by Tim Washburn
Zane pulls the hose back to make sure the gas is still flowing. “We might get lucky and get a full tank off of this beast.”
“Couple of people coming up from the east.”
“Do they look threatening?”
“Don’t know yet. Come and get the shotgun, Zane.”
Zane steps over and takes the shotgun from Alyx. “Extra shells?”
“On the pickup seat.”
Zane steps over closer to the passenger side of the truck, in case he needs to reload. When the two people are close enough to see, Zane relaxes and lowers his weapon. The duo is a pair of older women. Age is difficult to estimate because their faces are blistered beyond recognition and the skin on their arms is black and peeling. With their gaze focused forward, they’re walking side by side, as if part of a zombie army.
When they pull abreast, they stop and the one closest to Zane turns her head. Her head movement triggers images from The Exorcist in Zane’s mind. “Sir, may we have a ride?”
“I’m sorry. We have a policy of no riders.”
The woman nods and begins walking, the other in lockstep with her. Once they’re out of earshot, Alyx steps closer to Zane. “What would it have hurt to give them a ride?”
“To where? They’ll be dead inside of two days. Besides, even they don’t know where they’re going. They’re just putting one foot in front of the other.”
Alyx shudders and wraps her arms around herself. “Can we go?”
Zane peers through the side window to check the gas gauge. “Another couple of minutes. Tank’s almost full.”
Alyx steps closer and wraps her arms around Zane. “How are we going to survive this shitty new world?”
Zane tilts her face back and kisses her. “One day at a time. That’s all we can do.”
A clap of thunder rolls across the landscape, spurring Zane into action. He yanks the hose from both tanks and tosses it into the back of their truck and quickly screws on the gas cap. “Hop in the truck, Alyx.”
“What’s the rush?”
“I don’t think we want to be outside if it starts raining.”
“Fallout?”
“Exactly.” A nearby lightning strike hits and is followed seconds later by a loud clap of thunder. Zane hurries around the pickup and climbs behind the wheel, reaching for the window crank. “Roll up your window, Alyx.” Once his window is secure, Zane drops the truck into gear and gooses the gas.
“Wouldn’t most of the fallout already have settled out?” Alyx asks.
“There’s still plenty left in the atmosphere, and this is the first rain we’ve seen.” There’s another crack of thunder and the skies open up. Zane switches on the wipers and the tired rubber blades squeak and stutter across the glass. A quarter mile farther on, they pass the two women. They appear to be oblivious to the rain as they continue marching forward, the rain dripping from their scalded faces. The ash that’s been on the roadway for more than a week makes the road slippery, forcing Zane to slow.
When they reach the outskirts of Memphis, Zane steers toward the south loop, skirting around downtown. The slick roads and the large number of dead automobiles on the highway make the going slow. After an hour, the highway they’re on links back to Interstate 40 and they motor on.
“On a normal day, we’d be able to make Weatherford in about seven hours,” Alyx says.
Zane glances over at her. “That’s out the window. How many times have you traveled this highway?”
“Enough times I could probably drive it blindfolded.”
“Why? Just for the hell of it?”
“No, smartass. I went to school at Vanderbilt in Nashville. I had just started my first year of college when my parents made the move to Weatherford. I lucked out and missed most of the culture shock Holly had to deal with.”
The rain tapers to a fine mist and Zane kills the squeaking wipers
“Where did you grow up?” Zane asks.
“Palm Springs. My dad got his start in the wind industry out there.”
“I haven’t been to Weatherford but I’ve been to my fair share of small towns. Must have been a hell of a change for your sister.”
“It was. She called me, crying, almost every day the first month. Then the calls began to taper off. She loves it there now.”
Zane turns back to the road, shoots his arm out to shield Alyx, and slams on the brakes. The truck comes to a stop a hundred yards from a roadblock. Dead autos have been wedged into place and, behind them, a group of people armed with rifles.
“Why did they put up a roadblock?” Zane asks.
“To keep outsiders from coming in and using up all the resources.”
“But this is a federal highway. What gives them the right?”
“The guns they’re carrying.”
“We’ll have to find another way around.”
“That’s going to be more difficult than you think,” Alyx says.
“Why?”
“Because there’s two miles of Mississippi River between where we are and where we want to be.”
CHAPTER 46
Off the coast of São Miguel Island, Azores
Situated in the middle of the North Atlantic Ocean is the nine-island chain known as the Azores, an autonomous region of Portugal. Volcanic in origin, the islands are isolated—the nearest neighbor is six hundred miles south, and the coast of Portugal lies a thousand miles to the east. After running throughout the night, the USS New York is now two miles south of São Miguel Island, drifting along at two knots at a depth of 150 feet.
The crew is hungry. The last two meals have been soup with most of the alleged ingredients undetectable. After four hours of sleep, Captain Thompson is back on the bridge. He logs in to the computer and pulls up the navigational chart for the island. “Sonar, are you hearing anything?”
“Negative, Skipper,” Petty Officer Adams replies.
The captain is itching to ascend to periscope depth for a quick look. But even submerged under fifty feet of water, the silhouette of the six-hundred-foot-long sub is readily identifiable from any lofted position, including aboard an enemy ship. But desperate times call for desperate measures. “Q, take us up to periscope depth.”
Dive Officer Quigley verbally confirms the order as the XO, Carlos Garcia, joins the captain near the periscope. As the boat levels off, periscope one ascends from the floor. Thompson grabs the handles and positions his face in the eyecups and walks a 360-degree circle to get his bearings. He slows and positions the periscope on the docks of Ponta Delgada, a southern port city on the island. He dials up the magnification and his shoulders sag as he mumbles, “We can’t buy a damn break.”
“What is it, Bull?” Garcia asks.
Thompson steps away to allow Garcia a look. “You worried about the docked Portuguese Navy frigate?” Garcia turns from the scope to glance at Thompson. “Her radar’s not turning. Looks as if she’s mothballed.”
“Looks can be deceiving.” Thompson steps close to Garcia and lowers his voice. “We’re a sitting duck if we surface and that ship is active.”
“I don’t think we have a choice, Bull. We need food.”
Garcia returns to the scope. “It doesn’t appear the island has sustained any damage. Hell, there are people walking along the coastline. I think they docked the ship and said to hell with it.”
Garcia steps away and Thompson returns to the periscope and dials up the magnification, the frigate now looming large in his field of view. He triggers a button to activate the video camera. “Conn, put periscope view on the video screen.”
“Aye, aye, Skipper,” a petty officer manning the communication desk, replies.
Thompson moves away from the scope, and he and Garcia step toward the monitor. “They could be out of fuel,” Garcia says. “I’m not seeing any smoke from the stacks, either.”
Thompson turns to the Adams at the sonar station. “Hearing any engine noise?”
“Negative, sir. Quiet as a mouse.”
“I’m not seeing any activity aboard ship,” Thompson says, pointing to the screen.
“Want to try hailing the ship?” Garcia asks.
“We do that and we give away our position,” Thompson says.
“I’d rather let them know we’re coming than to sail in unannounced.” Garcia runs a hand across the stubble on his chin. “It’s decision time, Bull.”
The captain ponders the situation for a few moments and finds no easy answers. They’ll have to reveal their presence at some point if they’re hoping to resupply, but not knowing who’s playing on what side compounds the problem. Thompson makes a decision. “Conn, down periscope. Comms, release the communication buoy. Q, take us down to a hundred feet.” As the periscope slides down, Thompson glances at Garcia. “That will provide us some measure of concealment.” The two lean backward as the sub dives to the designated depth. Once the submarine levels off the captain orders the ensign manning the radio station to hail the Portuguese frigate.
After several unsuccessful attempts to contact the docked ship, Thompson and Garcia discuss the next steps. “I believe the Portuguese ship is unoccupied,” Garcia says. “I say we move a little closer, surface, and aim for the dock.”
Thompson, using his index finger, wipes the sweat from his forehead. “Even if that frigate is empty, they’ll be a passel of Portuguese sailors on the island.”
“Yes, but they’re not going to be hanging around the docks, are they?”
“They could be if the ship is being repaired.”
Garcia shrugs and steps over to the monitor, replaying the video from the periscope camera. “I’m not seeing any sailors.”
“Okay, Carlos, you win. We’ll dock, but the crew will remain aboard. Put together a security team of ten to man the deck and limit the number of rifles to every other sailor. I don’t want it to appear as if we’re invading their island.”
“The crew’s not going to be happy about not going ashore.”
“We’ll assess the situation when we see what type of reception we receive. If we decide on giving them a little R and R we’ll do it in shifts. I want the boat operational at all times.”
“How are we going to purchase supplies? There might be a couple thousand dollars if the crew pitched in all of their cash.”
“I’ll figure something out. But let’s not count our chickens just yet.” Thompson turns back to the helm. “Q, bring us back up to periscope depth. Mr. Patterson, come to a heading of one-five degrees. All ahead, one-third”
The captain’s orders are repeated and the boat begins ascending again. “Do you want the security team topside as soon as we surface?” Garcia asks.
“You bet your ass, I do.”
CHAPTER 47
Lakeville
Stan McDowell is up just as the faint smudge of the sun breaks on the horizon. The students finally fell asleep after the shoot-out, the girls in one office and the boys in the other. Melissa, Lauren, and McDowell took turns standing guard, switching places on the sofa throughout the remainder of the night. But McDowell never could get comfortable and slept with one eye open. He pulls on his boots and, rather than traipse around inside in the dark, exits through the front door. He avoids looking at the bodies and circles around back. A light drizzle continues to fall as he eases the back door open and grabs a handful of keys from a pegboard screwed to the wall. He clicks on his flashlight and places it in his mouth as he scans the tags attached to the individual keys, but he can’t decipher the lettering system used to designate which key goes to which truck.
He removes the light from his mouth, stirs the coals to get the fire going, and ventures into the equipment yard. There are six trucks parked up next to the fence and another dozen parked helter-skelter around the lot. They’re all the same type—cab-over sixteen-foot flatbeds, probably in the four-ton range, with staked beds, meaning the back is enclosed by a set of rails. McDowell approaches the first truck and pulls on the door handle. It squeaks open, revealing a mud-splattered floorboard and two captain seats separated by the engine cowling. He tries the first set of keys with no luck. On his sixth attempt, he finds the correct key but the truck fails to turn over. He climbs out and continues down the line.
The problem is all the trucks are of recent vintage and thus more susceptible to an EMP. The prevailing wisdom is that anything electronic dies after an EMP, but that isn’t necessarily true. During a stint at Global Strike Command while in the Air Force, McDowell actively participated in various scenarios on the effects of an electromagnetic pulse. Whether a device, or car, or anything based on electronics is affected by an EMP is based on numerous factors, two of which are the altitude of the detonation and the wire length of the device. The power grids were the first to go, but smaller devices that have a shorter run of electrical wires often survive. McDowell is hoping that’s the case for at least one of the trucks.
Wearily, he climbs into the cab of another truck. He quit counting after ten and that was a while ago. The good thing is the pile of keys is much smaller. This truck appears to be older than the others, the vinyl seats are split and the dash is veined with cracks. After several attempts he finds the correct key. He pauses, says a quick prayer to someone, somewhere, and twists the key. The starter groans and he pumps the gas pedal. Finally, the engine coughs to life, spewing a stream of black smoke into the slate-colored sky. McDowell raises his fist and shouts, “Hell, yeah.” As the engine warms, he steps down and makes his way over to the sign shop.
He searches the nearest building for fuel containers and finds a pair of five-gallon diesel jugs stashed in the corner of the barn. He pulls them out and continues his search. Stepping around behind the barn, he spots a large fuel tank perched atop a pair of latticed legs and threads through the piles of junk for a look. He lifts the pump handle and sniffs the spout—diesel. He hurries back to the truck and drives it over next to the tank. After topping off the truck’s tank, he fills the two containers. That might buy them three or four hundred miles, but not a thousand. He looks around the tank and finds an eight-foot section of four-inch hose buried in the weeds. The original metal collars are still intact and he tosses it all into the back. Used to fill the large tank from a tanker truck, the hose could prove invaluable down the road. Prowling around some more, he’s trying to figure out what else they may need. He bends down to check for a spare under the bed and finds the slot is empty. They’ll need a spare for sure. After all, it’s not like he can call AAA. He returns to the office building and rousts a few of the boys outside to help.
By the time they’ve finished, they’ve accumulated two spare tires, four more fuel containers, a large tarp to shield the bed from the elements, nearly a dozen flashlights, and two cases of double-A batteries. McDowell drives the truck up to the back door of the building and climbs out. Most of the group is outside, drinking soup from the coffee cups, and he grabs a cup and ladles in some soup.
Once the boys finish, they lay the area rug from the reception area across the bed and load on the old sofa. The girls pack away the utensils and load the two five-gallon jugs of water, along with the luggage. The six diesel containers get lashed to the outside rails with a roll of found rope, as does the four-inch tanker hose. McDowell debates going back to check the other jobsite trailer, but he’s feeling exposed now that daylight is in full bloom. When no one is looking, he sneaks into the cab and locks the pistol and ammo in the glove box. It’s not much of a lock, but it could keep the kids out, especially if they don’t know it’s there. McDowell hustles back to the barn and retrieves the bucket of tools he’d put together. The kids pile in back, and Lauren and Melissa play rock-paper-scissors to see who gets the first shift in the back with the kids. Lauren loses, and she climbs into the back. McDowell secures the back rail section and climbs into the cab. He cuts a wide berth around the bodies and points the truck south.
CHAPTER 48
Weatherford
After a brief visit with his brother and his family, Gage spent another hour wi
th his unconscious father before he and Holly returned to her parents’. Gage had been solemn all evening and waited until he and his wife climbed into bed before seeking solace. Cuddled in each other’s arms, or as cuddled as you can be when one of you is eight months pregnant, Gage talked about life with his father, and Holly dried the tears on his cheeks. Eventually the well ran dry and they both fell asleep.
This morning, finishing up the last of the eggs and the bacon, the group lingers around the breakfast table. “Gage,” Henry says, “if you want to spend some time with your father we can put off working on the wind turbines for a few days.”
Gage takes a sip of coffee, pondering. After a long moment, he places the mug back on the table. “I appreciate it, Henry, but I need to be doing something. He won’t know whether I’m there or not and Garrett’s just down the way if Mom needs anything. Besides, the propane isn’t going to last forever.” Gage stands, carries his plate to the sink, and returns to give Holly a kiss on the cheek. “Are you feeling a little better this morning?”
“Yeah, I am. We’ll see how the day goes.”
“Why? What happened?” Susan Reed asks, a tinge of alarm in her voice.
“I’ve had several series of contractions over the last week or so.” Holly makes no mention of the blood-soaked panties.
“I think that’s fairly common this late into the pregnancy,” Susan says. “I remember having some contractions when I was pregnant with Alyx.”
Gage places a hand on Holly’s shoulder. “Babe, do you know where Dr. Samia lives?”
“I think out in that new addition. I don’t know the specific address,” Holly says.
“I do,” Susan says. “They moved in next door to the Johnsons.”
“Why?” Holly asks.
“In case anything happens. Think she’d mind us making a house call?”
“She better not mind,” Susan says, butting in. “Not when my first grandchild’s almost here.”