No Shelter: Book 3 in the Thrilling Post-Apocalyptic Survival Series: (Zero Hour - Book 3)

by Justin Bell

  But there was just silence. The lack of visible activity didn’t concern him nearly as much as the complete void of any sounds or noise. Jackson had lived on and around farms long enough to know that even when you didn’t see something happening, you generally heard it. Cows mooing, horses neighing, the telltale rumble of an old John Deere.

  There was none of that.

  He stood for a moment at the tree line, looking at the farm. In the distance he could see the pale blue house where his fiancée had lived for nearly her entire life, perched on the grass near the dirt road that meandered past the home and off toward other farms deeper into the Connecticut woods. The porch looked out over a squat section of dead grass, struggling as it always did through the doldrums of winter. A large, gray barn sat several yards away, separated from the house by a tall oak. Inside the barn were horse stables and the three cows that the Martins owned, though Jackson heard none of them. Beyond the barn was the chicken coop, an enclosed wooden structure mounted on legs with a narrow wooden ramp leading down to the ground. A maintenance shed was closer to him, on his left, a double door structure which contained the tractor and baling equipment that Lisa’s dad used almost every day to tend to the farm and to gather food for the animals. Jackson stiffened as a chilled breeze blew in through the trees, shaking the leafless branches and cutting through him like a sharp knife. He adjusted the backpack on his back, the hilt of the sword tapping him on his head as if to remind him it was still there. Instinctively, Jackson put his hand to his back and was reassured that the pistol remained snug in its leather holster, clasped to the belt he’d been wearing for three days straight.

  As he began walking across the grass, he suddenly felt dirty. He could feel days’ worth of dirt, grime and sweat on his body, his skin crawling with the thought of it. He wondered if they had a working shower in the farmhouse… he knew they did in the past, but a lot had changed in a few days, one never could be too sure.

  Crossing the threshold of the rear lawn, he approached the maintenance shed, looking up into the skies. He paused for a moment, remembering flying the Piper Cub through that empty swath of blue, hugging the oak trees, buzzing Lisa’s house while she was trying to do her homework. Her dad had been upset, but then again, her dad seemed like he was always upset about something. What would he think about Jackson showing up now? Jackson’s only conversation with Lisa had been short and sparse on details, and he wondered what she and her parents even knew about what was going on in the world today. Aldrich could be a very isolated community at times, especially if her father was in an especially sour mood.

  He checked the maintenance shed doors, but they didn’t budge, they were latched shut, and he had to navigate around the edge of the building to get access to some windows. Stepping up on his tiptoes, Jackson looked into the window and saw the tractor and baling equipment still there, right where they should have been, and he saw no real evidence of recent use. The equipment was cleaned and stripped, just like Lisa’s father did every weekend, and there were no stray piles of discarded hay or anything.

  Jackson narrowed his eyes as he stepped away. Every weekend the Martins stripped and cleaned the tractor and other heavy equipment in preparation for the next week. But the next week was now halfway over. Had they not used this equipment in three days?

  He stepped away from the shed and looked at the house, a quarter mile in the distance from where he currently stood. It looked dark, quiet, and alone, and in his mind he saw the bodies on the front lawn of his apartment building, those tangled masses of arms and legs, and in his mind, their faces were the Martins.

  Picking up his pace, he strode swiftly toward the house, glancing at the chicken coop. The door to the coop stood open and no chickens were visible inside, and he suspected he would see the same in the barn with the horses and cows.

  Nothing made sense. His head swam as he walked, the reality of what might be within the house crushing him like a weight. Were Lisa and her parents in there right now? If so, why hadn’t they come out to greet him? If so, why hadn’t they tended the farm or cared for the animals in three days?

  The answer was simple and straight forward, but Jackson wanted no part of it. He refused to accept reality as he broke into a run, his feet whacking on hard, brown grass, the backpack thumping on his back, his arms pumping. The house seemed as if it wasn’t growing at all, it remained there, far in the distance, too far, a goal he might never reach. On his left the barn grew large and broad, and he changed course for a brief moment so he could get a look inside, but he saw the same thing as he saw with the chickens, an opened door, and emptiness within. Glancing at the ground, he noticed a scattering of hoof prints in the hard ground mixed with what looked like boot prints, soft indentations in ramshackle patterns throughout the ground separating the barn and the farmhouse.

  The prints looked recent. Too recent to be three days ago, and the ground was light and soft there. If the prints were recent, then maybe things weren’t as bad as Jackson feared, and he felt his hopes slowly inflating as he looked back toward the farmhouse again, taking an eager step toward the light blue structure.

  ***

  “All right, gentlemen,” Colonel Reeves said, leaning forward in his chair, steepling his fingers on the smooth surface of the table. “Tell me what you know.”

  Sergeant Davis moved in the opposite direction, leaning back slightly, smoothing the rumpled surface of his camouflage combat fatigues. “What we know may be distinctly different than what we suspect, Colonel, but I think both are equally valuable.”

  “Agreed,” replied Reeves. “So, let me have it.”

  Davis looked at Wakefield, who looked over at Craig, who had been located and invited to the conversation without full warning of what would be discussed.

  “All right,” Davis said finally. “Let’s start at the top.”

  “Please do,” Reeves replied.

  “Late last year, Team Ten, alongside the Criminal Investigative Division opened a top secret investigation against active National Security Agency analyst Leonard Graybar.”

  “Based on what?” Reeves asked.

  “Based on a domestic CIA intelligence operation that revealed a list of potential sources for foreign targets. We knew that Graybar was involved in some very high level top secret projects down in Atlanta with the CDC, projects that could be absolutely devastating if they fell into the wrong hands.”

  “Projects like?”

  “Colonel, with all due respect,” Davis replied, “this will go a lot quicker if you just let me speak.”

  Reeves showed his palms and nodded apologetically.

  “Graybar was working with the Centers for Disease Control on possible countermeasures for genetic bio-weaponry that had been classified as a significant threat based on recent strides with mapping and breaking down the human genome. In order to begin development of those countermeasures, they had to draft some templates for the types of weapons they’d be looking to counteract.”

  “They made genetic bioweapons to assist in developing anti-bioweapons,” Wakefield clarified.

  Reeves nodded. He didn’t like the direction this was going in.

  “Late last year we found evidence that Graybar may have been compromised. We put in a plan immediately to lock down his access and trace his communications, with the belief that foreign parties could be gaining insight into these biological agents. However, before we could move in and take Graybar into custody…”

  “… he was murdered,” finished Reeves.

  “He was murdered,” confirmed Davis.

  “And the government covered it up,” said Reeves.

  Craig sighed deeply, knowing this was a question for him to answer. “It was believed at the time, that should information about Graybar get out into the public eye, it would be a matter of national security. So executives at a high level elected to sweep it under the rug and crafted the ‘early morning stabbing while jogging’ scenario to avoid public concern and outcry.”

>   “Meanwhile,” Davis continued, “Team Ten doubled down on their active investigation, chasing down any possible leads, all while fast-tracking a potential counter-agent to whatever nasty things foreign parties may have gotten access to. Our plan had been to run a few test cases through small pockets of human population, one of them being Quincy, Massachusetts.”

  “Oh my God,” Reeves whispered, unclenching his fingers and tipping back slightly. “We did do this. This was our fault.”

  Davis shook his head emphatically. “No, sir. That’s the part you’re missing here. We’d dispatched intelligence to Quincy for surveillance only. Not to actually execute any sort of operation. At least not yet. By pure coincidence we had boots on the ground there when things went sideways.”

  “Describe ‘sideways,’” Reeves said, completely forgetting about his promise not to interrupt.

  “I think that’s what we’re all trying to do right now,” Wakefield replied. “None of us know precisely what’s going on or how this has spread so quickly. We’re acting as fast as we can to—”

  A series of rapid pounds echoed on the door to the conference room and Reeves turned in his chair.

  “Colonel?” a muffled voice came from behind the door. “This is Lieutenant Burns. I think I have some information.”

  Reeves turned and looked at the others in the room, who all exchanged curious glances. Agent Craig was closest to the door, so he pushed himself away from the table, stood, and opened the door so that Leeza Burns could enter.

  “Lieutenant?” Reeves asked curiously.

  “Sir. I was reviewing some of that security footage you handed me. The DVD that was captured from Quincy?”

  “Go on.”

  “About twenty minutes into the video, you can see that there’s some kind of rupture or detonation in one of the aisles. Looks like it might have been a can of shaving cream or maybe even soda or something?”

  “I haven’t seen it yet,” he replied, “but I’m with you.”

  “Well, I’m not sure how many of you know this, but…” she hesitated for a moment, closing her eyes to better form her words. “My… my husband is a security guard for a local shopping mall. He works overnights, especially during the holidays.”

  “Lieutenant, I’m assuming we’ll be getting to the point soon?” Davis asked, trying hard not to reveal a thread of disrespect to the superior officer.

  Burns shot him a narrow, sharp glare, but held her composure. “He had a shift the night of Black Friday and mentioned when he got home that they had a very weird disturbance that night. In several different stores, it was reported that shaving cream cans appeared to rupture and explode simultaneously. I think he said it happened in three or four separate stores in the mall.”

  Reeves looked at her, his face shifting from confusion to stone cold seriousness. “One of the R & D lab rats told me the samples you folks brought back had traces of Isopentane, which is a known combustion agent used to package shaving cream.”

  Davis crossed his arms over his chest. “Could that be the delivery agent?” he asked.

  “And if so,” Wakefield continued, “was it a targeted detonation on Black Friday? A way to hit the largest number of potential victims in the shortest window of time?”

  “What kind of coordination would that take?” Reeves asked.

  “I shudder to think,” replied Agent Wakefield.

  The room was quiet for a few moments as Reeves sat, pensive.

  He finally spoke. “We need more information,” he said.

  Davis looked at him, his face formed into a knowing glare.

  “What’s your brain up to, Sergeant?”

  “Just thinking,” Davis replied. “I’m with you, I think we need more information and more evidence. Lieutenant Burns was able to answer a bunch of questions with one look at twenty minutes of security footage. What are our chances of getting our hands on more?”

  “With our current infrastructure?” Agent Wakefield interjected. “Nearly impossible. Even when the internet works, which is a rarity, connection speeds are lagging, and the latency is way too high to even hope to transfer video files over the net. I suspect within the next twenty-four hours, internet connectivity will be completely non-existent.”

  “So that’s a no.”

  Wakefield and Craig looked at each other for a moment, then Wakefield looked back at Reeves. “That’s not a ‘no.’ There may be another way.”

  ***

  “You really think Jackson’s gonna bail us out?” Broderick asked, pressing the torn pillowcase tighter to his scalp. The broken skin at the ridge of his receding hairline was starting to scab over, but there was still a trickle of dark red winding its way down the gradual, smooth slope of his forehead.

  “What else am I supposed to say?” Clark replied quietly from where he was, standing by the bars of the cell. He peeled his fingers from the smooth metal and crossed his arms over his broad chest. “We gotta ten-year-old kid over there who needs to know someone might be looking out for us.”

  Broderick glanced over at the other cell, across the room from where they were, with Lisa, Priscilla, Javier and Melinda penned up inside. Melinda was sitting in the near corner, knees pulled up tight to her chest, arms wrapped around her legs. She seemed to be straining just to hold herself together.

  “A cage is no place for a kid,” Broderick replied.

  “I’d rather not be in here, myself,” Clark said.

  “Personally, I’m not sure we’ll see Jackson again,” whispered Broderick. “He couldn’t get out of that truck fast enough. We were just a means to an end.”

  “I don’t think that’s fair,” Clark snapped back. “He saved us in the woods, remember? He barely survived a plane crash, he went on foot all the way to and through the city of Boston… the boy saw some stuff.”

  Broderick glanced over at Clark, pulling the cloth away and looking at the drying red on the back side of it.

  “We all saw some stuff, Clark,” Broderick replied. “We’re all going to keep seeing stuff, too. Way of the world.”

  “No offense, Brody, but come on. You’re Army, I’m former Marine. We’re trained to deal with the stuff we’ve seen. He’s a farm kid. Done pretty well for himself so far, I think.”

  Broderick nodded. “I get it. I’m sorry, Clark. Not trying to be that guy.” He lowered his gaze, resting back against the wall, the cot sagging underneath his weight.

  Clark took a step toward him and sat down on the cot himself, at the other side of the six-foot stretch of bed. “Hey, it’s been hard. I know you’re worried about your family. And worried about getting back to Detrick.”

  “We’ve got a world to save, and some podunk hick with a power trip has us locked up in here.”

  Clark chuckled. “That about covers it. Only problem is, he also appears to have a bunch of National Guard in his back pocket.”

  A brief shout echoed from the other cell and Clark glanced over. Lisa and Patricia were leaned down toward Melinda who was shaking her head violently from left to right.

  “No!” she screamed. “No no no no no!”

  “Calm down, honey,” Javier said soothingly, limping up from behind the two women. “You need to calm down.”

  “I won’t calm down! I hate this place!”

  “If you’re good, maybe we’ll get out of here—”

  “I don’t want to be good!” she screamed again, throwing herself into a fierce fighting posture, clenching both fists tight at her sides. “I want to get out. I want my mom and dad!”

  “Melinda,” Patricia said, reaching for her.

  “Leave me alone!” she screamed, pushing herself back into the corner of the cell, as if Patricia might be contaminated. “Leave me alone!”

  Javier gently eased the two women aside and made his way toward Mel, coming down to her level.

  “Get away from me!” she screamed, lurching forward and swinging an awkward fist.

  Javier backpedaled clumsily, his injured body sha
mbling instead of stepping.

  Footsteps echoed in the hallway as Melinda continued her angry charge toward Javier, who kept moving backwards, barely stepping out of the path of her outrage.

  “Young lady!” a voice bellowed from the doorway and heads turned as Mayor Harris strode into the narrow room, walking between the two cells. “What exactly is going on here?” he asked, placing his hands on his hips in mock anger. Two armed men drifted into the room behind him, both in military fatigues, holding the familiar looking M4 carbine automatic rifles.

  Everyone in the second cell froze as he approached. Mel glared at him through angry, narrow eyes, her fists still clenched, but now hanging, pinned against her hips.

  Harris looked at her, his face softening slightly in response to her angry look. “Would you like to come out of there, dear?” he asked quietly, a voice the complete opposite of his personality.

  Mel looked at him, mistrustfully.

  “There was a day care in this building several years ago,” the mayor said. “Might be some toys there still. Would you like a few minutes to go play? Get out of that cage?”

  Mel nodded slowly, though still not fully trusting what the man was saying.

  “Come on, dear,” he said, pulling a set of keys from his pocket as he stepped toward the cell. “The rest of you step back. These guys behind me won’t hesitate to gun you down if you try anything stupid.”

  He rattled the keys in the lock and pried open the door, reaching in and helping Mel exit the cell, walking slowly, her hand clasped in his. Her previous rage and anger seemed to be completely gone, a presence that had left her body the minute the mayor had arrived, lifting up into the air and dissipating. One of the gunmen moved around the mayor and clanged the door shut, relocking it and returning the keys to Harris’s open palm as he led the small girl across the room and toward the exit.

  “Don’t do anything to her,” Javier snarled. Harris paused for a moment and glanced back over his shoulder.