Judgment Day (Book 1)

by JE Gurley

“Your friends have guns.” She was beginning to think she had fallen in with a crazy man.

  “Hell, I got more guns than these guys.”

  She couldn’t believe what she was gearing. “You would kill them, the army?”

  His eyes grew dark and a scowl made him look threatening. “They intend to kill us. If they raise a rifle against me, I’ll put ‘em down real quick like.”

  “That’s murder.”

  He spit through the wire of the fence on the heels of a passing guard. “You can stay here if you want. Then you’ll see what murder is.”

  His words troubled her. He didn’t sound crazy. “Who are you? Why haven’t I seen you before?”

  “Name’s Mace Ridell. I keep mostly to myself.”

  “Why me? Why tell me?”

  “I’ve been watching people. You didn’t give up and die inside like most of ‘em. You come to this fence everyday and let them know you’re still alive. I like that. It shows spunk.”

  “I’m not sick,” she said.

  “Me neither. I guess some of us are immune. If this was really a quarantine facility like they say, don’t you think they would separate us from the sick? Instead, we’re all in here together with only that to look forward to.” He jerked his head toward the Tombs. As he walked off, he said, “I’ll be around. Keep watching.”

  As he disappeared behind a row of trailers, Renda wondered if she had just thrown her lot in with a murderer. Staring out at the soldiers who were keeping her prisoner, she wasn’t sure she cared. As she stood there, a new batch of detainees arrived, confused and angry. She watched as one very pretty woman with golden hair longer than hers had been, wailed and fought two men in biohazard suits as they carried a young boy on a stretcher toward the Tombs. Two guards rushed up and grabbed her, holding her back. Renda fought back the urge to help her. Such callousness for a mother and her son was uncalled for under any circumstances. She sighed and reined in her anger. Too many sad stories were playing out around her for her to make any difference. Something about Mace Ridell’s words had stuck with her. If he was right, her life might be at stake. Watching the churlish attitudes of the soldiers, she was half convinced he was.

  Two men delivered meals to each trailer three times a day from the back of golf cart. She did not know if it was the same two men each time. Their cumbersome suits hid their faces, but the pistols in the holsters slung around their waists were intimidating enough to keep contact to a minimum. Their routine never varied. While one drove, the second knocked on the door of a trailer, waited until the residents appeared and left the appropriate number of Styrofoam containers. If someone showed signs of illness, he made a note on an electronic pad and a short time later a team turned up to escort that person to the Tombs.

  The meals were predictably monotonous – scrambled eggs, toast, jelly, bacon and coffee or juice for breakfast; sandwiches with chips for lunch and some variation of meat, starch and vegetable for dinner with no allowances for religious or ethnic differences or vegetarians. The food was nourishing but bland. Stacks of cases filled with bottled water dotted the camp.

  No thought was given to entertainment or exercise for the detainees. They had no televisions, radios, movies, or sports equipment. Even prisoners in jails received better treatment. As tempers flared, fights broke out. They were usually between newcomers, but after a while, every face bore the same indifferent expression, vacant-eyed and slack-jawed, like cattle in a pen. Renda forced herself to avoid the all too easy trap of hopelessness. She wasn’t ill, just angry.

  Twice over the next few days, she saw Ridell skulking about the camp like a sneak thief. He nodded at her once, but mostly his eyes remained on the guards, watching their routines, and identifying their weaknesses. He had no watch, but she was certain he was mentally counting off the seconds and minutes each guard took in making their rounds. She avoided going to him, but the more she considered their earlier conversation, the more she became convinced he was right. If he found a way out, she was determined to go with him.

  Their chance came sooner than she expected. Two nights later, her eighteenth in confinement, the steady routine of the camp changed. More trucks arrived. Men began loading equipment and breaking down tents in a flurry of activity. Her heart lifted for a brief second. They’re releasing us, she thought. Then, as a guard began to call out names, the awful truth struck home like an ice-cold slap in the face. Only people who had shown no signs of infection were on their lists. When they called out her name, she panicked. As she trembled, trying to decide what to do, she felt a hand grasp her elbow.

  “Come with me now,” a voice whispered in her ear. She recognized the voice as belonging to Mace Ridell. He led her behind the trailers to the garbage bins. “We only have a few minutes. If you stay here, the trucks will take you to California and believe me, it's no vacation they have in mind. If you stay here, you’ll die like the rest.”

  Unable to respond, she simply nodded her head.

  “Good. We wait.”

  A line of those called began to stumble toward the trucks. She knew they would be looking for her when she did not acknowledge her name. She did not have much time. A guard walked by outside the wire, stopped and stared at them. Her heart sank. She was confused when he grinned and pushed a cloth-wrapped bundle through the wire.

  “Good to see you again, Mace,” he said.

  “About damned time, Craig,” Ridell replied.

  “We decided the best time to spring you was when they began to load the merchandise.”

  Renda watched as Ridell tore open the bundle, revealing an automatic rifle, a block of some white, putty-like substance and a small cloth bag. As soon she realized what the substance was, she moaned. He looked at her and smiled.

  “It’s our key to the door,” he said. He turned to Craig, “You’d better scoot. We’ll meet you at the school.”

  “Wish I could stay for the fireworks,” Craig said as he walked away.

  She watched Ridell split the plastic explosive in half and mold it around the base of two metal poles supporting a section of fence.

  “What merchandise was he talking about?” she asked.

  Ridell looked up at her annoyed at the interruption. “The ones they’re shipping out somewhere.” He then stuck a blasting cap into each half of the plastic explosives and ran the two fuses to a position a few dozen yards away.

  Renda was still puzzled. “Why?”

  Ridell sparked a metal lighter to life that must have been in the bundle and said, “We have thirty seconds after I light the fuse. If you get tangled up in the wire, I’ll have to leave you. Otherwise, stay close on my heels and keep your head down.” He paused for a second and added, “If you go in the trucks, they intend to experiment on you, probably kill you. If you come with me, you’ll be an outlaw. I might have to kill to get us out of here.”

  She surprised herself by nodding her assent. Anything was better than remaining in the camp with the sick and dying. He lit the fuse, and her eyes followed the flame as it raced toward its goal. The explosion, when it came, surprised her. Instead of a loud noise and a ball of fire, the putty ignited with a bright flash like a welding torch that almost blinded her and a soft hiss lasting only a few seconds.

  “Thermite charge,” he whispered. “Quieter and less messy.”

  After a few seconds, the two metal poles fell over, taking down the section of fence between them. She was still blinking from the bright flash, when Ridell grabbed her hand and jerked her to her feet.

  “Come on.”

  She wiped her eyes, and focused on following his footsteps exactly, as he carefully avoided the tangled wire. She inhaled and almost choked on a cloud of white, astringent smoke tasting of hot metal. Once beyond the fallen wire, he led them into a maze of crates and fuels drums where they were invisible from the towers. She was certain this was why he had chosen that particular section of fence. Around them, searchlights exploded into life and alarms blared. Officers barked out orders and soldiers
rushed to obey. Looking back into the camp, she was amazed that no one else used the confusion to escape. The chosen ones meekly piled into the trucks. Those whose names they had not called out, seemed to give up hope, as if they knew their eventual destination was the blocky, unadorned building from which no one emerged. She felt a brief regret at leaving them to their dour fates, but the rush of freedom quickly replaced it.

  The night favored them. There was no moon and the darkness was deep. Once beyond the reach of the searchlights, they would be free, or so she prayed. Suddenly, shots rang out and two of the searchlights exploded in a shower of sparks and extinguished.

  Ridell smiled. “Craig,” he whispered.

  He made for the swath of darkness left by the dead lights. She rushed to follow. He stopped beside a jeep, removed the gas cap and stuffed a rag inside the fill pipe. He then reached under the dash, hotwired the ignition, cranked the jeep. He handed her the lighter.

  “Light the rag and stand back,” he said.

  Renda lit the makeshift wick and backed away, squatting on her heels. He put the jeep in gear and leaped back as it careened through the camp, demolishing tents and scattering soldiers. It rammed into a truck and burst into flames, spreading even more destruction in its wake. They took advantage of the confusion and raced into the desert. Shots rang out behind them, but Ridell ignored them. Renda stumbled and almost fell when they slid down the steep side of a wash. As she fought to catch her breath, Ridell surveyed the camp, which was now a hive of activity.

  “Looks like they’re revving up the choppers. If they’ve got heat detectors, we’re done for. It’s the one thing I couldn’t account for.”

  “They’ve got machine guns, Mr. Ridell,” she reminded him.

  “And rockets,” he added. “As long as we’re partners in crime, call me Mace.” He smiled at her. “We’ll stick with the washes where there’s some cover. We’ll make it.”

  “I heard you mention a school. Is that where we’re going?”

  He nodded. “Marana High. It’s not far. My friends are there waiting for us.”

  “Just who are your friends?”

  Mace laughed. “Fellow hunting enthusiasts who hold the same high disregard for our government as I do.”

  “You’re in a militia?” she asked. She knew of militias, bands of misfits opposed to the scope of government authority.

  He laughed again. “No. We don’t want to overthrow the government. It’s too late for that. We’re survivalists.”

  “Oh,” she said, still not fully comprehending what he was. Of course, she had heard of survivalists, gun-toting nuts who hoarded food and built fortresses in the desert. Surely, he didn’t think he could hold off the entire US Army.

  He led her down the center of the wash, carefully avoiding painful brushes against prickly pear and barrel cactus. The wash led south in the general direction they were heading. When a helicopter roared just above them hugging a ridgeline, the beam of its searchlight probing the wash with a blazing white tongue of light, they sought shelter beneath the overhanging branches of a paloverde tree. She noticed Mace holding the automatic rifle as if he would not hesitate to fire on the helicopter if discovered. At that moment, she realized she was now a fugitive. There would be no going back.

  The sounds of dogs in the distance behind them alarmed her. She grabbed Mace’s sleeve to make him aware of their danger.

  “It took them long enough,” was all he said. He reached into his pocket and pulled out a small cloth bag and began sprinkling its contents across the wash and onto nearby plants. Then, to her puzzlement, he left the bag dangling in plain sight from a stalk of a brittle bush. Noticing her curiosity, he said, “It’s ground chili pepper, tobacco and blood meal, along with a few other special ingredients. It’ll ruin a dog’s sense of smell for hours.”

  Satisfied with his preparation, they again headed south, this time leaving the safety of the wash and striking out across the open desert with nowhere to hide if another helicopter flew over. Mace seemed unconcerned. She was about to question the wisdom of being in the open, when, as if on cue, she jumped in fright at the noise of an explosion to the west, followed by a several more rapid, sharp explosions, and a towering column of flame and black smoke curling into the night sky.

  “Right on time,” Mace commented, smiling. To her uncomprehending gaze, he added, “My friends just blew up an ammo truck. It should draw off our pursuers.” He pointed to dark outline of a building nearby. “Our goal.”

  The gate in the chain link fence was open. They slipped through and made their way to the back of the school. Beneath a shed, a jeep with two men inside waited for them. Mace signaled with his lighter and they cranked the jeep and came to meet them.

  “Hop in,” one said to her.

  Once inside, Craig, whom she had seen at the fence earlier, sped off, lights extinguished. She held her breath as he weaved between boulders, trees, towering saguaro cacti and mesquite bushes. A short while later, they crossed a paved highway and turned onto a narrow dirt road leading into the Tucson Mountains. The rough track jarred her spine. She held on to the side of the jeep with both hands to prevent the bucking jeep from flinging her out of her seat. In a narrow canyon, they stopped. All three men quickly gathered supplies and covered the jeep with camouflage netting.

  “From here we walk,” Mace informed her.

  “Where are we going?”

  He pointed up the side of one of the surrounding mountains. “There’s an abandoned mine up there. We should be safe for a while.”

  Renda wasn’t sure about sharing lodgings with bats and scorpions. “How long?”

  Mace shrugged. “A day or two until the army pulls out.”

  “Pulls out?”

  Craig spoke up. “They’re taking the immunes to a base in California. The rest . . .” He made a swiping motion across his throat with a finger.

  She shuddered at the implication. “Immunes?” she asked.

  “Like us. We seem to be immune from the virus. The damn vaccines don’t work.” He snickered. “Hell! They’re worse than the God damned virus. Damn zombies are taking over.”

  She stopped walking and stared at him. “Zombies?”

  He looked at Mace, who nodded. “The plague is killing millions. Some, well, they come back to life and attack people like wild animals, eating human flesh. A very few, say one in ten thousand, is still an animal, but a damned cunning one. He gathers a hunting pack and searches out survivors. The army’s abandoning most of the big cities in the east to the zombies.”

  Renda didn’t know if they were deliberately lying to her or just plain crazy, but her head began to reel and her legs turned to mush beneath her. Mace caught her before she fell. He swept her up in his arms and continued walking as if she were insubstantial. The scenery bounced and faded in and out of view as her mind fought to rationalize what they had said.

  “Impossible,” she muttered. Then the blackness took her.

  7

  Josh was calling for him, but Jeb could see nothing in the heavy mist that enveloped him completely, a storm cloud swirling around him. His son’s plaintive voice came from everywhere, distorted by the howl of the wind. Jeb walked, hands held before him, feeling his way almost blindly through the gloomy darkness.

  “Daddy!”

  “I’m coming, Josh,” he yelled, but the wind tattered his words as they left his lips, reducing them to a whisper. To his right the mist grew lighter. He stumbled in that direction.

  “Josh!”

  A shadow appeared, indistinct and shifting, devoured by the wind. The shadow bore no face, but he knew it was his son.

  “Josh!” he cried again.

  “Daddy,” the blurry shadow answered.

  Jeb rushed toward his son. The mist parted.

  “Daddy.”

  The shadow coalesced, becoming the image of his son. Jeb stopped short, staring in horror at his son as the eyes distorted into glowing red orbs, and the gentle mouth morphed into a tooth-
filled chasm, snarling like an animal. Six-year old fingers, once so deft and graceful playing with his toys, sprouted dark talons, clutching hungrily at Jeb.

  “Daddy,” the thing cried, as the mouth opened impossibly wide. Jeb threw his arms over his eyes . . .

  . . . And awoke thrashing wildly in his recliner. He looked around for a moment for reassurance it was just a nightmare. He focused on the glass case containing a few pieces of jade statuary he had picked up in China and the Chinese Gung dao, or long knife, a heavy metal blade attached to a five-foot wooden handle. He took a deep breath to still his racing heart.

  “My God,” he whispered.

  As a psychiatrist, Jeb didn’t believe in prophetic dreams, horoscopes or tarot cards. No one could see the future. The best one could do was to make an educated guess based on current trends, past tendencies and future developments. His dream was simply a nightmare dredged up from deep within his psyche spurred by his apprehension and frustration. Still, it left him trembling. He glanced at the wall clock – 10:20. He had slept almost twelve hours. Night had fallen and the room was dark. He clicked on a table lamp to beat back the disheartening gloom and sat for a while in its pale pool of consolation.

  With his call to Robert Hinds stymied and his inability to wrest information from the authorities from the FEMA camp, he was back where he had started two days before – nowhere. His wife needed him. Karen didn’t deal with emergencies well. His son needed him. He shuddered when he recalled the all too vivid nightmare. He knew the longer he brooded, the more he gave in to his anxiety, the more difficult it would be to plan, to think straight.

  “Time for action,” he said to the empty room. The slight echo of his voice drove home just how alone he was.

  First, he badly wanted a shower. He could smell himself and the aroma reminded him of a gym locker. He shed his clothes at the foot of the bed, something for which Karen always admonished him, and stared at his reflection in the mirror. He needed a shave. Luckily, he used an electric shaver. He didn’t think his hand was steady enough to challenge the sharp blade of a regular razor. The quiet buzzing of the shaver calmed him, reminding him of the sound of haircuts as a child, sitting on a booster seat in the barber chair, while his father watched on, smiling in pride. He could certainly use his father’s advice now. Though possessing only a sixth grade education, his father had possessed the common sense and sagacity of a wise man, something that had eluded Jeb, despite his hundred thousand dollar education.