“Shit.” On hands and knees, Bob stuck his head into the round blackness of the tunnel’s entrance. Paranoia and fear ratcheted up his heart rate as he hesitated. What if this was the trap? What if this tunnel went nowhere? His mind told him that was ridiculous, that he’d known Ted Junior since he was a toddler and the tunnel was a way out of a bad situation. But living his life in the wide open spaces of the western deserts made him fear tight places. Caves he could tolerate, if they were big enough to stand up in. Unlit tunnels leading from secret underground rooms were a different story.
“C’mon, hurry up. What are you waiting for?”
With a nod to himself, Bob pushed through his fear and crawled forward. He gripped the flashlight in his teeth, although the wan light did little to illuminate the path ahead. It was only when Nuff followed him into the tunnel and closed both doors that he realized how very dark it really was.
The sides of the tunnel were corrugated metal. Here and there something had pushed through from outside and mounds of dust lined the bottom. Unlike the radio room, it was hot and the air tasted foul. Bob panted to get enough air and that left him lightheaded.
“Keep going straight.” Nuff paused, gulping three breaths before continuing. “It’s down a ways… then it angles up. Look for… handholds on either side… you’ll have to pull yourself up.”
Bob nodded, but then realized Nuff couldn’t see him. “Got it.”
After at least a hundred feet of crawling through dirt, dark, and fear, Bob gasped for each breath. When he came at last to the upward-slanting section, he found it guarded by a two-inch scorpion. Although the flashlight’s beam had faded, Bob recognized it as a bark scorpion. He knew its sting could be fatal. Bark scorpions scared him, but even though he was dripping sweat and needing fresh air, he turned the flashlight over and crushed the scorpion with the back end. When it curled up in death, he found the stinger and pressed down hard with the flashlight, flattening it. Thick venom oozed onto the wood. Using a twig from the debris in the tunnel floor, he scooted it out of their way.
“What’s the problem?” Nuff said.
“Bark scorpion. I moved it to the left side.”
“Is it dead?”
“It is now.”
It took most of their remaining strength to pull themselves up the last twenty feet. At the surface, Bob found yet another door, but instead of opening out, it was arranged to open into the tunnel. That way if somebody stood nearby, they wouldn’t see a big round door flipping backward.
Light flooded the tunnel after Bob figured out the series of latches and opened the hatch, lowering it gently to avoid making noise. It took his eyes a few seconds to adjust, even though it was night and the moon was only half full. Once they were both outside in the desert, Bob saw that a large saltbush hid them from view of the house.
Nuff put a finger to his lips and duck-walked to a rock about five feet away. With a stick, he poked around its base, ensuring no rattlesnakes called it home, before putting his shoulder into it and rolling it over. It made a soft whump sound and he froze, but neither of them heard any signs they’d been discovered. Nuff used the stick to dig at the hard-packed dirt, kicking up dust that stuck to his sweaty cheeks and nose. After a few minutes of scraping, he motioned Bob over beside him.
A loop of rope stuck up from the ground. Together they wrestled a long metal box out of the dirt. Both men froze at the distant sound of voices but it soon became obvious the bandits were simply yelling at each other, probably fighting over what they’d found in the cabin.
The metal box contained a 12-gauge shotgun and a weird looking pistol with four barrels. Nuff handed Bob the pistol.
“It’s got four rounds. Double action; it’s a three eighty. There’s four more rounds in a speed loader right here.” He pointed to the bottom of the grip. “But don’t try it unless you’ve got time to mess with it. You’ll have to get close to use it, but it hits like a mating bighorn.”
They moved out like hunters stalking skittish prey. Their path led away from the barn and to the back of the house via a line of strategically placed bushes, which Bob realized had been put there on purpose for just such a situation. Taco Ted’s paranoid preparations had paid off.
After the blackness of the tunnel, Bob felt exposed in the silver-white moonlight. They made it to the rear of the house without being seen and crept down one side. Nuff went first with the shotgun at the ready. He peeked around the front corner of the house and saw a man standing in the doorway holding a rifle. A red bandana around his head held back greasy black hair. The doorjamb was splintered where they had pried it loose from its hinges. Horses nickered close by, tied to a creosote bush. With hand gestures, Nuff outlined the situation.
After thinking for a few seconds, Bob picked up a rock and made a throwing gesture away from the house. He used his fingers to indicate that he would follow the guard if he left the doorway to check out the noise, and Nuff should take out anybody inside. A nod sealed the plan.
Counting one, two, three in a silent whisper, Bob threw the rock about forty feet from the doorway. As hoped, the man at the door crouched at the soft clack it made when it landed, but he didn’t go to investigate. Instead he called inside and a second man joined him in the doorway, wearing the same red bandana. Covered by his buddy, the first man tracked the noise into the desert, away from the light. With no other choice, Bob slipped out from the side wall and prepared to rush the guard at the door, a distance of maybe twelve feet. Nuff would have to get the other one.
He sprang from a squat and dug the balls of his boots into hard-packed dirt. It took less than two seconds to cross half the distance, but the guard had time to react. He whirled and fired a shot from a bolt-action hunting rifle, which went wide. Correcting his aim and loading another round took a full second, not much time measured against the span of an entire life, but more than the margin of error in that life-and-death moment. He was ready to fire again when Bob beat him to it and pulled the trigger four times at a distance of less than four feet. The odd-looking pistol put all four rounds into the startled face. The man dropped his rifle, staggered backward into the house, and fell on his back.
Bob grabbed the rifle as gunshot blasts echoed in the quiet desert night. Answering fire came from within the house. He braced his back against the outside wall out of the line of fire. The rifle still had a round in the chamber but he didn’t know where inside the third man was. Running noises made him whirl and look for a target, but it was only Nuff coming back. He took up position on the other side of the door.
“You get him?” Bob whispered.
“Took out his knees.” Tilting his mouth up toward the door, Nuff yelled, “Whoever’s in there, your two buddies are dead. You’re alone and trapped. Throw out your weapons and you won’t be harmed.”
“I know bullshit when I hear it. Soon’s I throw out my gun, you’ll shoot me down sure as hell.”
“I won’t do it. I ain’t like that. I don’t like hurtin’ folks. But I will if I have to. You’re in my house without my say-so, but that don’t mean you’ve gotta die.”
Bob gulped. “He started a fire!”
The invader had found a pot filled with rendered animal fat and poured it on the table, using the candle to set it on fire. Then he charged out the door with another bolt-action hunting rifle at the ready. Dust kicked up near Bob’s feet as the invader fired on the run, stopped, reloaded, and paused to take aim.
Bob hadn’t reloaded the four-bore yet and fumbled with the quick reload tray on the heel of his pistol grip. When he looked up, all he could see was the barrel of the gun pointing at him, and the red cloth tied around his killer’s head. But that was when Nuff pumped three shotgun shells into the intruder’s torso. The impacts blew him against the house’s outer wall, where he slumped to the ground in a smear of blood.
The shootout had only taken seconds, but it was enough to doom Nuff’s home. The house’s wooden parts were old and dry. Both men rushed inside. Nuff grabbed
the bucket of dirt his father had always kept handy for just such an emergency. He dumped it, but it was too late. The fire had spread quickly and there was no way to extinguish it now. The well wasn’t close enough to haul buckets of water, and with a grease fire, Bob doubted if it would have helped anyway. He tried scooping dirt in his hands, but the smoke made his eyes water and he couldn’t breathe. Finally they realized it was hopeless and gave up, running outside for air.
Bent over with hands on his knees, coughing, Nuff shouted over the crackle of the fire. “We’ve gotta save what we can!” He plunged back into the gray smoke boiling out the front door and Bob followed him. Smoke hung thick and low to the ground as the two men fought to gather up what they could. Between them they saved their weapons and ammo, some food and clothes.
As the cabin burned and Nuff sorted through the things they’d saved, Bob went a short way into the desert and sat next to the man with no knees. His bulging eyes stared at the stars. He gulped rapid but shallow breaths. Even in the firelight from the burning house, Bob could tell he was pale.
With the back of his hand, he touched the man’s cheek and found it clammy, then touched his wrist and felt a rapid pulse. He noticed something on the man’s forearm and picked up the limb so he could see it better, and what he saw sickened him: someone had branded the letters G-R into his flesh.
“You don’t look so good. I’d say you’re in shock. Without treatment you’re gonna die pretty soon. I doubt you’re thinking straight right about now—”
“Help me…” The man’s lips stayed parted after he said it.
“Good, you can still talk. I’ll make you a bargain. You tell me where you came from and if there’s any more of you roaming around the desert, and I’ll help you. That sounds fair, doesn’t it?”
A calloused hand grabbed Bob’s shirt. The man pulled himself half-erect and looked into the eyes of the man he thought was his killer. Bob saw the terror before he shut his eyes in pain and slid back to the ground.
“Find Overtime,” he gasped. “Water…”
“I’ll getcha some, but what’s overtime?” It was a funny word, but he thought he might have heard it somewhere before.
“Find Overtime, tell Adder.”
“That don’t make no sense, boy. What’s overtime, who’s Adder?”
But the man’s eyes stayed closed. His breathing grew more shallow. Nuff joined them. The firelight made everything seem black and yellow, but the man’s face looked white.
“Ain’t nothing we could do for him, even if I was so inclined. Might be kinder to shoot him.”
Bob nodded. “That it would be, but I can’t do it.” He rose and walked over to the pile of goods they’d rescued. The man groaned and babbled for a while, and then lay still.
#
“So what now?” Nuff said.
“We head south. By sundown tomorrow, we’re really gonna need sleep. There’s an old town south of here; I think it used to be called Coaldale. Let’s head there. Maybe we’ll find a roof to sleep under, or walls, so we don’t have to worry about predators.”
“And after that?”
“After that we ride like hell.”
#
Chapter 49
May as well be here we are as where we are.
Australian Aboriginal saying
30 miles south of Perth, Western Australia
0248 hours, April 19 (1748 hours Perth time)
“Where the bloody hell have you been?” Claire Buchanan said.
Her husband Craig spread his hands. “What’re you harpin’ on about? I went over to Roy’s, like I said.”
“Did he have any beer?”
“Nah, couldn’t get enough grain. Maybe next week. He offered some of that potato vodka, but I said no.”
“So ya wasted the whole day at Roy’s and got nothing for it?”
“Give a bloke a fair go, will you?”
She shook her head. “Yer a damn fool, that’s what. Ya run off and leave that radio contraption on and Billy Hedger comes round. Said it was to find out about all the power we’re usin’.”
“Billy Hedger… there’s a wanker for you.”
“Wanker or not, he controls the power.”
“Yeah, and who’s also sweet on Sheila, old woman.”
“Don’t old woman me, Craig Buchanan. I’m two years younger than you and you know it. And I ain’t blind, either; I’ve seen how he looks at Sheila. But I didn’t leave that damned radio on so’s he heard it.”
“He heard it?”
“It was hard not to, loud as it was with all that static.”
“I left the volume up again?”
“Yeah, and Billy just happened to be in earshot… so he says. I think he was creepin’ ’round the house like you said, to get a peek at Sheila.”
“I’m goin’ to tell him to get stuffed. If he does it again, I’ll shove a rake up his arse.”
“You’ll do no such thing. He’s an arsehole, yeah, but we need his electricity. Do something useful instead… oh, and somebody rang you.”
“Rang me?”
“That American, Ted something. On the radio?”
“Taco Ted?”
“How should I know? I wrote down what I could make of it. There was a lot o’ static, Craig, real bad, like I said. Then it cut off.” She handed him a note, written in pencil on a scrap of wood. The grain of the wood distorted the letters. He stepped out the kitchen door and held it up to the sunlight, mouthing the words as he tilted the plank this way and that to make them out.
At the first word, his heart sped up. “Chinese… attacking…” What was the next word? Siorra? That was what it looked like. “Siorra army…” The next word was too blocky, too distorted by the grains of the wood. “Tell Americans.”
That was it. Chinese attacking Siorra army tell Americans.
It made no sense, but Craig hadn’t heard from Taco Ted in several years, so long, in fact, that he’d assumed Ted had died. More to the point, transmissions from North America to Western Australia depended on perfect atmospherics. How had Ted known it was the right time to transmit? He needed to find out, because that was information he would love to have.
Back in the house, Claire’s anger at him being gone all day had dissipated. Close to sixty years of marriage soothed their arguments faster than they once had.
“I hope that made sense,” she said. “The pencil’s down to a nub and it’s hard to write on wood, but it’s all I had.”
“It’s all right, luv, thanks for trying.”
“Where you off to now?” she asked, but then saw him pulling open the door to the attic. “Oh, no, you don’t. You’re not switching on that damn radio again!”
“I’ve gotta. It’s important.”
“It’s always important. What am I supposed to tell Billy if he shows up?”
“Tell him to get lost and leave Sheila alone.”
“You’re gonna get our power cut off, Craig! What’s so important you’ve gotta call ’em right now?”
“The atmospherics might still be right to call the States. If I wait, they’ll change.”
“Who do you have to call in the States? Is this about that note? What Americans do you even know? For that matter, what Americans are still alive?”
“Besides Ted, I just know one. His name is Thomas, he lives in a place called Prescott, and he works for some general named Patton.”
#
Chapter 50
Everything has beauty, but not everyone sees it.
Confucius
FOB Westwall, near Seligman, AZ
1434 hours, April 19
“Loot, wake up. You’re not going to believe this.”
Lieutenant Marjorie Jones heard drumming on the roof of her Cocoon. It took her tired brain a second to realize it was that rare weather phenomenon, rain. Picking crust from the corners of her eyes, she cleared her throat. “What time is it, Tereshchenko?”
“Fourteen thirty-five. I’m sorry to wake you, Loot, I know
you didn’t bunk down until an hour ago. But you’ve got to see what’s going on out on the highway.”
“Chinese?” She sat up straight and wiped her eyes.
“It’s not a threat, it’s… just— just take a look.”
Seen from below, Forward Operating Base Westwall was nearly invisible. Built into the side of a rocky hill, a jumble of cracked rocks surrounded an interior wall of sandbags. Beyond that was a courtyard with three Green Cocoons. The engineers who’d built the FOB had cut through the narrow ridge like a tunnel. View slits had been designed into the fortification overlooking Interstate 40 on the south and historic Route 66 on the north.
Jones always slept in her ACUs. With the rain pouring down, she threw a poncho over her head and shoulders and stepped out of the Green Cocoon. The private on lookout handed her a pair of binoculars. Through a hole in the rocks facing Route 66, she focused on a figure standing in the middle of the westbound lanes of the historic highway.
It was the nude figure of a young woman, running a bar of soap over her legs and torso, bathing in the rain. Although lean, the hardened muscles of her stomach and thighs testified to her fitness. A horse stood nearby, tethered to a mesquite tree. She hadn’t set up a camp that Jones could see. Nor were her clothes within sight, so the lieutenant assumed she had stuffed them into the bulging bag tied to her saddle. The only visible clothing was a pair of boots.
“Want me to go check her out, Loot?” The private tried to hide his grin, but couldn’t.
“In your dreams. Tell Siano to grab her poncho and rifle.”
Extended deployment in a remote forward operating base tended to breed familiarity, so Tereschenko’s continued pleading didn’t surprise her. “C’mon, Loot, have a heart.”
She couldn’t help smiling a little. “Sorry, Shenk, not today.”
Dominica Siano hustled over even as she still pushed an arm through her poncho. The exit was a four-foot-wide doorway at the rear of the stone and sandbag semi-circle, with a ten-foot-long rock wall forming a corridor to the outside. The two women hurried because rainstorms didn’t last long in western Arizona and while it lasted, it would hide the sounds of their approach.
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