End Days Super Boxset

by Hayden, Roger

  He pulled Jacob’s body away first, dragging it under his stakeout tree and leaving it there. Next came Dixon, Thomas, and then Chris—who was undoubtedly the most challenging to move. When he was finished, he was soaked through with sweat and exhausted. His leg was throbbing. With their bodies piled together, Jacob covered them with his camo netting, then grabbed his bug-out bag and sniper rifle and put them in the jeep.

  He gathered all their weapons and placed them in the jeep as well. He collected shell casings and covered the blood of the dead men, visible on the road, by kicking sand over it. Then it was time to drive the jeep to a new stakeout spot where he could wait until nightfall.

  After taking the wheel, he moved the manual shift into drive and calmly left the scene. He drove along the trail leading up the mountain, looking for somewhere to hide. He found a location between two mountain ridges, among some bushes and trees, and parked. He had more camo netting in his bag and hoped that it was enough to cover the jeep.

  Greg got out and moved with haste, tossing the netting over the top and covering it with branches and leaves. The ridge wasn’t far from the road, but it was far enough away that anyone driving by wouldn’t notice a thing. At least, he hoped that was the case. Greg placed his bug-out bag behind a particularly large bush and sat with his rifle to the side and a pair of thermal binoculars on hand collected from Jacob’s team.

  He looked through them and saw everything in a grainy-gray tint, but there was no body heat colorization. He waited in anticipation, but an hour passed and no one came. Greg thought they had to have heard the gunfire, if only as distant pops in the air. Another hour passed and there was still no sign of a search party.

  What’s their game? Greg thought.

  He got up to stretch. It was late afternoon. The overcast sky had provided him with moments of shade and relief. The sun, however, was beginning to sink below the horizon. In the next hour, the sky went from a light blue to gold with dark purplish streaks. Greg couldn’t help thinking there was still beauty in the world despite what was happening.

  By nighttime, he hadn’t seen or heard anyone. Perhaps there would be no search party. Under cover of darkness, he planned on changing positions. He opened a pack of crackers from his MRE, took a few bites, and washed it down with water from his two-quart canteen. He felt closer to his goal now and more determined than ever.

  After resting and unintentionally nodding off under the stars, Greg awoke in the middle of the night and prepared to make his move. His plan was to get as close as possible to the burn pit and then ditch the jeep, covering it in the same manner he had done with the bodies. Once he got to Veronica, it could be their getaway vehicle into the mountains. Then they’d take the van to safety.

  Greg was optimistic, but he’d seen enough horrific things over the past few months to know that things seldom worked out as planned. But he was alive, and he was pretty sure Veronica was too.

  He uncovered and loaded up the jeep, then did a quick scan of the area with the thermal binoculars. There were no vehicles or people around. He did, however, see a pack of coyotes in the distance, displayed as orange and reddish four-legged figures. He went back to the jeep and opened his bug-out bag, sitting upright in the passenger seat. Five standard-military M4 rifles were piled on the floor, plus Greg’s Remington. He fished through his bug-out bag and pulled out a small plastic zip-sack. Inside was the very device that would allow him to navigate down the mountain without headlights: his PVS-7 Night Vision Goggles.

  Greg attached them to a plastic head-piece and strapped it over his head. The goggles were perfectly aligned with his eyes, and when he turned them on, he could see everything in front of him displayed in a grainy-green tint. He started the engine and drove back out into the road. The coast was clear.

  He drove down the first hill, shifted the jeep into neutral, and cruised his way down the winding roads to the bottom of the mountain. The wind blew through the jeep’s open flaps, providing a refreshing breeze from the cool night air. He navigated the dark roads with the assistance of his NVGs while staying alert for any wildlife on the road. During his brief five-minute journey down the mountain, nothing impeded his path.

  Once he reached the flat desert road leading into Base 42, he carefully coasted to the side, off the pavement, and into a slump in the ground where a small ravine was located. The ground became rough and bumpy, and he gripped the steering wheel tight as the jeep rode down into the dried-up slope about twenty meters wide.

  Greg felt good about the spot, especially because it was near some desert brush where he decided to park. The ravine dipped down low enough from the road that he wouldn’t be visible to anything or anyone from the road. He was a half mile from the base and even closer to the burn pit. For their getaway, they’d have to move fast, but Greg believed they could do it. They had to.

  Sneaking onto the trash truck required that he travel light, so Greg left everything he had in the jeep except for his binoculars, knife, Beretta pistol, and N95 respiratory mask. He carried a small sack with him packed with snacks, his canteen, and extra ammo. The rest had to stay behind.

  Greg hated leaving supplies behind, no matter how well they were concealed. He got what he needed from the jeep, tossed the camo netting over it, and walked up the slope to the road with his mask on. Base 42 was in range. There were supposedly more than two hundred people inside, and Greg hadn’t a clue if any of them were infected. Part of him told himself to turn around and leave, but he had come too far to run away.

  The lights inside the base projected a distinctive white glow into the night sky. Greg looked at his wristwatch. It was 4:32 in the morning. The trash truck had come the day before around nine. He began the walk to the burn pit, still moving with a limp. He didn’t miss the weight of the bug-out bag but still wished that he could have brought it. A prepper never leaves his preps was another rule he had always told himself. Only this time, it would have to be broken.

  The burn pit was much larger than it had looked from far away. The crater-sized hole was full of ash and some burnt, slightly visible trash. Smoke rose from the hole continually, day and night, like some geyser at Yellowstone. He examined the pit with his NVGs and was dismayed to see what looked like charred flesh and bones among the trash.

  His suspicions from seeing the large black bags tumble into the pit the day earlier were confirmed. They were burning the bodies of the dead, and it seemed as though people were still dying at an alarming rate.

  He found a spot on the farthest side of the pit away from the base. A small nearby rock outcropping offered the perfect cover. Greg set up behind the rocks, which were about five feet high. He leaned against the wall, looked up into the sky, and let out a deep breath. Everything had gone according to plan so far, with the significant exception of the men trying to kill him. He’d have to play his cards right once he got inside the base, for there could be an even worse fate awaiting him.

  Morning came and Greg waited patiently for his moment. The sun was out in full force with barely a cloud in the sky. He watched the base attentively and heard the sound of someone’s voice coming over the intercom. It was faint and hard to decipher, but the tone was cold and demanding nonetheless. It had the eerie, echoed tones of a labor camp that sent shivers down his spine.

  He pulled his binoculars from his bag and scanned the walls. The entire base looked to be the size of an airport runway. It was long but still seemed inadequate to contain so many people. Two hundred seemed like a lot, and Greg had his doubts about the numbers.

  The voice on the intercom continued, but the gates remained closed and Greg couldn’t see a thing. He looked at his watch. It was five minutes to nine. His heart began to race. Soon it would be time. He glanced around the rocks with his binos and grew anxious when he saw a guard sliding the entrance gate open.

  He could hear the roar of the engine as it chugged out of the front gate and into view. It was the same truck as before, on its way to the burn pit, or so Greg hoped. He
remained kneeling down behind the rocks, carefully following the truck’s movements. The burn pit was roughly fifty feet from him, and once the truck arrived, he’d only have a brief amount of time to act.

  He wasn’t going to ride in the back, and he didn’t want to complicate things by killing the driver and passenger. He assumed that with the short distance back to the base, he could ride underneath the truck. There would be plenty of undercarriage to grip onto, and once inside the gates, it would be easy to roll out from underneath and stealthily search the base. He felt he had little choice.

  The truck backed up to the burn pit, much like it had done the previous day, emitting a high-pitched beeping sound as it moved in reverse. Watching the passenger’s side, Greg waited patiently for the right moment. The door swung open and a man in protective gear hopped out.

  On the other side and out of view from Greg, the driver jumped out as well while his partner went to the back and released the tail gate. If their routine was the same, the driver would press the button and the partner would pour gasoline into the hole and throw in a match. The back of the truck began to rise at an angle, squeaking and rattling all the way. The truck looked and sounded like it was on its last leg. Greg watched as more body bags tumbled into the pit, at least twenty or more.

  How were they dying? What the hell kind of base is this? he thought.

  “That’s good!” the gasoline man shouted as the last of the contents fell into the hole. The cargo bed suddenly reversed its position and slowly dropped back down. The gasoline man walked to the front of the truck and grabbed a five-gallon fuel can. Greg’s fingers dug into the rocks as he peered from behind. His chance was coming. Suddenly, the man tripped on a hole in the sand and dropped the gas can, spilling it everywhere.

  “Shit!” the man said. He scrambled to get up and retrieve the can, and in doing so, managed to spill even more.

  “Damn klutz,” Greg said quietly under his breath. “Go to the hole.”

  The driver came around the other side of the truck and noticed the gasoline spill.

  “Oh come on! You know our resources are limited! What the hell’s wrong with you?

  “I’m fuckin’ sorry, OK?”

  The driver walked closer to him and pointed in his face.

  “You better hope there’s enough in there to burn them bodies, or there’s going to be hell to pay for you, my friend.”

  Irritated, Greg rubbed his face with both of his hands. The two men bickered back and forth while he looked on, waiting.

  “I don’t give a damn,” the clumsy man protested. “They can take me off this shit trash detail for all I care.”

  “Oh, they’ll do more than that, you dumbass. You just wait.”

  “I’m not afraid of anyone here at this camp. Not you. Not Hodder. No one. You fuckin’ hear me? You have any idea who I used to roll with? Second largest biker gang in the nation.”

  Greg listened closely, looking for any clues in the man’s rant. Great, he thought, a base full of criminals. But was it still a military base or was it a prison? The two men started to push each other when the driver pushed back the hardest, sending the gasoline man back onto the ground.

  “Just do your fucking job!” the driver said, walking away.

  Gasoline man got up, took what was left of the fuel can, and walked toward the pit. With the driver farther away and his back turned, Greg sprinted from the rocks, running low and trying not to limp. As soon as he made it to the truck, he slid underneath on his stomach—right into the dirt—and then rolled over onto his back.

  There were several pipes, railings, and axles for him to grab onto. He saw the legs of the gasoline man walk by and get into the truck just as the flames rose from the pit. Greg pulled himself up, lifted his legs, and wedged them above a pipe railing. The truck immediately jerked forward and started moving. He had just made it. He held tightly onto the pipes as sand and dust flew up into his face, making it hard to breathe. He closed his eyes and kept his mouth shut as the truck rattled and picked up speed, shaking him violently. He wasn’t going to allow himself to let go. After a brief and tasking ride, the truck slowed to a halt.

  Greg hung down lower and looked to the front of the truck. He could see the gate being opened. As they moved forward, the ground below changed from sand and rocks to concrete pavement. His arms wrapped tightly around the exhaust pipe and he pulled himself up even closer to the innards of the truck in order to remain concealed. The gate closed behind them and Greg found himself finally inside the base.

  Intruder

  Bill Hodder stood in the Tactical Operations Center convening with his right-hand men, Marcus and Alex. Their meeting was urgent as tensions on the base were high. Residents had already endured abuse and forced labor at the hands of Hodder’s men, and pockets of resistance had begun to form. Hodder had his men capture such “agitators,” splitting them apart from their families and locking them up in the underground prison as they awaited trial. The prison itself was one of the base’s most tightly held secrets.

  But public trials had grown redundant. Most people had been broken, no matter their age or gender, and Hodder had them convinced that things were far worse outside the base. He delivered phony news reports to the people about how Ebola had wiped out half the state and how it was spreading at an unstoppable rate. Little did he know, he was half-right. Their only refuge, he explained, was the base itself.

  Fear was his prime motivating force, but it couldn’t last forever, no matter how destitute, scared, and vulnerable the people were. What he offered them was a system of rules and routines to follow, enforced by strict measures. He presented himself as more of a reluctant and benevolent prophet of doom than anything else.

  He used the same rhetoric he had used to seize the base and expel the military. And for a while, it seemed to be working. Now, protecting his power was even more important. Lately, however, his fragile control of the camp and its inhabitants felt like a powder keg waiting to go off.

  Often times, anyone suspected of a conspiracy to overthrow Hodder or join any kind of rebellion were privately executed and disposed of in the trash truck. They hadn’t had an official Ebola-related death in over a month. The more recent deaths that followed had all come through the direct orders of Hodder himself. But they were always classified as Ebola-related by the two resident researchers of the base. Like all who did his bidding, the former CDC reps were aligned with Hodder. And for their loyalty, they were given unlimited rein in conducting medical experiments on prisoners in their attempts to crack the Ebola code—and hopefully get rich in the process.

  Families began to dwindle. Children were without parents. Mothers went without their husbands. And sisters went without brothers. The true horrors of the camp, and what Hodder and his men were doing, were known only by a few. Conspirators, radicals, and anyone who wised up to his lies soon found themselves taken from their quarters in the dead of night and locked in an underground holding area.

  Everything was starting to come to light among the people, but they were still afraid. Hodder’s enforcers were armed, whereas they were not. Throughout the one hundred and fifty-four people left on Base 42, few had any spirit or hope left in them as they clung onto survival the best way they could. They did as they were told. Young women were passed around among Hodder’s team and given extra supplies and privileges for their services, and men often toiled on pointless labor projects, such as building platforms and pavilions and more gates and security. It was never enough. Twenty-five men, including Hodder, held power over the others, simply because they had weapons. But there were rumors of a military armory filled with hundreds more.

  It was the key to any kind of revolution, and it was also one of the closely monitored supplies. The only kind of meaningful change that would lead to the disposal of Hodder was the arrival of outsiders. Hodder knew this and focused squarely on ensuring that no one could get in or out of the base. He was going to hold onto his power, no matter the cost.

&nbs
p; In the operations room, Hodder kicked a chair and threw a small table across the room. Marcus and Alex remained seated, not saying a word. His tirades were fast becoming a daily event.

  “This supply count is all off,” Hodder said. “We can’t possibly be this low.” At this point, wearing tan, nameless military fatigues had become his daily uniform. Often times he even wore a beret. Dressing like the very military men he loathed gave him an even greater sense of power.

  “The numbers are what they are,” Marcus said. “Jacob’s supply run did little to change that.”

  Hodder paced the room, mumbling under his breath. He then stopped and turned toward his men. “We need to get a handle on this thing and fast. What’s the status on the search team?”

  Marcus and Alex looked at each other before Marcus spoke. “They haven’t been seen since yesterday.”

  Hodder cupped his chin with his palm and nodded with a slight smile. “Jacob is stalling. That’s what he’s doing. He knows there’ll be consequences if he doesn’t find this lone wolf, and he’s waiting it out.”

  Alex interjected. “Or maybe they’re still trying to find this guy.”

  Marcus shook his head. “I think we’d have heard something by now. It doesn’t make any sense.”

  Hodder walked to a nearby table and leaned into it, biting his lip. “Or maybe that vigilante bastard took them out.”

  Alex laughed. “Five men against one? I don’t think so.”

  Hodder slammed the table with his palm, startling the men. “Don’t underestimate anyone! How many times have I said that? We’re not in any position to make casual assumptions. Every single day, it’s a new challenge maintaining some sense of order around here. Every day, someone wants to step up and test us. They whine and complain about the conditions. Some threaten to leave. Some even have the nerve to fight back. We have to eliminate these threats before they consume us. If I’ve seen it in politics, I’ve seen it a dozen times.”