Trackers 3: The Storm (A Post-Apocalyptic EMP Thriller)

by Nicholas Sansbury Smith

  “What the hell is this?” Raven said.

  Hines raised a Colt .45 at Raven’s forehead, the hammer already pulled back.

  “It’s time to clear the shit out of Estes Park,” Don said. “No more refugees, and no more Raven Spears.” He glanced at Lindsey. “Sorry, Plymouth, but you’ve got to disappear to make this work.”

  “You son of a bitch,” Lindsey growled. “You can’t do this!”

  Don moved the shotgun toward her as she took a step forward.

  “Listen,” he said calmly. “I tried to do things the easy way. Redford’s boys were supposed to kill Raven and burn the refugees out of the Stanley. But then Raven had to complicate things by getting the government involved. Now that Colton’s chief again, I had to take matters into my own hands‌—‌and this time it requires blood.”

  Raven took another step forward, his fists clenched.

  “Go ahead and try it,” Don said, moving the barrel of his shotgun toward Raven’s belly. “I’ll blow your guts all over the road, and then I’ll make sure Sandra and Allie suffer.” After a pause, he added, “Or if you don’t resist, they can continue living their lives.”

  “You’re going to kill us in cold blood?” Lindsey snapped. “You’re supposed to be a police officer!”

  “These are different times,” Don said without moving his eyes off Raven. “Turn around and start walking.”

  Raven considered his options. He could charge the cops, but doing so would earn him a bullet or blast from the shotgun. He had to be smart. If they were going to execute him in the woods, he would make his move then. Plus, Creek was likely watching and waiting for an opportunity to strike.

  “Colton won’t let you get away with this,” Lindsey said.

  Don laughed. “Colton isn’t coming back.”

  “What do you mean?” Lindsey said.

  “I said start walking,” Don replied, jerking the barrel of his shotgun at the Jeep path across the road.

  “We can’t go back out there. It’s not safe,” Van Dyke said. “We’re lucky we didn’t get shot up on the road.”

  Albert stared out the second story window of the office building. His sister’s apartment was still two blocks away, but this section of the city had turned into a warzone. The violence outside the Starbucks had set off a chain of events that had led to several groups engaging in a firefight.

  He stepped away from the window to scan the offices that were furnished with about a dozen desks, and a conference table. A single locked door led to an outside hallway, restrooms, and a staircase to the first floor. Van Dyke waited at the door, listening for anyone that might be sneaking into the building.

  “We’re screwed,” Van Dyke muttered every few minutes. The others ignored him.

  Flint paced, gripping his injured side. Dave remained hiding under a desk. Albert wasn’t sure he would be able to get the boy to move anytime soon.

  “I’ll go out there alone and sneak into my sister’s building,” Albert said. “You guys stay here with Dave. If I’m not back in three hours, take him to the SC.”

  Flint and Van Dyke exchanged a glance.

  “I know our mission was to find your sister, man, but it’s way too fucking dangerous right now,” Flint said.

  The pop of gunfire echoed from the street, and a round punched into the side of the building, punctuating his statement. Dave let out a cry, and Albert bent down to calm him. The boy sat under the table, knees to his chest, rocking back and forth.

  “It’s okay, buddy,” Albert said soothingly. Dave didn’t seem to hear him.

  He stood and moved back to the windows, keeping to the side to look for contacts. Across the street, three men with rifles strode down the sidewalk. The leader, an Asian man with a ponytail, stopped and squeezed off several shots. Return fire hit the sidewalk, and the trio took off running for cover.

  “Man, this is crazy,” Albert whispered more to himself than anyone.

  He retreated back to the desks. “I need to get my sister to the SC before this entire area falls into anarchy. She’s not good at looking after herself.”

  “Too late for that,” Van Dyke said. He moved away from the door. “Charlotte is toast. There’s no coming back from this. I doubt the SC will hold much longer, either.”

  “Don’t say that,” Flint snapped.

  Van Dyke shrugged. “Sorry, Sarge, it’s just...I want to get home. I’m worried about my wife and daughter.”

  It was the first Albert had heard Van Dyke speak of a family. He wasn’t the most likeable man in the world, but Albert did appreciate Van Dyke coming out here, especially when he had his own family to worry about. It was yet another reason Albert needed to go on his own. He checked his gear and prepared his weapon while the two soldiers argued.

  “We all have families, but we also have a job to do,” Flint said. “Don’t forget that, Corporal. I need you to stay focused. It’s the only way we’re getting home.”

  Van Dyke sank to the carpet near the door, resting his back against the wall. He took in several deep breaths. “I know, man, I’m sorry. I just miss Margo and Penny.”

  “You’ll see them again,” Albert said. He grabbed his gear and walked toward the door.

  Flint held up a hand. “I’ll come with you. Van Dyke, you stay here and look after Dave.”

  Van Dyke pushed himself up. “You serious, Sarge?”

  Dave slowly crawled out from under the table. “You’re leaving, Mr. Big Al?”

  “Just for a little while,” Albert said. “Remember when the Fellowship split up?”

  A slow nod. “Yeah.”

  “It’s just like that,” Albert assured Dave.

  “Okay.” The boy retreated back into the darkness. “Don’t let the Orcs catch you,” he said from under the table.

  Albert grabbed his M4 and met Flint’s gaze.

  “I think I should go on my own,” Albert said. “You’re injured, and I don’t like leaving Dave here with Van Dyke.”

  The corporal shot Albert a glare, but he shrugged. “You’re not very good with kids, Corporal.”

  Flint scratched at his face, thinking. “I could stay here and send Van Dyke with you instead.”

  “Hell no! That’s worse than babysitting,” Van Dyke protested.

  “I’m better off on my own,” Albert said.

  “Fine,” Flint finally replied. He unzipped his backpack, pulled out a radio, and handed it to Albert.

  “Where did you get that?” Albert asked.

  “Harris gave us two of them just in case we ran into any problems. We’re not supposed to use it unless absolutely necessary,” Flint said. “Go on, take it. This way you can stay in contact with me if anything happens.”

  Albert grabbed the radio and tucked it into his own backpack.

  “Good luck,” Flint said.

  “Stay safe, and don’t take your eyes off Dave.”

  A few minutes later Albert was working his way through the offices on the first floor. The street outside appeared empty, but it was draped in shadow. Then he saw the body.

  The small figure lying on the sidewalk across the street was just a kid, not much older than Dave. Albert took a deep breath, looked to the left and right side of the street for contacts, then moved out. He darted across the street and crouched by the boy lying face down on the concrete. Using the utmost care, Albert slowly rolled him over, revealing three small bloodstains on the front of the kid’s shirt, and a pistol gripped in his hand.

  The boy was maybe ten years old, and he had been forced to fight for his life.

  Albert reached down and closed the kid’s eyes. Then he glanced over his shoulder to look up at the office building. Flint was standing at the window, but the sergeant couldn’t see Albert from this angle.

  He dragged the boy off the street and positioned his body under a tree. There wasn’t time to bury him right now, but perhaps someone else would take the time after the sun came up. At least he wasn’t sprawled on the street like roadkill anymore
. Albert closed his eyes and muttered a prayer for the child.

  During his training and his career with the Capitol police, Albert had seen some terrible things, but nothing compared to this nightmare‌—‌and it was only going to get worse.

  The next street was free of contacts at first glance, but Albert remained behind a brick building for several minutes to listen for sounds: footsteps, gunshots, voices, or anything else that meant potential hostiles. Hearing nothing, he moved around the corner and hugged the side of the shops to the right of the street. Several cars blocked the road, providing perfect ambush points.

  Gunfire erupted just outside the Starbucks where Albert had taken a life several hours earlier. He ducked behind a car and peered around the bumper. The Asian man and his two friends were back, firing at contacts in the courtyard of his sister’s apartment building.

  Albert took off running, moving toward the courtyard in the shadows of the building. The three men firing from the Starbucks had their backs turned to his position. If he could just get around them, he would be able to take a back route into the apartment complex.

  A scream rang out just as he was about to slip into an alleyway. Shots tore into the hedge in front of him, and a bullet streaked by his head. Another round splintered the bark of a large tree ahead. He took cover behind the wide trunk, counted to three, then bolted for the alley between a fence and a long two-story office building.

  Trash swirled in the narrow space from the gusting wind. He ran as hard as he could down the passage, his muscles moving almost as fast as they used to when he’d been running down a football field. But this wasn’t a game. All around him the sound of gunfire echoed through the city.

  He could see his sister’s building in the waning sunlight at the end of the alley. A gate was the only thing separating him from the courtyard outside the apartments. He barreled into the three-foot gate, slamming it open. Shouts came from the street he’d left behind, and another bullet whizzed past him, closer this time. He continued through the weeds and overgrown grass filling the courtyard.

  Two large oak trees provided a canopy of red and brown leaves overhead. Several fluttered in his path. He looked over his shoulder at the Starbucks, but the three men were gone, probably headed down the alley to flank him. Albert ran for the side entrance to the apartment building, sucking in air. He stopped and raised his rifle at the alley when he was halfway across, squeezing off a three-round burst that hit the gate.

  The men remained out of sight, and he used the opportunity to run to the side entrance of the building. A white door hung half open. Albert slipped inside and quickly cleared the hallway. Then he shut the door and bolted for the staircase at the other end of the passage. He knew his sister lived on the second floor, but he wasn’t sure at what end of the building.

  Once he reached the second floor, he stopped to listen for anyone that might be following him, but all he heard was his own labored breathing. He moved slower now, carefully clearing each stretch of hallway, and followed the signs pointing to apartments 250-300. He jogged down another corridor, cleared it, and finally stopped when he reached a door marked 291. Instead of knocking, he reached for the doorknob and twisted. It clicked, locked.

  “Jacqueline,” Albert said in a voice not much louder than a whisper. His heart was beating so loudly that he was afraid he wouldn’t be able to hear a reply.

  When no one answered, Albert kicked the door open and strode into the apartment. The living room was sparsely furnished with a single table and a raggedy couch. He checked the kitchen to the right, but it too was empty.

  Turning, he shut the door and used the chain lock to secure it now that the bolt lock was destroyed. Then he made his way deeper into the apartment.

  “Jacqueline, it’s your brother, Albert.”

  He passed the bathroom, stopped, and took a step back.

  A foot was hanging over the side of the bathtub, but a curtain blocked his view of whoever was inside the tub. Heart firing like an automatic weapon, Albert crept into the bathroom and pulled back the curtain.

  His sister lay there, eyes closed, chin slumped to her chest.

  “Oh God, Jackie,” Albert said. “Oh Jesus, no.”

  He didn’t need lights to see the track marks on her arms or the needle in her left hand. She had been using again, and it looked like the addiction had finally gotten the best of her.

  He gently set his rifle down and knelt next to the bathtub. The stench of body odor and human waste was almost unbearable, burning his nostrils and filling his lungs. He reached out to feel for a pulse. Her bony wrist was so light in his massive grip.

  There was something there…or had he imagined it?

  “Jackie,” he repeated, tapping his fingers against her cheek. “Jackie, wake up.”

  “Who da fuck?” mumbled a voice behind him.

  Albert whirled toward a man standing outside the doorway. The barrel of his rifle was directed at the face of a sinewy African-American man with gray hair wearing nothing but a pair of white briefs.

  Instead of being afraid, the guy swatted at the barrel clumsily. He stumbled to the side and then righted himself, eyes wide as he ran a hand over his matted hair.

  “Get back,” Albert said. He directed the man into the living room, leaving his sister for a moment to deal with this new threat, and made him take a seat on the couch.

  “Who are you?” Albert asked.

  “I’m motherfucking Santa Claus. Who da fuck are you?” the guy growled, spit dripping off his lips.

  Albert slowly lowered the rifle, seeing the only threat this guy posed was to himself.

  “I’m Albert,” he said. “Jacqueline’s brother.”

  That seemed to get the man’s attention. He looked up, narrowed his unfocused eyes, and tilted his head.

  “Jackie has a brother?” he slurred. “She never said nothin’ ‘bout you before.”

  COLTON DIDN’T LIKE driving at night, but it was far less dangerous than driving during the day. He kept both of his Colt .45s on the seat next to him and his M14 rifle and AR-15 propped up against the passenger seat. In the place of his uniform, he wore a black Estes Park sweatshirt over a ballistic vest, gray cargo pants, and hybrid trail running shoes. It was his attempt to not look like a cop.

  For the past hour he’d been parked behind an old shed, scoping out the area for contacts, but everything west of Loveland was pretty well abandoned. The action seemed to be in the east, where he could make out the glow of fires from the FEMA camp. More plumes rose to the north, but these were too thick to be coming from campfires or chimneys. A fire was raging somewhere in Fort Collins, and it looked massive.

  So far the trip had gone flawlessly. He’d met only a few contacts on the road, and none of them had tried to attack him. But the sun had receded over the mountains, and he feared the darkness would bring out the real threats. The gangs, especially the Russians that had moved into the area around Fort Collins to benefit from the legalization of marijuana, were well-organized, well-armed, and extremely violent. His gut told him some of the raiders were affiliated with the Russian Mafia.

  A year back Colton had worked jointly with Sheriff Gerrard on a homicide that left three Russian mobsters dead, mutilated, and buried in shallow graves just outside Rocky Mountain National Park. Those murders were some of the worst Colton had ever seen. But he had a feeling he was going to be seeing more atrocities‌—‌and, like in Afghanistan, he wasn’t sure if he would be able to tell the enemy apart from the general population.

  Colton’s experience in scanning for potential threats was nearly worthless in this new, lawless landscape. Since he’d left the final roadblock outside Estes Park, he’d driven by two men walking along Highway 34 and several teenagers riding bicycles. Any of them might have fired at his Jeep. Since there was no way of knowing what he’d find at the FEMA camp, he decided to head out to meet with Sheriff Thompson first. The lawman and cage fighter would know better than anyone what the conditions were around here
‌—‌and if Colton could hope to get any help from the Feds at the camp.

  He took a drink of water, carefully placed the bottle back in the cup holder, and pulled away from the shed. To his left was Glade Road, a less-traveled route to Fort Collins. He kept the speed of the Jeep around twenty miles an hour. The light snow hadn’t accumulated on the road, which meant no tracks. He hoped he’d be able to make it to Loveland without leaving a trail to follow.

  You’re getting paranoid, he chided himself. Except it wasn’t really paranoia when anyone he met might be a hostile.

  As soon as he was sure there wasn’t anyone on the street, he pressed down on the pedal and continued into the darkness, using the full moon to guide him around the abandoned vehicles. Drab fields framed the road on both sides, and rolling hills rose above them. The arid terrain was far removed from the lush landscape in the Estes Valley.

  Most people used Highway 287 to get to Fort Collins. This route would allow him to take the back way in, which was the reason he’d selected it in the first place. Still, the threat of snipers, raiders, and gangs had Colton on edge, and driving without headlights made it even worse. It wasn’t much different than driving with his eyes closed, something he used to do as a teenager with his friends, daring each other to keep them shut for as long as they could.

  Although he kept both hands on the wheel, his weapons were just a heartbeat away. He scanned the concrete and fields on both sides for any sign of a flashlight or movement, but Glade Road appeared to be empty.

  This was worse than driving in Afghanistan on night missions. At least then he’d had Jake and his other brothers with him. It was every soldier’s worst nightmare to be heading into potential battle alone.

  An abandoned pickup truck blocked the road around the next turn, and Colton eased off the gas. With one hand on the wheel, he reached for his Colt .45. For several minutes he sat in the vehicle, eyes darting over the landscape for any sign of hostiles. Shadows seemed to move back and forth on the road. He looked toward what appeared to be a person crouched in the field to the right, but saw it was just a bush.