by Tim Washburn
“Will things ever return to normal?”
“Not in my lifetime. Hopefully it will during yours.”
CHAPTER 63
Memphis
After a few hours at the home of Sarah and Christopher Michaels, Zane is eager to be back on the road. The trip from the clinic proved to be uneventful and Sarah hasn’t mentioned anything to her husband about the shoot-out in her waiting room, yet. It might have something to do with the presence of their two young children. Alyx steps over to give Sarah a hug before moving on to Christopher. Zane steps into the void and hugs Sarah before shaking Christopher’s hand. Alyx grabs the bag of medical supplies Sarah had prepared, and Zane handles the shotgun. They step out onto the porch and Zane takes a moment to reconnoiter the area.
“Wait a minute,” Christopher says before ducking back in the house. He returns a moment later with two cases of powdered infant formula. He hands them to Alyx. “For Holly and the baby. Protect it with your life because that’s going to be more valuable than gold.”
Alyx leans forward and kisses Christopher on the cheek. “Thank you. I owe you.”
Christopher waves a hand. “Just be careful out there.”
Not sensing any threats, Zane descends the steps with Alyx following. He waits for her to store the supplies and climb in before sliding behind the wheel. Zane lays the shotgun on the seat and backs out of the drive, his eyes constantly scanning.
“Alyx, will you pull out a ten-day supply of the expired antibiotics?”
Alyx nods and rummages through the bag, pulling out four sample bottles of amoxicillin. “What do you want me to do with the rest of this stuff?”
“Stuff it under the seat. We need the bag to remain hidden.” Zane pulls out onto a main thoroughfare and follows the signs for I-40. The next intersection is blocked by expired vehicles, forcing Zane to backtrack. After a series of turns and switchbacks, he spots a highway on-ramp and carefully navigates around a clog of cars and pulls onto the highway.
“What’s the game plan when we get to the roadblock?”
“Are you okay with making the approach while I cover you with the shotgun?”
“And say what?”
“Tell them the truth. We’re only passing through their state on our way home.”
“And if they refuse?”
“I haven’t thought that far ahead. Let’s just hope whoever’s leading the ragtag army needs some antibiotics.”
“Should I offer additional drugs?”
“No, that would tip our hand.” Zane slows the truck as they near the roadblock. He eases forward, hoping to get close enough for the shotgun to be effective, but two men armed with rifles step out from behind a tractor-trailer rig. “Damn, we may not get a chance to talk to the main guy.”
The two men approach, one on each side of the truck. Zane cranks down his window.
“The bridge is closed,” the man says, coming to a stop six feet away, the rifle tight to his shoulder and aimed dead center at Zane’s chest.
The other man assumes a similar position on Alyx’s side of the truck.
“We’re not stopping in Arkansas. We’re only trying to make it home to Weatherford, Oklahoma.”
“I don’t give a shit where you’re going. The bridge is closed.” The man sweeps his gaze across the inside of the cab and Zane feels a chill race down his spine. He slowly works his hand toward the shotgun lying in the middle of the seat.
“All we want to do is drive across your state,” Zane says, his hand lighting on the shotgun. He quietly cocks both barrels.
“I’ll say it for the last time—the bridge is closed,” the man says. He peers into the cab again. “Unless you’re willing to trade for a little pussy.”
“The pussy’s not mine to trade, but I assure you she’s not interested.”
The man waves the rifle barrel Alyx’s way. “Why don’t we let the little lady decide?”
Zane’s eyes flick to the rearview mirror to check behind them and he slowly works his hand toward the shifter. “Pussy’s off the table. We do have some antibiotics to trade.” He carefully bumps the lever to reverse and returns his hand to the shotgun.
“I might need the antibiotics after. She carrying any diseases?”
“Do you want to trade our passing for the antibiotics or not? Or maybe I should speak to the leader of your outfit.”
“You’re talking to him, and I told you what I wanted. How about you two step out of the truck?”
Zane steals a glance at the other man. He appears relaxed, his rifle pointed toward the ground. Zane quickly paints a mental picture in his head. “We don’t want any trouble. We’ll find another way to cross.”
“See, I’ve got a problem with that.” The man makes the mistake of grabbing his crotch. “I’ve already got a hard—”
Zane whips the shotgun up and empties both barrels before stomping on the gas. “Duck,” he shouts as the front windshield spiders with cracks from a rifle bullet. Zane glances at the rearview and whips the wheel hard to the left. The truck skids and threatens to roll over before the tires find purchase. Zane slams the shifter into drive and floors the accelerator as rifle shots ring out behind them. He ducks low in the seat just before the back window explodes, sending glass fragments across the cab. He whips around a busted truck for cover and keeps the accelerator floored. He hits the first off-ramp they come to and nearly collides with a dead Oldsmobile, swerving at the last second and clipping the car’s rear bumper. He’s on the verge of losing control of the truck when he stands on the brakes. Now well below the highway, they’re out of the line of fire. The truck skids to a stop. Zane is shaking as he eases down on the gas pedal, steering toward a side road. “Alyx, reload the shotgun.”
With trembling hands, Alyx feeds two more shells into the chamber and snaps the breech closed. “Now what?”
“I’ll figure that out when my nerves settle.” Zane takes a long moment to regain his composure then turns to look at Alyx. “That didn’t go as planned.”
“You think? Thank you, Zane.”
“I did kind of speak out of turn. I hope I didn’t spoil a romantic moment for you.”
“He forgot to bring flowers on the first date.”
They share a nervous chuckle and the tension drains from Zane’s body. The shaking subsides and Zane shifts in his seat. “Alyx, will you grab the map and find the closest crossing?” After Zane lost the map by throwing it at the pit bull, the Michaels found an old, yellowed map of Tennessee in one of their junk drawers and passed it on to Zane.
Alyx unfolds the map across her lap. “There’s a crossing just south of here on Interstate 55.”
“It’ll be the same there, I bet. What’s next?”
Alyx traces her finger along the river. “The next crossing south is Lula, Mississippi, that crosses over to West Helena, Arkansas. It’s about thirty miles from here.”
“I’ve had my fill of Arkansans, or Tennesseans, or whoever is responsible for that roadblock. What’s the next crossing?” Zane asks.
“We’d have to drive all the way to Greenville, Mississippi.”
“That far south is a no-go. Mississippi and Louisiana are littered with military bases. You probably couldn’t find an unburned blade of grass in either state.”
Alyx returns to the map. “The nearest crossing to the north is about fifty miles away. We’d have to backtrack to Highway 51 and take that north to Interstate 155 and cross over into southern Missouri.”
“That’s a lot of backtracking, but I think it’s our only option.” Zane eases up an on-ramp to the highway, heading back the way they came.
CHAPTER 64
North Atlantic
Still at periscope depth, Thompson is in a quandary. The USS Grant is ten miles out and the sub’s radio crew has failed to make radio contact with the ship. With no way of knowing if the radio problems are on his end, or with the Grant, or a systemwide failure, a surprise surfacing could be dicey. With no visual markings on the hull, there’
s concern the destroyer crew might misidentify the New York as an enemy sub. “Sonar, any other contacts, surface or otherwise?”
“Negative, Skipper. Just our destroyer, sir,” Sonar Tech Adams, replies. “She’s slowed down and is now turning fifteen knots.”
“She’s using one screw to conserve fuel,” Thompson mutters, turning to Garcia. “Think they’ll know we’re friendly with the Russian warship torpedoed and on the verge of sinking?”
“I don’t think we have much choice one way or the other and we have no idea who else is playing in the sandbox. In all reality the Grant could have sunk us when we launched the torpedoes.”
“Periscope up,” Thompson orders. He steps over and catches handles as the scope slides into position. He walks a circle until the destroyer comes into view. He dials up the magnification and studies the approaching ship. With no radio contact, he wants to make damn sure nothing is amiss. The ship is still too distant to distinguish any crew characteristics, but all appears normal. He steps away from the periscope. “Dive, take us to the surface.”
The nose of the submarine tilts up as the boat ascends. Sailing at periscope depth it doesn’t take long for the immense boat to breaks through the surface. Thompson turns to the quartermaster. “Chief Chambers, send someone topside to run up the flag,” Thompson orders. “Conn, send a helmsman up the sail.” Once his orders are confirmed, he and Garcia make their way to the forward hatch. After strapping on the life vests, Thompson grabs the binoculars and a handheld radio, and both climb up, stepping out onto the matte black deck. The destroyer is now only three miles away and heading straight for the surfaced sub. Thompson puts the high-power binoculars to his eyes and glasses the bridge area of the ship. The destroyer is still too far away to distinguish much, other than a group of sailors standing watch. Thompson puts the radio to his mouth and triggers the talk button. “Helm, come to a heading of one-three-six degrees. All ahead two-thirds.” With both ships now moving toward each other the gap will close quickly.
Thompson takes advantage of being topside by inhaling and exhaling several deep breaths. The briny scent of the sea smells much fresher than the recycled air below. With the Gulf Stream current, the breeze is warm and he can almost feel his skin sucking up the moisture from the humidity. With the destroyer now closer, Thompson returns to his binoculars. He adjusts the focus and zeros in on the bridge. He laughs and hands the binoculars to Garcia. “Murphy has a message for you.”
Garcia puts the binoculars to his eyes and starts laughing. Standing on the bridge of the ship, with binoculars to his eyes, is Captain Wayne Murphy, the middle finger of his right hand extended. Garcia returns the salute and hands the binoculars back to the captain. “You know, I don’t think I’ve laughed since this whole mess started.”
“None of us have.” Thompson radios all stop and they wait for the ominous-looking warship to pull alongside. Several sailors spill out of the front hatch of the sub. They attach cleats to the deck of the sub fore and aft and wait for the Grant crew to toss over the ropes. The crew on the destroyer lowers fenders over the rail to keep the two ships from bumping against each other and within moments the two ships are tied together and the destroyer’s crew lowers down a gangway as the ship’s anchor drops to the bottom of the sea.
Murphy is there to greet Thompson and Garcia and they exchange back-slapping hugs. “You’re still as ugly as ever,” Thompson says to Murphy.
Murphy, at six-two and a heavily muscled 220 pounds, is the tall, dark, handsome man women swoon over. And swoon they did, all through their academy years. Thompson stopped counting after the first year because he couldn’t compete—with the numbers or in the bedroom. Thompson drapes an arm over Murphy’s shoulders as they make their way inside.
CHAPTER 65
Des Moines, Iowa
With darkness approaching, McDowell is searching for a place to hole up for the night. The problem—they’re still north of Des Moines, and not a single structure remains. He slows the truck when they come to a fork in the highway. The lettering on the overhead signs is blistered and unreadable. It appears one road leads to the city center, while the other swings out to the west. He opts for the western spur, hoping it’s a loop around the downtown area. Here, some of the larger concrete structures are still standing, but the insides are hollowed out from the fires. If McDowell remembers correctly, the Iowa National Guard Joint Forces Headquarters had been located on the north side in Des Moines, meaning conditions should improve the farther south they go.
They cross a wide debris-filled river and the landscape begins to change.
“Did the river act as a firebreak?” Lauren asks.
“It played a part, for sure. But mostly it was wind direction. I’ve flown into Des Moines several times and we almost always faced a southerly wind.”
Intact neighborhoods begin to appear, and McDowell’s spirit lifts a notch. Five miles farther on, the road makes a long looping curve to the south. McDowell leans forward to click on the headlights and curses when nothing happens.
“I guess the damn headlights don’t work. We need to find someplace to bed down before it gets too dark.”
Lauren leans forward in the seat. “I see a sign for a hotel ahead.”
“Probably already filled with refugees. We need someplace out of the way. A warehouse, or something similar to the office building we stayed in last night.”
Lauren rocks her head from side to side, trying to pop her neck. “Damn, and I was hoping for a bed.”
“I doubt you’ll find a bed until you get home to Lubbock.”
“You sure know how to shoot down a girl’s dream. Can we find someplace where we won’t be interrupted by a gunfight in the middle of the night?”
“I could do without that, myself.” McDowell points to a cluster of buildings on the other side of the roadway. “That look like a school to you?”
“Don’t do that to me, please. Besides, the local community is probably using it as a shelter since it’s government property.”
“Didn’t think about that.” McDowell continues driving south. They hit an industrial area and he pulls off the highway. Time is of the essence now as the darkness settles in. They drive past a Lowe’s and head deeper into the complex, passing a cluster of plundered restaurants and small office buildings. McDowell spots a building off by itself and pulls into the drive. According to the sign, it’s some type of financial services company. “This place might well be out of business forever. How’s it look?”
“It’s fine, if we can get inside.”
“We’ll get inside—that I can assure you.” He pulls the truck around behind the building and noses into a dense pocket of trees and kills the engine. The truck shakes as those in back jump to the ground. McDowell pushes out of the cab and arches his back, trying to stretch out the kinks. The stretching offers little relief and he reaches back inside and grabs the shotgun, slinging it over his shoulder. “Hey, gang,” he says in a low voice, “keep the noise to a minimum. Unload the food, water, and utensils only.” He eases around to the other side of the truck and unlocks the glove box. After tucking the Glock into his waistband, he grabs the ammo for both weapons and steps over to Lauren. “The back door is steel and set in a metal frame. Keep them back here and I’ll unlock it from the inside.”
McDowell makes his way around to the front of the building. He clicks on his flashlight and twists the lens to red. The front entry is a pair of glass doors bookended by two large plate glass windows. He turns and shines the light around the landscaped flower bed and finds exactly what he’s looking for. McDowell picks up the rock, turns, and tosses the rock at the door on the right. The glass shatters, launching an avalanche of tiny pieces as the tempered glass falls to the pavement. He steps through the frame and pauses to listen. After several moments of silence, he makes his way toward the back of the building, threading his way through a disorganized stockroom to unlock the back door. While the students unload the truck, McDowell reconnoiters the re
st of the building.
Measuring maybe 10,000 square feet, the building contains a handsomely decorated reception area, complete with a comfortable-looking large leather sofa and a pair of overstuffed leather wing chairs—all positioned precisely on an expensive-looking Persian rug and facing a large natural-stone fireplace. McDowell continues down the hall, wondering who would be crazy enough to let this company handle their assets after seeing the opulence of the reception area. The opulence continues as he passes a half a dozen offices, all outfitted like some private Manhattan gentleman’s club with expensive furniture and real artwork on the walls. At an intersection of hallways, he finds a modern conference room with seating for thirty. Down the next hall, he discovers where the real work was done. The generous, rectangular room is bisected by a series of cubicles while the perimeter of the room is made up of series of smaller glass-fronted offices. At the end of the hallway is a small break room, complete with a refrigerator and coffeemaker. McDowell returns to the stockroom. Four flashlights are on, lighting the room.
“Stan, may we have a fire?” Lauren asks.
“Let me scout around outside before I answer. In the interim, there’s a kitchen down the far hallway. Might see what you can scare up.” McDowell eases out the back door. He walks a wide circle around the building. The back of the building butts up to a greenbelt to the south, and to the north and east are more deserted office buildings. Curious to know what’s on the other side of the natural buffer, he makes his way through the trees. After a hundred yards, he steps out onto a residential street. The neighborhood is concerning, but with the greenbelt, not a deal breaker. McDowell retraces his steps and returns to a lean-to he spotted on the far side building. Pulling the door open, he finds a stack of firewood and loads up, returning to a secluded area where the building’s walls form an inside corner. Sheltered on two sides, the spot is hidden from the main road. McDowell dumps his load of firewood and returns inside.