by Dave Lund
“So why here, and why now?”
“We used Malachi’s radio, a ham radio, and contacted Cliff, who told us about this place. A fucking biker gang heard us on the radio and attacked us to raid our supplies.”
“What happened? Everyone fled, and here you are. Why did you get separated from Bexar?”
“No...we, well, a lot of things went wrong. Our daughter Keeley was killed, and the biker gang kidnapped me. I didn’t know if Bexar was alive because he was missing, just vanished, and after realizing I was pregnant and alone, I set off to come here. A lot of fucking good that it did me!”
Jake walked into the cavernous room, looking down each long dark aisle as he passed until he spotted Jessie’s and Erin’s headlamps and walked up to them with a serious look on his face. “Were you two really going to cut off our quartermaster’s penis?”
Erin laughed. “No, but now that he’s gone all tattle-tale, I might just have to do it now!”
“Heh, well, I’d ask you not to. He’s scared and pissed off and telling everyone about it. After the last outbreak, you all bought some good will, but that won’t last if you keep up stuff like that. Anyways, the reason I’m here is that we voted on it, and the towns agree, we fight. But what do we do now?”
“First, we equip. Second, we train. But in the meantime, we figure out what all we have down here in storage. Send us all the people you can spare; we need to figure out everything we’ve got here, and we have to do it fast.”
Jake nodded. “OK, let me see who I can scare up and that I trust to help you. I can’t have anyone’s crotch outty being turned into an inney.”
Jake left, and Erin and Jessie continued to chat back and forth. Jessie told her about seeing Bexar in the Basin acting like a madman before she heard what she thought was an explosion; that she was knocked off her feet and into unconsciousness. After that, it was simple planning and building the motivation to actually go.
Erin shook her head. “Damn, and I thought my life was tough.”
“Well, to be fair, I don’t have Sarah for a mother!”
They both had a much-needed laugh from that; all the while they climbed through crate after crate of weapons and clothing.
Ellis Air Force Base, NV
The team chief, Gunnery Master Sergeant Jerry Aymond, had finally reached his limit. The base was dead, everything was dead, they were done with Nellis, and they needed to leave and point toward Area 51. That might be dead too, but it appeared to be somewhat alive due to the shortwave radio broadcasts. Those transmissions were the first real sign of some sort of surviving civilization that they had found, and the remaining Marines in his MSOT needed good news for a change. Walking out of his makeshift office and into the lounge area that the men had started sleeping in, Aymond cleared his voice loudly, then again, waking the nightwatch patrol.
“Raiders! Load it up to convoy north. We’re done here, and it’s time we go.”
“Think we’ll find alien bodies?”
“Who the fuck knows, Happy, but if the recording is true, we’ll find people, which I would rather find any day of the week than an alien.”
The team quietly worked hard, loading the truck as quickly as they could, stacking the supplies and equipment that they were able to scavenge from the PJs’ cache. An hour later, Aymond sat in the passenger seat of the lead M-ATV. With the radar truck taking the middle position, the small convoy drove off the flight line and toward the north. The padlocked chain-link gate to the parking area was quickly disposed of, but the next gate’s concrete crash barriers were something they would rather avoid than hassle with. After threading through the parking lot, the heavy block wall gave way to another chain-link fence, which they found had already been cut; it was open wide enough for the vehicles to pass through.
All of them were privy to many secrets; except for Jones, they all held top-secret clearances, but Area 51 was not something they had any knowledge of. Overall, they only had a vague idea as to where it was, trusting that the directions given on the shortwave radio transmissions were correct. The directions were very general, for groups coming from larger areas. Some highway names were given, but without a way to directly communicate with the facility. With GPS being down, they would once again have to wing it.
The directions were for groups coming from the West Coast areas, using I-15 as a general marker that led them to US-95, which was on the northwest side of Las Vegas. Driving out of the fenced perimeter of Nellis Air Force Base, they found themselves on the northeast side of Las Vegas. A simple road atlas was all they had available; the route appeared easy, Aymond following the little lines he marked on the paper, but he had his concerns. After the recon patrols through the large base, it was obvious that Las Vegas was completely overrun by Zeds. Once they were fully fueled, Aymond scaled off the approximate distance that they would have to travel to reach Groom Lake, and he was pleased to see that they shouldn’t need fuel while en route. He was tired of the hop-scotching and waiting; they would drive all night if they had to, but they weren’t stopping until the convoy pulled into Area 51.
Enterprise, UT
The easy trip had been anything but easy. The handful of tiny towns that they’d passed along the way appeared deserted. If there were any reanimated dead in the towns, they didn’t see any; if there were any survivors, they didn’t see any of them either. Eerily alone as they traveled together, like a scene from “On the Beach,” the countryside remained intact but devoid of life.
On the dashboard of the old Beetle was one large single gauge. It contained the speedometer, an odometer, a fuel gauge that seemed questionable at best, and two warning lights. The one that was marked “OIL” was off; the one that was marked “TEMP” was on.
Highway 18 crashed into a T-junction at Enterprise, a service station at the far side of the roadway junction, which Bexar guessed probably also served as the community meeting place, grocery store, and supply house. Chivo shifted into neutral and let the VW coast into the parking lot, bouncing across the potholes.
“These old air-cooled VWs have a single fan belt that goes from the crank pulley to the generator, which is bolted to the fan. If we’ve temped out the motor, this punta is either done or the fan belt broke.”
“Where the fuck are we going to find a fan belt for a forty-year-old car?”
“We improvise, mano,” Chivo said, stopping the VW in the middle of the parking lot. “It’s a simple v-belt. We scavenge one off a tractor, a lawn mower, use some rope, hell, you can whittle one out of a piece of wheat for all I care, but we’ll figure it out...FUCK!”
Chivo launched out of the car. Bexar, not sure what the problem was yet, simply followed his lead, getting out, grabbing his rifle and getting ready to fight. It was quickly apparent what the problem was. Again following Chivo’s lead, Bexar’s knife was in his hand and he was cutting the gear lashed to the roof rack free while Chivo threw green cans of ammunition out onto the pavement from the back of the car as fast as he could, the green cans clattering loudly across the parking lot.
Thick black smoke poured from the back of the car. The Baja modification left the car without a deck lid over the motor, so flames quickly lapped the roof of the car.
“Bexar, get this shit on the other side of the building. Do it quick!”
Leaving the car, which was becoming fully engulfed, Bexar scooped up a handful of gear and Chivo’s big rifle case and sprinted to the far side of the convenience store, where he dropped the load. He sprinted back to the car, Chivo passing him in the opposite direction, as the whole back of the car burned, flames reaching high above them. Thick, caustic black smoke filled the air.
Chivo and Bexar passed each other again, Chivo yelling at Bexar, “Stay back there!”
The hand grenades, some of the ammo cans, and a handful of rounds for the RPG they’d brought were still in the car. Chivo ran back behind the convenience store and
slid to a stop. Bexar was doubled over, coughing and trying to catch his breath.
“Keep your mouth open!”
A small pop sound preceded the explosion. As the windows shattered, pieces of shrapnel and German steel that was once their car rocketed past their mostly safe position behind the brick wall.
The pressure wave toppled the metal awning over the gas pumps. Ears ringing, Bexar couldn’t hear Chivo, who grabbed his head, turning it from side to side, looking at his ears before giving a thumbs up. It dawned on Bexar what Chivo meant to keep his mouth open; it prevented his eardrums from bursting from the explosive concussion. Chivo tapped Bexar on the chest, pointed to his eyes and then pointed out. Pointing to Bexar, he pointed left; pointing to himself, Chivo pointed right and then raised his rifle. Bexar nodded, remembering again what one of the elaborate hand signals he and his motor buddies had made up mocking the SWAT team, which usually involved which taqueria they were going to eat at after working the morning school zones.
Rifle up in the low ready, Bexar followed Chivo around the corner of the building. Staying close, Bexar took responsibility for the left side of view, scanning the fields and the highway; the destruction was incredible. The convenience store was on fire, the fuel pumps were on fire, and it seemed that everything was on fire. Chivo stopped, tapped him, and gestured back to where they had come. The ringing in his ears starting to fade, Bexar could faintly hear the popping sounds of the growing fire. Chivo picked up his rifle case and grabbed a few ammo cans, Bexar picked up what he could carry as well, following Chivo into the desert beyond the burning convenience store, once again moving what they had left away from a growing fire.
Chivo yelled, “At least this time I don’t think this damn thing will explode!”
Bexar nodded. “I’m getting really fucking tired of shit blowing up near me!”
“Seriously, you’re like an explosion shit magnet. What the fuck is wrong with you?”
“It’s my wonderfully pleasant personality.”
“Personality like a rabid raccoon!”
They both laughed. The demanding world that now existed was something to be laughed at only because all that anyone could do was laugh. Anything else would result in madness.
In the MRAP, UT
Thick black smoke stood as a lone pillar on the horizon. Ending her quick tour of Central, Utah, where she’d been looking for survivors, Amanda feared that the black smoke was the result of survivors running afoul in their cooking or some other means. She now believed, more than ever before, that the country was full of survivors, enough to repel the dead, to conquer Yama.
On the edge of the town lay a rancher’s field. Under an awning, she found a few tractors, and next to the tractors was a metal tank sitting about six feet off the ground, fuel nozzle dangling. The gate was unlocked so, after pushing it open, Amanda drove the big truck along the dirt path to the tractors and the fuel tank. Rust combating the painted surface, barely visible was the stenciled “DIESEL FUEL ONLY” on the front of the tank. Hopeful, Amanda rapped the tank with her knuckles; the tank sounded like it had fuel in it. How much, she had no idea, but with the sun quickly approaching the western horizon, she would take any fuel she could find. Especially if she was going to drive through the night; she was no longer willing to spend another day resting or waiting.
The fuel tank didn’t quite top off the MRAP, although it nearly did, but it was quick and easy, taking only about ten minutes. It was much quicker than her usual fueling sequence of siphoning from a semi-truck’s saddle tank, with the added blessing of not having to wash the taste of fuel out of her mouth.
Back on the highway and pointed north, she drove toward the growing pillar of thick black smoke, wondering if any others were doing the same.
SSC, Ennis, TX
Clint lifted the last box of MREs he was bringing into the MRAP. Loaded with ammo, food, water, and enough fuel to make the trip without having to scavenge for any of it, he was ready to leave. His first thought was to set some IEDs for any surviving visitors who might arrive, that is if any would be left, but in the last message his handlers were quite specific that they wanted the facility deserted and intact. This was to be one of the primary operating bases for running their new providence once the invasion was complete.
Clint was indifferent; his newly revised mission was peculiar but not totally unexpected. His first thought was to drive to the southern edge of the fields in northern Colorado, but his orders were very explicit in that he was to travel to Montana. That would mean he would have to play a new role instead of just breaking into a dead facility.
Apparently there were other plans for the flights of ICBMs in Colorado and Wyoming. They didn’t explain, and he didn’t really care. Orders were orders. All it meant was that his travel time would take longer and would involve more snow. Early April was springtime in Texas and could still be very much winter in Montana. Well-provisioned, the stores from the SSC facility gave him the cold-weather gear and even the proper Air Force uniform to wear in case by some miracle some missile crew had survived and was still manning the control panels. If he had been someone in that position, the temptation to rogue launch against Korea and China would have been too great. Since that hadn’t happened, Clint didn’t expect to find anyone, but the best prepared were always the luckiest.
The soft orange glow of the late afternoon sun edged into the dark tunnel as the hatch opened, grass and dirt falling onto the ramp. The hidden exit was the same that Amanda had used, except that Clint knew exactly where he was and which way he had to travel. His route was meticulously planned, as was each of the rest of the steps. He didn’t want to travel far at night, but he had to get started immediately if he was to make his rendezvous on time.
Las Vegas, NV
The journey on Highway 215 around the northern side of the city began easily enough. It was not very developed, not like the thick swarming city to their south, but the highway dove into the heart of the northwest corner of the city. Needing to reach Highway 95 to get pointed north and to their destination, they found the Zeds on the highway a virtual roadblock, forcing the convoy to slow to a virtual crawl as the Zeds bounced off the bumper of Aymond’s M-ATV.
Aymond keyed the radio. “We’re going to stop. Jones, bring the radar truck alongside my truck. Kirk, think you can get into the back of that thing and get it running?”
“Roger that, Chief, can do.”
Jones stopped with the back of the radar truck next to the driver’s side front wheel of the lead M-ATV, the remote turret firing controlled bursts, clearing the swarming Zeds, but unable to get the angle needed. The dozen or so in close range, next to the trucks, would have to be killed by hand.
Gonzo opened the driver’s door, raising his pistol and firing. Kirk opened the back door and stepped out, doing the same, moving quickly but smoothly. He heard Gonzo’s pistol rounds snap past him, dropping Zeds in his path. Kirk turned and fired, clearing his immediate path, careful of his backdrop, not wanting to put a round into the radar truck. As quickly as they had started, it was over. All the doors were closed, the big flat transmitter raising and rotating forward, and the rioting swarm of Zeds fell to the ground. The thick cloud of black flies also fell from the air around them, the radar truck killing them as readily as the Zeds.
“Jones, drive forward slowly and stay in the center of the road. Kirk, rotate the dome as we roll, but keep it facing forward; it even killed the flies, so I don’t want to see what it would do to us if it gets pointed back toward us.”
“Roger, Master-Guns.”
“Gotcha, Chief.”
As they drove onward slowly, the sea of dead before them fell. Trying to avoid them the best they could, they drove over the bodies, hoping the bones wouldn’t puncture a tire. Heavy rubber-run flat inserts were in the tires, and the onboard air system could keep the tires inflated if there was a minor puncture, but a serious fail
ure would be a show stopper.
The deeper they traveled into the city, closer to their turnoff, the more they found that the city was completely in ruins. It was amazing that Nellis was as intact as it had been. Aymond observed the destruction, the ruins, the swarming Zeds, and the bodies that they drove through, and found himself hoping that they would actually find real people at Area 51.
Groom Lake, NV
Two dozen people now worked in six teams, organizing the massive stores. The numbers of variety of weapons was staggering to Jessie, most of which none of them had any idea how to use, except for the rifles. The M2 machine guns seemed simple enough to use. Even if Major Wright had survived, she doubted he knew how to use most of this gear. What they needed were some survivors who were combat vets, infantry, anybody with the experience to teach them how to use most of this gear. The M-16s were easy enough; the three of them had plenty of experience with AR-15s or M4s. Somehow the group of survivors that had amassed underground in Groom Lake were regular everyday people, the kind of people one would hope would survive the end of the world, but still people with no training or tactics, not that Jessie held her level of training in any sort of high esteem. All she had was a bit more than most of them, which was all they had for now, so that was what they would use.
The remaining airmen worked primarily in the radio hut, electronics and communications being their trained jobs in the Air Force. Since Wright’s death, they had mostly stopped wearing their full uniforms. With civilian clothing not being readily available, and no shopping malls to be had, they switched to wearing untucked T-shirts with their utility trousers, practically a hippie rebellion in their world, which Jessie was both happy and sad to see. Happy for her belief that this, of all times, was when people should be comfortable and have some level of happiness where they could find it; but she was sad to see the loss of the only remaining functional piece of the mighty United States military.