by Tim Washburn
“A quick run just ain’t happening, Bull.”
“I think we’re about five hundred miles off the East Coast. Run at best possible speed, then. If you can make twenty knots that’ll put you in the vicinity of Nags Head in about in about twenty-five hours,” Thompson says. “Any of those ships in Norfolk still upright?”
“A couple of them were the last time we were there. No telling now. Why?”
“As a last resort you could pump some fuel from those sinking ships. You’ve got pumps on board, right?”
“Yes. And that might work. Norfolk is in the general vicinity, too.”
Thompson slaps the table. “Okay, we have a plan. We’ll run at periscope depth for a while so we can remain in radio contact. I say we eat and get on with the mission.”
“I don’t know if I have much of an appetite now,” Garcia says.
Murphy stands and places his hands on Garcia’s thin shoulders and gives them a squeeze. “Shit, Carlos, a man’s got to eat. It could be days—or never—before we run into any more Chinese ships.”
Garcia pushes up from his chair. “I sure as hell hope you’re right.”
CHAPTER 90
Kansas City, Missouri
Although they got off to a late start after the burial of Hannah Hatcher, they’ve made good progress. Now approaching Kansas City from the north, they’re on the hunt, again, for somewhere to bed down for the night. McDowell glances at the fuel gauge. “We need diesel, and I’d like to fill up before dark. That’ll allow us to get a quick start in the morning.”
Lauren brushes her dark hair out of her face. “So what are we looking for?”
“I found a hose back at the sign shop that connects to a tanker truck. That would be the quickest way, but I also have a piece of garden hose if we need to siphon from another vehicle.”
“I’ll keep an eye out. How come Kansas City is relatively intact and Des Moines wasn’t?”
“Des Moines had that big National Guard base close to the city. Missouri really only has one large military installation, Whiteman Air Force Base. It’s located in the middle of nowhere, southeast, but mostly east, of Kansas City. It’s a big base and the permanent home for our B-2 bomber, making them top-five in target value. No telling how many nukes they targeted at that base.” McDowell spots a tanker truck in the distance and speeds up. “Also, Kansas City is not a big population center and probably wouldn’t merit a direct attack. In a nutshell, they were extremely lucky.”
“I don’t think lucky is the word I’d choose,” Lauren says.
McDowell shrugs. “They’re still upright and walking. Some of them will make it out of this.” He pulls the truck up close to the tanker. “Will you cover with the shotgun?”
Lauren grabs the shotgun and climbs out of the truck. McDowell steps out and walks around the back, telling the students they can get down to stretch their legs for a few moments. He unlashes the hose from the side of the bed rails and grabs his bucket of tools. Using a large pair of pliers, he uncaps the four external valves on the tanker. Working down the line, he cracks the first gate valve open just a hair and finds gasoline. The second valve offers the same, but when he cracks open the third valve he finds diesel. He clamps on the hose and unscrews the lid of their truck’s fuel tank. McDowell steps over and cracks the valve open and a steady stream of diesel pours out. He fills the truck’s tank and refills all the spare containers. “See anyone?” McDowell asks Lauren.
“I see some people walking but they don’t appear threatening.”
“They’re all threats until proven otherwise.”
“Duly noted,” Lauren replies, offering a mock salute.
McDowell finishes up and wipes his hands on one of the leftover rags. He glances down and notices the rag came from Hannah’s dress. Remorse fills his heart. Not remorse for the man he shot, but remorse for a life snuffed out entirely too young. And worse, it happened on his watch. McDowell folds the rag and slips it into his back pocket as a reminder. As the kids reload, he takes a moment to study their surroundings in the failing light.
Two big-box home improvement stores are situated on opposite sides of the highway—too wide open, and too close to the highway for an overnight stay. After last night, McDowell is eager to find a secluded place, even if it means sleeping outside. He climbs behind the wheel and starts the truck, slipping the transmission into gear. At the next exit he pulls off the highway, and travels west on 152. They pass a looted Walmart, a plundered strip center, and a golf course before breaking into open country. The light is fading quickly and they have only minutes to find a spot before full dark settles in.
Lauren points to the left. “There’s a big open field and what looks like a small creek.”
“Perfect.” McDowell turns onto a side road and searches for a gate into the property. “Do you think the kids will mind sleeping outdoors?”
“We’re not going to give them a choice. After last night, the more secluded, the better.”
“Agreed.” McDowell spots a dirt road and turns onto it, following it until they come to the creek. He puts the truck in neutral and steps out for a quick look. There’s a line of trees that’ll shield them from view if someone approaches along the road, and a thicket of trees snuggled up to the creek to the west that will obscure their movements from that side. He walks out into the grass to check the ground for firmness. Getting the truck stuck now could well be a fatal mistake. The ground feels firm and he returns to the truck and steers off the road, nudging the truck into a dense copse of trees. He kills the engine and climbs out of the cab, slinging the shotgun over his shoulder. “Hey, gang, gather as much wood as you can before it gets too dark. I don’t want a bunch of flashlights waving around.”
The kids fan out and McDowell picks up a handful of smaller twigs. With some leftover paper from last night, he grabs the lighter and starts work on the fire. Lauren returns, her arms loaded down with wood. She dumps it in a pile and brushes the hair from her face. “Think we’re safe here?”
McDowell glances up, the orange-yellow flames lighting his face. “I sure as hell hope so. We’ll rotate guard shifts just in case.”
The students wander in and dump their wood on the pile Lauren started. McDowell puts on more wood as Melissa and the kids unload the food and water. Lauren returns to the truck and retrieves their meager supply of cooking gear. Once the fire builds up a layer of coals, McDowell places the pot in the coals for their dinner to warm. From the looks of it, they’re having some type of soup. It actually smells better than it looks.
Once everyone has eaten, McDowell banks the fire as the students work out their sleeping arrangements. The girls snuggle up next to the fire while the boys opt for a place under the truck. McDowell takes the first watch and Lauren and Melissa lie down beside the girls. McDowell unslings the shotgun and leans up against the pile of wood, the Glock in his lap. It’s not long before the girls fall asleep, their collective breathing falling into a natural rhythm. McDowell can hear the boys whispering to one another, but that too soon fades away. McDowell is left to stare at the flames.
Sometime later, Lauren stirs awake and takes over guard duty. McDowell adds more wood to the fire before stretching out on the ground. It takes him a while to fall asleep, the images from the day playing like a movie in his mind. He thinks briefly of the man he killed then decides the man shouldn’t merit much thought after what he’d done. He got what was coming to him. McDowell shifts positions, trying to get comfortable. Eventually the images fade and he falls asleep.
But sleep doesn’t last long. He feels Lauren’s hot breath in his ear as she whispers, “Wake up, Stan.”
McDowell sits up. “What?” he whispers.
“I heard something. Sounded like people whispering.”
CHAPTER 91
Weatherford
Back at Holly’s parents’ house for the night, Gage and Holly are getting ready for bed. Still without power, they share a dampened cloth to wipe the grime from their faces a
nd arms. Gage lifts Olivia to his face and kisses her tiny forehead. “I wish you could have met your grandpa,” he whispers to her. “He was a good man.”
“Yes, he was,” Holly says, wrapping an arm around her husband’s waist. They stand together in silence for a few minutes, staring at the tiny child they both created.
“I think she has my father’s chin,” Gage says.
“I think you’re right.” Holly gently brushes a flyaway of Olivia’s hair from her forehead. “It’s your chin, too.”
As if knowing that she is currently the center of attention, Olivia opens her tiny mouth and belts out a cry.
“Is she hungry?” Gage asks.
Holly removes Olivia from Gage’s hands and snuggles her against her chest. “Yes. I don’t know what we’re going to do if my milk doesn’t come in soon.”
Gage’s brow wrinkles with concern. “Do you think it has anything to do with radiation exposure?”
Holly sits on the edge of the bed and pulls up her shirt, positioning the baby’s mouth on her nipple. “I don’t think so, Gage. We were underground for an entire week. According to a few of the pregnancy books I read, some first-time mothers experience a delay in milk production.”
Gage is on the verge of asking a what-if-it-doesn’t? question before his brain takes over and clamps his mouth closed. He wanders out of the bedroom with his mind spinning through possible future scenarios, none of them good. He makes a mental note to pay a visit to Holly’s doctor in the morning to inquire about any leftover infant formula the doctor may have. If she doesn’t have any, Gage may be forced into going door-to-door in search of breast milk.
As Gage’s worry deepens, he shuffles into the living room. Susan has a half a dozen candles burning, the weak light casting shadows along the far wall as she putters around in the kitchen. Henry is sitting in his favorite recliner, his feet up.
“How’s the arm, Henry?” Gage asks, sinking into the sofa.
“Other than the fact it feels like a hot coal is embedded under my skin, it’s good. Could have been much worse.” He repositions himself in the chair and winces. He glances up to make sure Susan is out of earshot and lowers his voice. “What did you do with the bodies?”
“I drug them into the middle of the field and left them there. Burying them would have taken the better part of the day; time I don’t have.”
“They didn’t deserve a proper burial,” Henry says, rubbing a hand across the bandage on his right arm. “I’m sorry about your dad, Gage. He was a man of few words and a hard man to get to know, but that’s not necessarily a negative. He was a damn good man who could work circles around men half his age.”
Gage smiles. “He worked from daylight to dark most every day of his life. I always thought he’d die out in the field doing what he loved doing.”
“We don’t get to choose how or when we die, Gage. The only thing we know for certain is that we will die. From what you told me, him being unconscious the last few days is a blessing in the end.” Henry repositions himself in his chair and falls silent.
Gage is eager to change the subject. “How much longer before the turbine is up and running?”
“My injury is a setback. There’s no way I can climb the tower, but I don’t think much else needs to be done topside. You can handle the problems up there. I figure half a day to finish with the step-up transformer. My hope is we have the turbine up and running by the end of the day tomorrow.”
Gage nods and pushes up out of the sofa. He says good night to Susan and Henry and returns to the bedroom. Holly is asleep in the bed, the baby cuddled up next to her bare breast. Gently, Gage lifts Olivia and carries her to the bassinet, snuggling her down in the blankets. He strips off his clothes, clicks off the flashlight, and climbs into bed. Staring into the darkness, sleep proves elusive as he wonders what calamity will befall them tomorrow.
CHAPTER 92
Kansas City
McDowell is now fully awake, a sudden dump of adrenaline pumping through his system. In the darkness he feels for Lauren’s hands and fits the Glock into her right palm. He leans forward and whispers, “Which direction?”
“Back toward the road,” Lauren whispers. “I think.”
McDowell grimaces at how loud the whispers sound in the stillness of the night. He extends a hand, searching for Lauren’s face. He finds it, slips his hand around her head and pulls her forward, placing his mouth next to her ear. In the faintest of voices he asks, “How many?”
“Don’t know,” Lauren whispers. Her hot breath in his ear sends a shiver down his spine.
“Sit tight. Make them think we’re still sleeping. If shooting starts, herd the kids up under the truck. The pistol is locked and loaded. Okay?” With his hands still on her neck, he can feel her head nod. McDowell gives her neck a squeeze and pushes quietly to his feet, reaching for the shotgun. The darkness is absolute— the only hints of light coming from the dying embers of the fire. Working slowly, McDowell shuffles out into the darkness. He calls up a mental picture of the area and uses the position of the truck and the fire to get his bearings. If he’s correct, the dirt road leading to the property is in front of him. He pauses to listen. The only sound is the faint rattle of cottonwood leaves from the large trees lining the creek.
McDowell angles toward the left, one hand extended in front of him, the shotgun riding against his right leg. With the bandolier of shotgun shells wrapped around the lower stock and the five shells already loaded in the shotgun, he has fifteen rounds of ammo. And no idea the number of people he’s facing. He feels his way toward a large oak tree and snuggles up to the trunk, his eyes searching forward for any hints of movement—a futile attempt because he can’t see his hand two inches in front of his face. He’ll have to wait for someone to make a mistake. After a few minutes with no hints of noise, he’s wondering if Lauren had been hearing things.
Seconds later, a twig snaps.
McDowell knows now, she wasn’t. He brings the shotgun up and rests the barrel against the tree trunk, the stock seated against his shoulder and his index finger stroking the trigger. Listening, he hears feet shuffling through the leaves out in front of him. But there’s still no indication of how many are coming. McDowell clicks off the safety and waits.
Someone stumbles to the far left and curse words zing around inside McDowell’s head. The tree trunk is now a liability, limiting his field of fire. Carefully, he shuffles forward three steps, but the last step is costly because his foot hits a limb that snaps loudly. He stands frozen as the shuffling of feet stops. McDowell holds his breath, the shotgun up and ready.
A voice to his right says, “All we want is some food.”
McDowell swings the barrel to the right, locking in on the voice.
Silence descends in the darkness as McDowell plots his moves in his mind: Take the one on the right and shuffle hard left? I know there’s at least one on the left. How many in the middle?
“I know you’re here,” the voice on the right says. “We’ll make you a deal. We’ll split the food down the middle. Half for you and half for us.”
McDowell remains silent. He lets his legs relax a little to keep from cramping up.
Finally, after what feels like an eternity, the voice on the right speaks again. “Or we can take it all.”
McDowell remains silent. Dealing with the unknown, especially when weapons are involved, ratchets the tension up to an unbelievable level. Only those who have been to war have ever experienced the sensation. And McDowell’s been to war.
“I don’t know who you are,” the man on the right says, “but, pardner, you’re seriously outgunned.”
Either the man’s boasting or McDowell is in for the fight of his life. Either way, it’s seconds from happening.
“You had your—”
McDowell pulls the trigger. The shotgun barks and he spins to his left and drops to his haunches, the barrel swinging left. A pistol fires from the left, kicking up dirt where McDowell had been standing. McDowell
targets the flash and fires again, flame shooting from the barrel and lighting the night. In the brief flash, McDowell spots two people moving forward from the middle. McDowell pivots the shotgun and fires off two quick shots. He jumps to his feet and lunges to the left, needing to draw their fire away from the campsite. A limb slaps him in the face, bringing tears to his eyes. He grabs the limb and follows it to the trunk, where he squats down and feeds more shells into the shotgun.
After several more seconds of silence, McDowell hears the shuffle of feet, but this time they’re moving away. McDowell waits for the footsteps to fade before standing. Using the dying coals of the fire as a beacon, he makes his way back toward the campsite. He stops when he comes within earshot and says in a low voice, “Lauren it’s me.”
He hears a sigh of relief in the distance and makes his way toward Lauren. The fire casts some light and McDowell can just make out the students crawling out from underneath the truck like babies scampering away from the mother spider. Once they’re huddled up, McDowell whispers a series of orders. Within minutes, the truck is loaded up and everyone is aboard. Melissa reluctantly climbs behind the wheel as McDowell takes up a position in the back, the shotgun tight to his shoulder and extended over the top of the cab.
With no working headlights, Jonathon is ducked down beside the cab with a flashlight, which he clicks off and on every few seconds. After several stops and starts that nearly send everyone tumbling out the back, Melissa gets the truck turned around and pointed in the right direction. She eases out on the clutch and the truck stutters forward before finding a rhythm. She shifts to second as McDowell keeps a watchful eye on their left flank. He has no idea about the status of the four people he shot, nor does he care. Getting away safely is the only thing that matters now. Melissa has to swerve to avoid hitting a tree, and the kids tumble across the bed. Shots ring out and McDowell orders the students on their bellies. He swings the shotgun left and fires off three well-spaced rounds, hoping to drive the enemy to cover. Finally, mercifully, they reach the main road.