  The man’s powerful hands latched onto Buckley’s chest, stopping his approach. “Easy there, Mayor.”

  “Kenny?”

  “Hey Seth. Miss me?”

  “When did you get out? I thought your parole hearing wasn’t for another month, at least.”

  “Got released early,” he said, his tone grizzled and deep. A grin crept up on his lips. It was slight and maniacal, but a smile nonetheless. “On account of bad behavior.”

  “Actually, he escaped,” Rico said, without a hint of concern. “After the EMP hit, the Department of Corrections lost containment of the facility. He just made it here this morning.”

  “Sneaking past the Russian checkpoints wasn’t easy, but here I am,” Kenny said. “It pays to know every nook an
d cranny of this town. Russians missed a few.”

  Buckley took a step back when a series of flashbacks from Kenny’s drug trafficking trial flooded his memories. The Mayor had taken the stand as one of the federal prosecutor’s character witnesses, feeling obligated at the time. He looked at Rico, then Zeke. “Why isn’t this man in handcuffs?”

  Kenny stepped forward, holding his wrists together. “If you’re man enough, Seth, go for it. Nobody here will stop you . . . except possibly me.”

  Rico stepped between the two men. “I think you need to hear him out, Mayor.”

  The longhaired man on the left finally turned around to reveal his identity.

  Buckley recognized the leather-skinned entrepreneur with several teeth missing from his crooked mouth. “Billy Jack? You’re involved in this?”

  His country twang filled the room when he spoke. “Like Rico said, you need to take a minute here, Mayor. We got a lot to discuss.”

  Buckley turned for the door behind him, but Zeke intercepted his departure. “Please, Mr. Mayor. This is important.”

  Buckley froze, needing a moment to think about the dynamics at play. Blood adversaries were working together, including members of the Sheriff’s Office, and nobody seemed concerned. Kenny King was not a man to be taken lightly. By anyone.

  Zeke motioned for Buckley to turn around.

  Buckley spun, just as Kenny put his hand on the crown of the blanket covering the item next to him. He removed it with a yank to reveal an unconscious woman strapped to a chair with her head hanging limp.

  The petite blonde had blood dripping from cuts on her cheeks and above her badly swollen eye. The large slit across the front of her military uniform revealed her porcelain skin, almost to the point of exposing her breasts.

  It was the General’s interpreter, Valentina—beaten and unconscious.

  “What the hell is going on here?” Buckley asked.

  “Getting some answers,” Kenny said. “The old-fashioned way.”

  “By torturing a woman?”

  Kenny’s eyes turned fierce. “No, Mayor. We’re extracting information from the enemy. In case you haven’t noticed, the town is crawling with them.”