Bunker (A Post-Apocalyptic Techno Thriller Book 4)

by Jay J. Falconer

“I know you are, but there’s no reason to be scared. You have a lot of people around here who care about you. Like Rusty and the Sheriff. They won’t let anything happen. I promise.”

  “What about you?”

  “Me too. And Daisy.”

  “But I don’t want you to leave, Jack. Bad things happen when you leave.”

  The pressure around his heart intensified, her words cutting into him. “I have to go, Megan.”

  “But why?”

  “To find Star, for one. Plus, I need to check on Daisy’s cat and see if I can find Dallas’ mom and sisters. They’re all missing and scared, Megan. Don’t you want me to help find them? Bring them home?”

  “I do, but the bad men are out there.”

  She was correct, but he didn’t want to reinforce her fears with acknowledgment of the danger. “I’ll be careful. Nothing’s gonna happen to me.”

  “Promise?”

  Bunker nodded, never taking his eyes from her. “Promise. But I need you to be strong and take care of yourself until I get back. Can you do that for me?”

  She nodded.

  Bunker pulled his arm away from the mini-hug, then took out a chocolate-covered energy bar from one of the pockets on his vest. “I brought you a present.”

  A beaming smile took over her face, her misty eyes locking onto the treat like a heat-seeking missile.

  Bunker shook the bar like a finger wave.

  She snatched it in a second.

  “You need to eat more, to keep your strength up. Otherwise, your leg won’t get better.”

  “I will. I promise,” she said, tugging at the wrapper. It wouldn’t open. She tried again, this time clenching her teeth as she struggled. Still no luck.

  Bunker took the bar and ripped an edge free, pulling the paper down along one side. He gave it to her, feeling like a father tending to a helpless child. Sure, this wasn’t his kid and the girl was far from helpless, but that didn’t change the fact that she was in need.

  Megan took a bite and began to chew, looking as though he’d taken away some of her pain, if only for a few seconds.

  Somewhere along the way, they’d formed a connection that had grown by the hour. He knew he could never fill the role of Franklin, but taking care of her still felt like the right thing to do. Someone had to take the lead and his heart was telling him that it was his job to do so. One he planned to undertake after this crisis was over. For now, everyone had to chip in and keep her safe.

  Bunker waited until she finished enjoying the treat before he spoke again. “It’s getting dark, Megan. You need to get inside where it’s safe.”

  “Are you leaving now?”

  He gulped and nodded, not wanting to answer.

  She spun and wrapped her arms around his neck, squeezing hard enough to choke off some of his air.

  The instant Megan let go, she got to her feet and hobbled on her crutches to Tango. She gave the horse a goodbye hug across his snout, then continued on, never looking back.

  * * *

  Stan Fielding flinched, dropping the fork in his hand when a loud thud rang out near his home. It took a second to realize where the noise had come from—the front door of his modest three-bedroom home on Lake View Drive.

  He flew out of the kitchen chair and grabbed his twin girls when a second thump slammed into his house. He corralled Beth and Barb into the corner beyond the dinette table and spun around with his hands behind his legs to keep the girls in one spot.

  A third, more powerful bang hit the door. This time it was followed by a powerful crack, then the sound of wood splintering.

  Footsteps grew in intensity as they pounded across the tile floor of his living room, carrying with them the clatter of metal. Glass broke and voices were heard—Russian voices.

  Barb screamed as four men scrambled into the kitchen. They quickly fanned out side by side, with their rifles aimed at Stan’s face. Three of the men were several inches taller than Stan, including the one with a red goatee.

  Stan put his hands in front of his chest. “Please! Don’t shoot! Please!”

  The shortest of the four approached in silence, his calloused, cleanshaven face buried behind the mini-scope on his rifle.

  “What do you want?” Stan asked him, his eyes focused on the man’s trigger finger.

  The other three circled around in a flanking maneuver. The man with red goatee spun to open the pantry room door, his rifle in a shooting position.

  “Vse chisto,” the solider said in a commanding voice, closing the door behind him.

  A spread of hollow thuds raced across the floorboards above. Stan couldn’t be sure, but it sounded like three men were searching the second floor and possibly the tiny attic space on the third floor. Doors squeaked open and then closed with force. More glass breaking.

  “Daddy?” Beth asked in a frightened tone before Stan shushed her.

  “Where is she?” the short Russian asked Stan with a heavy accent, the English barely recognizable.

  Stan shook his head, his heart pounding in his chest like a sledgehammer. “Who?”

  “Where is she?” the soldier asked again, a dollop of spittle flying from his lips in anger.

  “I don’t know who you’re talking about. It’s just us. There’s nobody else here.”

  The short man waved at the two soldiers on his right, both sporting a shadow of stubble across their chins. The camo-covered men sprang into action, slinging their rifles before grabbing Stan by the arms. He tried to resist, but they were too strong, dragging him to the center of the kitchen.

  “Stop hurting my daddy!” Barb screeched before her tears took over.

  Beth held her sister close, both girls crying uncontrollably.

  The short man dropped a hand from his rifle and sucker punched Stan in the gut. The force of the impact doubled him over, sending him to his knees in a search for air. A foot came at him next, barely missing his face, but catching his shoulder. He flopped sideways and landed on his back.

  Stan fought through the pain as he turned over and pushed himself to all fours. It was difficult to steady himself with his chest heaving in gasping thrusts.

  When he brought his eyes up in search of his daughters, he found them in the corner, holding each other in a cradle of fear, their adorable faces drowning in tears.

  Stan continued to fight for oxygen as more footsteps found his ears. They were outside the kitchen. The stairs, he figured, based on the creaks and groans of the wooden steps.

  Seconds later, a fifth soldier entered the kitchen with a bloody uniform in his hand. He said something in Russian to the short man before delivering the clothing.

  Short man brought his rifle down and let it hang on the sling across his chest to accept the garments. His hands turned red from the transfer of blood as he separated the blouse from the pants. The shirt had a tear across the front, looking as though someone sliced it open with a knife.

  Short man’s eyes grew wild with fire. He turned to Stan and held the uniform in front of his face. “This was in the attic.”

  “I don’t know how that got there. I’ve never seen it before in my life.”

  “Where is she? What did you do to her?”

  “I don’t know who you’re talking about! We didn’t do anything. You have to believe me. Please. Just let us go. Please.”

  Short man looked at goatee man and sent him a signal with his eyes.

  A moment later, the boots of goatee man tore across the kitchen floor in a straight line toward the girls. Stan put out an arm to stop the marauder’s advance, but another punch from the short man reached him first. The blow penetrated his cheekbone with a crack, slamming him to the floor on his chest.

  Stan’s mind blinked out for a second, then found its traction as an army of specks filled his vision. The pain was relentless too, shooting across his body.

  He could hear the twins pleading with the Russians to stop, their high-pitched shrieks amplified by desperation. He needed to get up and protect his child
ren.

  After he opened his eyes, he told his body to move, but it refused. He tried again, but his limbs didn’t respond. They were limp, devoid of energy, hanging on his body.

  All that remained were the waves of dizziness, pounding at his skull with the force of an ocean current. Then the room started to spin, slowly at first, before it went wild, whirling with ever-increasing speed.

  Stan slammed his eyes shut, trying to keep a lock on reality. His mind latched onto the most powerful emotion remaining in his thoughts—his love for his daughters. He prayed it would be enough to keep him in the here and now. But it wasn’t.

  The darkness came a heartbeat later, taking his consciousness away.

  CHAPTER 24

  Two hours later . . .

  Allison Rainey plopped into the chair by the kitchen table, her leg and back muscles aching. Her mom was in the seat across from her, her hands locked together like she’d been praying. “Misty’s finally asleep, thank God.”

  Martha seemed pleased. “That poor woman’s been through a lot today. I don’t know how she keeps it together.”

  Allison’s mind flashed a scene of the men digging up Angus’ naked body, his skin covered in dirt and bugs. The imagery tugged at her insides, making her want to throw up. “Me either. Finding out that you’ve lost your father and your fiancé on the same day is more than I could ever deal with.”

  “I doubt that. You’re a lot tougher than you think.”

  “Thanks, Mom. But I’m really not. I just pretend to be. For Victor’s sake.” She shrugged after a quick exhale. “Not that it’s done any good.”

  Martha put a hand on Allison’s forearm, squeezing it gently. “He’ll be all right, sweetheart. The Sheriff will find him.”

  “I hope so, but it’s been two hours. It’s getting chilly out there.”

  “He’s a strong boy. You just gotta have faith the Good Lord will protect him.”

  Allison shook her head, wondering what she’d done wrong. God was obviously punishing her for something. “I wish I knew why he took off like that.”

  “It wasn’t anything you did, if that’s what you’re thinking. I’m sure it’s just the stress of everything that’s happening right now. It’s a lot for a young man to handle.”

  “You’re probably right, Mom, but I never know with him. I swear, he’s moodier than his father.”

  “We all have that trait, honey. It’s just human nature.”

  Allison nodded, feeling a trickle of comfort ease into her soul. Mom always seemed to know exactly what words to say.

  Martha rubbed her arm again, using those tender, side-to-side thumb strokes that only moms know how to do. “You need to get some sleep, too. If the Sheriff comes back, I’ll wake you up.”

  “Okay,” Allison said, realizing that she had a tendency to take her mom for granted. Her arms came up on their own and wrapped around Martha in a firm embrace. “I know I’ve been difficult over the years, but I want you to know how much I appreciate you always supporting me. No matter what.”

  “No need to thank me, darling. It’s what a mother does. Just like you do for Victor. Just gotta give it time. He’ll come around. He’s a good boy.”

  Allison let go of the hug and stood up with newfound energy in her legs. “I’m just glad the Sheriff is out there looking for him. Victor’s gotta be scared to death in those woods.”

  “Gus is a good man. He won’t stop until he finds him,” Martha said, her tone genuine. “You need to go and get some sleep. I’ll keep an eye on things down here.”

  Allison nodded, then turned for the door that led into the living room. The stairs to the second floor were waiting beyond the table, assuming her legs had sufficient strength to ferry her up the fourteen steps.

  Just one more time, she thought.

  If her legs failed her request, she might have to stretch out on the dining room table and call it a night. It wouldn’t do her back any good, but at this point, she really didn’t care.

  Exhaustion has a habit of changing your way of thinking, even if it leads to a crippling wake-up in the morning.

  * * *

  Rusty ran through the front door of Martha Rainey’s place, his lungs feeling the strain from the sprint down Old Mill Road. The news he carried had supercharged his muscles, allowing him to run faster than ever before.

  A blur of movement caught his eye from the left. It was Allison Rainey with her hand on the guardrail, heading up the stairs, her feet on the fourth step from the bottom.

  Allison stopped her ascent and locked eyes with him, but didn’t say anything.

  “They’re back!” Rusty told her.

  “The Sheriff and Dicky?”

  “Yeah, just now. Coming up the road.”

  “My son?”

  Rusty couldn’t wait to tell her. “He’s with them.”

  “Is he okay?”

  Rusty waved at her. “You gotta see this!”

  She turned and flew down the stairs, her feet pounding at the steps like a woodpecker.

  Rusty held the door open as the woman zipped past him in a breeze of air. For an old lady, she could run, probably feeling an adrenaline rush like him.

  They tore across the front yard in seconds, then turned left onto the dirt road. About fifty feet ahead were three males and seven horses, all of them on a path to the Rainey homestead.

  The Sheriff and Dicky were to the left, sitting proudly on their mounts with backs straight and heads high.

  Victor was to the right, his face covered in a wide grin as he worked the reins with his left hand.

  “Oh my God, Victor!” Allison screamed, somehow accelerating her pace.

  Rusty pushed his legs even harder to keep up as the Sheriff waved a hello at him. Rusty sent a signal back with his arm, timing it between his widening strides so he wouldn’t lose speed, or his balance.

  Victor’s upper body had a slight twist to it, one hand trailing behind. Rusty could see a rope in the kid’s grasp, linking together four saddled horses in single file formation.

  The last animal in the procession had something strapped to its saddle. It was a bicycle—his racing bike—in two pieces—the front wheel strapped to the left side. The rest of his ride was on the opposite side, lashed down and bobbing in concert with the stride of the horse.

  When Allison arrived, Victor swung his leg over the saddle and hopped to the ground.

  Rusty took position next to the Sheriff’s horse, about ten feet from the mother-son reunion.

  “I thought I was never going to see you again!” Allison cried as she wrapped him in a powerful two-armed embrace. She picked him up from the ground and swung him around with his feet dangling. The hug continued for another twenty seconds before she put him on the ground and let go.

  She grabbed his cheeks in her hands. “Why did you take off like that? We were all worried sick.”

  “We needed horses, Mom. So I took responsibility like the Sheriff told me to do.”

  She turned to Apollo and sent him a penetrating stare. “This was your idea?”

  “No. It wasn’t like that. Not at all,” the Sheriff stammered, climbing off his horse in a plop of feet. “He misunderstood what I told him. I was talking about taking responsibility for his actions. I never said to go find the horses.”

  She paused for a second, then looked at Victor. “Where did you go?”

  “Franklin’s stables. I knew the horses were around there somewhere, so I went to get them. I thought if I could find Megan’s horse, it might cheer her up.”

  “By yourself? Do you know how dangerous that was?”

  “Yeah, but I knew a secret way there. It was easy, Mom. Until it got dark.”

  “We found him two miles out. I think he’d been wandering around in circles,” the Sheriff said, his tone somber and to the point.

  Allison hugged Victor again, this time lingering for a good minute.

  Martha appeared on Rusty’s left, her face covered with delight. She brought her hands u
p like a preacher, leaned back to the heavens, and said, “Praise the Lord Almighty.”

  Allison turned to her mom with tears streaming down her cheeks. “He’s back, Mom. Safe and sound. Just like you said.”

  “I told you not to worry,” she said, sending a smile to the Sheriff. “Thank you, Gus, for bringing my grandson home. You too, Dicky.”

  “My pleasure,” the Sheriff said, looking proud.

  “Just doing our job, ma’am,” Dicky said, still seated in the saddle.

  Apollo gave Dicky the lead to his horse, nodding for him to continue down the road. Dicky did as he was told, escorting the Sheriff’s horse toward Tuttle’s place.

  “Allison?” Martha said, hesitating until Allison looked her way. “Aren’t you forgetting something?”

  Allison pinched her nose, but didn’t respond. She looked confused.

  Martha leaned her head in the direction of the Sheriff.

  “Oh, right,” Allison snapped, her face blushing red. She sauntered to the Sheriff with a huge smile leading the way. “I’m sorry. I got so excited when I saw my son that I almost forgot to thank you.”

  When she brought her arms up for an embrace, Apollo stopped her with his hands. “That’s really not necessary, Allison.”

  “The hell it isn’t,” she answered with attitude, pushing his hands away. “You risked your life to save my son. I’m giving you a hug, whether you like it or not.”

  Her arms found his shoulders a second later, leaving him looking mortified, his arms hanging down at his side.

  Rusty held back a chuckle. It was obvious the Sheriff wasn’t comfortable with her sudden affection. Rusty didn’t understand why. It was just a hug, after all. The man had earned it.

  Right on cue, as if Apollo had been reading Rusty’s thoughts, he brought his hands up and put them on her back. He wasn’t giving her a hug, exactly. It was more of an awkward double pat on the back, but at least he responded.

  Rusty was close enough to feel the heat from their bodies pressing together. It felt weird to be standing so close. He took a step back to give them room. You never knew when a thankful mom might pick up a hefty Sheriff and swing him around.

  A few seconds later, she leaned back from the hug and stared into his eyes, her lower half still pressed into his.