The Day After Never - Insurrection (Book 5)

by Russell Blake

  The drinks arrived, and the doctor hoisted his cup in a toast. “To another day in paradise, lads!” he said with a faux grin, drawing a chuckle from the pair.

  They took long sips of their wine, and the doctor made a face. “Gah. That’s even fouler than usual. I wonder if they’re making it in old diesel drums now or something?”

  “Pretty nasty,” the man on his right agreed, and took another pull of the wine.

  “How can you drink it like water, Greg? It’s all I can do to keep from vomiting in my mouth at the smell,” the doctor asked.

  “Easy, Doc – I hold my breath.”

  That drew another laugh, and the men exchanged stories from their last couple of days. The doctor always had the best ones, given his profession. His companions could listen to his grisly accounts for hours, their fascination never waning at the multitude of ways nature could come up with to exterminate them.

  “But still nothing on the vaccine, huh?” Greg asked.

  The doctor shook his head. “No. It’s supposed to be here any day, but I’ve been hearing that for weeks. I figure it’ll get here when it gets here.”

  “Any word from Portland? Signs of the new virus?”

  That quieted the trio. Rumors of an even deadlier scourge were the stuff of nervous whispers, as though even speaking of it audibly might summon it. The spread from the East Coast had been documented by the network of sideband radio enthusiasts that traded reports hourly, but so far it seemed to have stalled on the other side of the Rocky Mountains, although isolated cases had been flagged and then debunked from operators stretching up and down the West Coast. There was a sense of dread and inevitability to another wave of even more deadly pestilence, but there was little anyone could do about it until the promised vaccine finally arrived.

  “Not yet. But it’s bound to happen. Matter of time with winter come over. That’s probably what’s saved us so far,” the doctor said. “But nobody’s lucky all the time.”

  “They’re convinced the vaccine works?”

  “That’s the good news. Apparently so. And once we get it, I can make enough to protect everyone here and then some. It’s not that hard if you know what you’re doing. Probably easier than making this wine. And it’ll probably taste better, too.”

  More laughter, and the first round segued into a second and then a third. The men’s faces were glowing in the torchlight, cheeks flushed, when a fourth cup arrived and the doctor’s empty cup was taken. He looked a little woozy as he slurped a generous portion and smacked his lips, and then he belched before jolting as though stung by a bee and grabbed for Greg’s arm.

  Greg stared at him like he’d gone mad. “What is it?” Greg demanded as the doctor flailed at him, and then Greg drew back in horror as a thick white froth foamed from the doc’s nose and mouth.

  “Christ!” Greg exclaimed, standing too quickly and knocking the crate over. The doctor’s hands clenched into claws, and he pawed at his throat before collapsing backward in a heap. One of the women screamed and the musicians stopped mid-chord. The doctor jerked and spasmed against the dirt floor and finally stiffened before a long death rattle groaned from his throat and he lay still.

  The pair of inebriated engineers stood in shock, staring at their friend’s lifeless body, his eyes bugged out of his head as though some internal pressure valve had badly malfunctioned. The foam continued to dribble onto the ground as his skin turned blue, his lips cyanotic from lack of oxygen as life seeped from him like the wine soaking into the hard-packed dirt by his feet.

  Chapter 8

  The rain finally abated late in the night, and when dawn’s faint glow illuminated the horizon, Lucas and the rest were riding west, having rinsed themselves off in a brook and refilled their stocks. The landscape was now rolling hills covered in tall grass, and the horses made better time over the easy terrain. The relative flat of the old Oregon Trail’s wagon-wheel grooves served as an alternative to the highway, which would become nothing but more perilous as they neared Portland.

  Joel was subdued throughout the day, his complexion pale and his mouth a thin line. Ruby had inspected his thigh before they’d set out; he had a substantial hematoma from the hard landing. Whether it would ultimately absorb or become a serious problem, nobody could say, but it was obvious to all that he was in considerable pain, which he suffered in silence.

  They camped for the night near a stream in the shadows of a demolished railway bridge. Each took a three-hour watch, Joel absolved from duty so he could rest and heal. The following morning they dined on dry rations, uncertain as to the source of the stream and not wanting to take any chances in case it was tainted, and veered south to where an overpass spanned the John Day River. After spending half an hour watching the crossing for any signs of life, they raced across the stretch of bridge like the devil was on their tail, driving the horses to breakneck speed lest anyone take a shot at them while they were exposed.

  The day passed without incident, and at dusk they had to brave a bridge that crossed the Deschutes River – unlike the prior overpass, this one relatively long, without any cover on either side. They settled in to wait until it was so dark they could barely see, and then Lucas powered on his night vision goggles and led the party across, secure that unless a shooter was similarly equipped, they’d be safe out in the open. After bridging the river, they continued on in the night until they were well away from the water. They settled in near an ancient schoolhouse barely larger than a phone booth and dined again on their stores, not daring a fire for warmth.

  After another long trek and an evening in the foothills of Mount Hood, they were up at first light and veered south, determined to give Portland as wide a berth as possible; the stories of the bikers that controlled it were as frightening as any about the Crew in Texas or New Orleans. That the dregs of humanity ultimately rose to the top in periods of dislocation didn’t surprise any of them after five years of witnessing every form of atrocity imaginable, and all had agreed that the most prudent course was to avoid all areas remotely abutting Portland, even if it meant an additional day’s travel to skirt them.

  Another night passed without incident at a deserted hamlet in the middle of nowhere, and the next day was spent darting from cover to cover, the silhouettes of abandoned buildings surrounding them until they could cross the Willamette River and veer toward rolling hills with long-abandoned vineyards dotting the landscape. Other than smoke from the city to remind them that there were many thousands living only a few hours’ hard ride north of them, they didn’t see another living soul; but it was still an uneasy guard duty they spent that night, Mount St. Helens’s peak belching white clouds as the light faded.

  The next day brought a change from vineyards to conifers, and much as Lucas didn’t like having to follow a road, the terrain and heavy brush dictated they do so. They rode north along Highway 26, attempting to stay off the pavement to the extent possible, heartened somewhat by the absence of any sound other than their mounts’ hooves in the pine-covered hills. The sun warmed them as they proceeded in a loose column, and the morning fog that had been as thick as cotton melted away as the hours passed.

  Lucas rode point until they broke for a hurried lunch of dried meat washed down with stale water, and was finishing his ration of jerky when a crack from deep in the woods to his left stopped him cold. His M4 was in his hands in seconds. Axel and Red were equally quick to respond behind him, and they trained their rifles in the direction of the sound, searching for a target. Ruby and Joel made for the horses, where their guns were in scabbards, but Lucas signaled to them and shook his head – any movement could draw fire and make them the first targets.

  A huge bull elk emerged from the trees fifty yards away and regarded the men curiously before bolting back into the woods, disappearing without a trace. Lucas smiled and exhaled slowly, and the men lowered their weapons, Axel with a regretful expression.

  “That big buck could have fed us for weeks,” he said.

  “Would
have been nice, but we don’t want to draw any attention,” Lucas agreed.

  “Could have hit it with my eyes closed.”

  “No question. It was the big guy’s lucky day.” Lucas finished chewing his jerky and checked his mechanical watch. “Still got another six hours of daylight. Let’s get going.”

  The men relieved themselves, stretched, and climbed back into the saddle, only another day or so at the most ahead of them before they reached their destination. Axel rode point for the second half of the day, Ruby behind him, the men bringing up the rear.

  An eagle wheeled overhead, a barely discernible dot in the sky, soaring on an updraft off the hills as it searched for prey. Lucas’s gaze rose to trace its flight, envious of the ease with which the big bird could cover a hundred miles in a day while he and his group plodded along at a snail’s pace. He leaned to the side to spit, and Tango nearly threw him out of the saddle when the silence of the forest was shattered by the bark of an assault rifle up ahead. Axel tumbled backward with a sharp cry and hit the ground hard, a spray of blood telling Lucas that at least one of the rounds had found flesh above the ceramic plates of his flak vest. Another volley shredded the earth around Ruby, and she yelped in pain and clutched her shoulder as she spurred her horse off the road toward the tree line.

  More gunfire erupted from another position to Lucas’s right, chewing up the asphalt by Tango’s hooves, and then he was galloping for cover, low in the saddle. He cried out instructions to Red and Joel as he raced for the trees, cursing being caught in the open, his decision to follow the road having cost Axel his life.

  Chapter 9

  Rounds snapped past Lucas’s head as he entered the forest, the gunmen focusing on him as the next in line after Ruby, and he zigged and zagged with Tango, praying that the combination of motion and speed would make him a difficult enough target to buy a few more precious moments. Then he was among the pines and dropping from Tango, M4 in one hand and his Remington 700 sniper rifle in the other. Tango drew up shortly nearby, and Joel and Red arrived moments later.

  “Where’s Ruby?” Lucas barked.

  “Other side of the road,” Red said.

  Lucas squinted at the pines. “I make at least two shooters, both with assault rifles. Pretty decent shots, too, judging by how many of us they hit with the first salvo.”

  “More like spray and pray. We were barely moving.”

  “Where do you put them?” Lucas asked.

  “One’s at twelve o’clock, on a ridge, the other at nine, best as I can tell.”

  “You hear more than two guns?” Lucas demanded.

  Joel and Red shook their heads. “That was it.”

  “All right. Maybe it’s just a pair of scavengers trying to get lucky. If there are more of them, we’ll soon know for sure.” Lucas cupped his hands around his mouth and called out, “Ruby? Are you all right?”

  More gunfire chattered from the road, but the shells thwacked harmlessly into the surrounding tree trunks, the shooters firing blind. Lucas cocked his head and could barely make out Ruby’s response.

  “I’m fine.”

  “Don’t move,” he cried, and then looked from Red to Joel. “Stay with the horses. If it’s only two men, I can take care of them with my long gun.”

  “You sure you don’t want backup?” Red asked.

  “Positive. This way I don’t need to worry about hitting a friendly – anything that moves is the enemy. Just keep your eyes peeled in case they have others trying to flank us or come in behind us. Can’t help you with that if I’m up ahead.”

  Joel swallowed hard. “You think that’s likely?”

  “Definite possibility. I’d prepare for it. Nobody shows, you’re not out much. They do, you’re ready. Good news is these trees work to our advantage. Just stay alert and shoot anything that comes your way.”

  Joel nodded slowly, his eyes frightened. Red, on the other hand, seemed matter-of-fact; this was just one of numerous gun battles he’d walked away from with his skin.

  Lucas glanced at the sky and moved to Tango. He withdrew his night vision scope for the M4 and slipped it into a pouch of his flak jacket, and then found the night vision monocle in its satchel and slid the strap over his shoulder. After a final check to ensure he had sufficient magazines for both rifles, he took off at a jog through the trees, his expression grim. He hoped this wouldn’t stretch until dark, but if it did, he wanted every advantage he could get, and he wasn’t going to take any chances.

  The shooting had stopped, and Lucas was left to tune out everything but the attackers’ last estimated positions. He didn’t see much logic in shooting riders as they came around a bend like these miscreants had, but then again, he didn’t know how many there were – his gut told him they were being set up in a crossfire, or at least had been until they’d ridden to safety. Less agile horses or riders with slower reaction times might have delayed just long enough to be cut down by the automatic rifle fire. If Lucas was correct, Joel and Red would soon know for sure – he couldn’t worry about it right now.

  Lucas continued paralleling the road, staying deep in the trees until the terrain began sloping uphill. He slowed and scanned the area and selected a suitable tree for his purposes. He approached the tall pine and, after strapping both rifles to his back, removed his belt and slipped it around the trunk, gripping either end with gloved hands. Lucas slid the belt as high up the trunk as he could reach and then pulled himself upward, using his boots against the rough bark for footholds. The smell of pine sap was strong and his arms ached from the strain of hoisting his body a yard off the ground, but he kept the pressure on the belt until he could grip the trunk with his thighs and then repeated the maneuver, grunting with effort with every few feet of progress.

  The lowest branches were thick enough to support his weight, and when he reached the first, he grasped it with a vise grip and heaved himself up onto it, belt between his teeth. He tested the branch to confirm it wasn’t going to collapse beneath him, and then steadied himself and slowly straightened, his face pressed against the trunk. His hands felt another branch, and he pulled himself higher until he was almost thirty feet from the forest floor. At that height, many of the younger trees were shorter, and he had a decent view of the road and the area from which the shooting had issued.

  Balanced precariously, his back now against the trunk, he carefully unslung the Remington, chambered a round, and peered through the high-power scope. The ridge jumped into view, so close in the 10X magnification it felt like he could reach out and touch it, and he methodically scanned the area, looking for signs of the first shooter.

  Seeing nothing, he bided his time. He knew that impatience would work against the attackers, who would want to see what they’d bagged with Axel, and who might be worried survivors were escaping. He continued watching, a slight breeze rustling the branches around him, and minutes stretched by with nothing occurring.

  A thin line of sweat worked its way down his cheek, and his skin twitched. Lucas’s concentration was absolute as he watched and waited, his breathing and his heart rate slow even after the exertion. He was confident now that the tables were turned, and it was he who was the hunter waiting for his quarry to show themselves.

  Twenty minutes later, his vigil was rewarded when a head popped up over the rise. Lucas took in the greasy, unkempt hair and the filthy beard, and nodded to himself. This was a scavenger, which implied that any others in his company would be more of the same. That meant they wouldn’t have any discipline as a group, even if one or two of them had some military training, as he suspected this one did.

  Lucas lined the crosshairs up on the man’s forehead but didn’t squeeze the trigger. There was no hurry, and he needed more information. How many others were there? At least one, he knew from the crossfire.

  “Come on. Show yourself,” he whispered softly.

  The man’s head disappeared, and then Lucas detected movement near some rocks to his right. Another gunman was picking his way down th
e rise, his weapon an AK with a wire stock, Lucas could tell by the distinctive curved magazine. The sharpshooter on the rise joined him, carrying an AR-15. Lucas was evaluating the range, considering whether he shouldn’t use his M4 instead of the Remington, when gunfire exploded from where he’d left Red and Joel with the animals.

  Any questions about whether there were more than the two in the lead answered, Lucas debated neutralizing the pair of scavengers, but opted for stealth as the men picked up their pace and hurried toward where a gun battle was now in progress no more than a hundred yards behind Lucas.

  The shooting continued, the more sonorous bark of AK-47s answered by Joel’s and Red’s distinctive smaller-caliber AR-15s, whose 5.56mm rounds were lighter for portability, but deadly when they struck flesh. Lucas freed his M4, slung the Remington over one shoulder, and switched the fire selector to three-round burst mode, range now not an issue.

  The scavengers ran by Lucas’s position, sticking to the road and giving him a full view of their backs. He fired a burst at the sniper, stitching him between the shoulder blades; the final round took the top of his skull off. His partner spun to return fire, but Lucas dropped him with another burst, thankful that even five years post-collapse so many elected to forego body armor due to its bulk and weight.

  After confirming the men were dead, Lucas lowered himself from the branch. The shooting continued from Joel and Red’s position, and he slowly circled around the commotion in hopes of flanking the attackers. Two minutes later he’d succeeded and spotted three more miscreants firing from behind trees, unaware that death was waiting only a few short yards away.