by Lund, Dave
Aymond stood in what had become his office, staring at the low detail map of the U.S. on the wall. There has to be more of us out there, there must be more Marines, soldiers … we just need to find them, make contact with them. SATCOMs are down, we can’t reach anything on any of the other freqs … we need to disable the PLA’s ability to use this area, destroy as much as we can, and evade and fade into the middle of CONUS. We can move from base to base, facility to facility if we have to. Aymond looked at the calendar, counting off weeks and thinking about the last count of MREs they’d conducted. Already on reduced rations, they weren’t going to make Coronado their home for much longer.
What good is all of the intelligence gathering without anyone to give it to? Roger’s Rangers, bump and run; follow Major Robert Rogers to fight our way back into Indian Territory.
Aymond circled a date on the calendar that would be Move-Out Day. His mind was made and the plan would have to be set. Two plans. First, to leave the PLA devastated in their wake, and second, to have a concise plan to move on to bases in the interior, with a secondary plan and tertiary plan of movement. A discussion would have to be had with the men to choose a direction; north, up the coast, due east, or somewhere in between.
CHAPTER 17
St. George, Utah
March 21, Year 1
Bexar’s first thought was that he could hear water running, water from a sink. It seemed strange but he couldn’t think why; his head swam with confusion. Blinking his eyes open, he noticed they felt crusty, like he had a bad cold or an eye infection. Bringing his left hand to his face to wipe his eyes, Bexar hit himself in the face with something hard. Slowly his eyes came into focus, and instead of the back of his hand he was looking at a bright blue cast. Turning his head slowly, he looked at the room he was in. The curtains were open and sunlight streamed in, but the rest of the room was dark. A ceiling fan turned slowly on the ceiling above him, but the air felt dry and warm.
Still unsure of where he was and why, Bexar looked out the window. The room he was in appeared to be perched on a high hillside; on the edge of the drop-off were three gallows, two with empty nooses that swung lazily in the wind, the other with a man swinging by his neck, black bag over his head, hands and feet bound. A buzzard sat on the body’s shoulder, picking meat from its neck as it swayed gently.
Panic flooded his body, his mind racing to the church in Cortez full of bodies hung from the ceiling, a human sacrifice on the alter. Bexar’s right hand reached for his pistol; he didn’t have it, and he was wearing a hospital gown. On a dresser at the foot of the bed were his clothes, neatly folded, his rifle propped against the edge and his pistol lying next to his clothes, magazines for each stacked neatly on the dresser. Bexar ripped the blanket back from his body, sat up and felt light-headed. He ignored it and stood for a moment before falling with a crash against the nightstand.
He looked at his legs; his right foot and ankle were also in a blue cast. Then he heard voices in the hallway.
A man’s voice, no, two men … one is approaching the room!
Bexar pulled himself across the tile floor, pushing with his good leg and pulling with his right arm, clawing his way to the dresser. Reaching up, he felt about with his right hand until he found his pistol.
The door opened and a man he had never seen before walked through, dressed in hiking pants and shirt, a pistol on his hip. Bexar pointed the pistol at his captor. “Stop and show me your hands!”
“That won’t work, you’ll have to also reach the dresser for a magazine for your pistol. I’ll be happy to give it to you, but I do ask that you wait for me to introduce myself before you try shooting me.”
His calm voice caught Bexar by surprise; the man smiled gently. Bexar relied on his instincts, his gut feeling, and set his pistol on the floor.
“No, I’m sorry, but who are you and where the fuck am I?”
“My name is Guillermo and you’re in my home. Can I help you up? Maybe you would like to sit in the reading chair, or you can sit on the floor, it’s your choice,” Guillermo said, pointing to a comfortable-looking chair by the window.
Bexar looked at the chair. “The chair would be great, thank you.”
Guillermo helped Bexar off the floor, squatting down and helping lift him from under his arms before shouldering his right arm to give support to the casted foot and leg. Although he was only about five foot five, he lifted Bexar easily.
“You’ve done that before.”
“I’m a registered nurse … was a registered nurse.”
Guillermo picked up Bexar’s pistol and set it on the dresser with his clothes. “Would you like this back or are you OK now?”
Bexar didn’t answer, just looked at the man in puzzlement. As a beat cop working patrol, Bexar had stared down armed men before, men who he’d stopped in the act of a stabbing. Everyone teaches rookie cops to watch the hands—the hands are what will kill you—but Bexar would look at their eyes. The eyes tell you the person’s intent. Guillermo’s eyes looked kind, caring, and without malice.
“I’m OK now.”
“Great. I’m sure you have a lot of questions. Let me start with what I know and we can take it from there. Both of the trucks were destroyed; your truck, well, that was a very bad wreck. I’m surprised you lived through that.”
Bexar couldn’t remember anything about a wreck and didn’t know what Guillermo meant by both trucks.
“We saw the black smoke and saw the herd shift towards it and figured the worst. The gunfire afterwards was what surprised us; then we saw the second truck racing towards it. That was one hell of a gun fight, but there was no way out of it. We think that herd is in the thousands. If Angel hadn’t got there when he did you would have been eaten. It migrated here last month and we’ve been trying to help it move on since then.”
Guillermo walked to the window and looked out, pointing. “Your truck is that way, but you won’t really be able to see it from here without binoculars. If you can see the overpass then the truck is just under it; you drove off the edge of the bridge. The other truck you can’t see from this room, but it is equally destroyed, both of them burned completely to the ground. I’m sorry about your friend.”
Chivo. Bexar’s heart sank to think that his friend was dead. Putting his head in his hand, the one without a cast, Bexar took a deep breath. I don’t know if I can do this anymore; there’s just too much … too damn much for one man’s burden.
“Let me help you get dressed; I have some crutches for you and then you can check in on your other friend.”
“My … other friend?”
“Yeah, the guy that was dragging you, the one from the first truck … you probably don’t remember any of it, you didn’t look like you were conscious.”
“Short Mexican guy, really fit?”
“Yeah, well, a little taller than me, but that’s him.”
Bexar breathed a sigh of relief. “Yes, I would like some help, and I want to see my friend.”
Guillermo helped Bexar out of the hospital gown, working to carefully thread the large cast on his right leg through his underwear, which had been washed. It had been some time since Bexar had put on a clean pair of underwear, and he smiled to himself as he reflected that sometimes the little things in life are the best. The right pants leg on the ACUs that Bexar had been wearing were cut, but with snaps added to fit and close around the cast. Obviously the right boot wouldn’t fit, but the left sock and boot went on his left foot, and then he pulled on his ACU shirt. Guillermo loaded Bexar’s pistol and handed it to him to holster; the heavy CM Forge knife he slid into the Kydex sheath on his belt. Guillermo left and reappeared with a pair of crutches, helping to adjust them before asking Bexar to follow him.
The home was nice, something that obviously cost a lot of money and was appointed well. It took a moment for Bexar to realize that the lights were on in the hallway.
“The lights … how do you have electricity, how do your lights still work?”
�
�It’s something we were prepared for. Your friend is in here.”
Guillermo opened another bedroom door and in the room was Chivo, who still had an IV in his arm and was sound asleep. He too had a cast on his hand; his ribs were wrapped and it looked like he had a hard plastic brace on his back which wrapped around his chest. There were scars and old, stitched-up cuts on his face and arms. Bexar looked at the mirror on the wall and saw himself for the first time, realizing that his head was shaved and he had a number of stitches on his head and face as well.
“Frankly, it is amazing that he was still conscious and functioning, much less fighting and dragging you behind him after that wreck. I didn’t see it all; you’ll have to ask my husband to tell the story. It’s intense.”
“He’s former Special Forces, everything he does is intense. His name is Chivo.”
“Chivo, as in goat? Well that makes sense. I’ve treated those guys before; they’re a different breed. Anyway, he’s sedated for now. He regained consciousness a few days ago and simply could not function at all, wasn’t coherent at all. The pain must be excruciating. Doc and I decided it best to help him sleep it off, if you will.”
“Doc is your husband?”
Guillermo laughed. “Lord no, she is not. My husband is Angel, he was an architect,” he said while waving his hand across the room, indicating that Angel had designed this house. “He is one of the ones who saved you. And your goat friend.”
“Your group, how many of you are there?”
“There are just over a dozen of us in the compound.”
“What is the compound?”
“That’s just what we call it. It’s a fenced-off and prepared site on our property. We have the high ground, we are protected, and we were prepared for this to happen.”
“You were prepared for zombies?”
Laughing, Guillermo shook his head. “No, not zombies per se, but societal collapse. Angel always thought it would be an attack, an EMP, but I always thought it would be financial collapse, rapid inflation, etcetera.”
“So you and Angel formed a prepper group?”
“You could say that. More accurately I would say that we had a group of friends with likeminded interests and the group chose our house and property because it was the best suited to fight off marauders, rioters, or other attacks. We never really thought it would be to fight off the living dead. Come with me; let us leave Chivo to sleep in peace.”
Guillermo led Bexar down the hallway and into the spacious living room. The furniture was nice, all of it; the house, the furniture, it was worth more than Bexar and Jessie could ever afford. Guillermo gestured to an overstuffed chair and Bexar sat down, his new friend helping to raise his casted leg onto an ottoman.
Another Hispanic man walked into the room also wearing a pistol; he gave Guillermo a kiss before they sat down on the couch together.
“I’m guessing you’re Angel.”
“That would be correct, but we still don’t know your name.”
“Bexar, Bexar Reed.”
“His friend’s name is Chivo.”
“As in goat? Huh. We have a bear and a goat, what else will the world bring us?”
“No, Bexar, with an X. B-E-X-A-R. It has to do with Texas history. As for Chivo, I have no idea what his real name is, I’ve only known him as Chivo since we met.”
Guillermo stood. “I’m going to get us something to drink; what beer do you prefer, Bexar?”
“I’m partial to cold but will also take free.”
With a chuckle, Guillermo walked out of the room.
“So Bexar, you’ve met us, you have an idea of who and what we are. What about you?”
“I am, was, a cop in Texas …” Bexar didn’t know why, but he felt relaxed and comfortable talking to Angel and proceeded to tell his story, beginning with his own prepper group with Malachi and Jack, to Cliff, Groom Lake, and now trying to get to his pregnant wife. A couple of minutes into the story Guillermo returned with cold beer in pint glasses; an insulated growler was placed on the coffee table and the story continued.
“So you have no idea who the man in the second truck was?”
“No idea.”
A woman, in her thirties and fit, walked into the room. Both Guillermo and Angel greeted her as “Doc.” She smiled and headed to Bexar.
“So you’re awake? How do you feel?”
“I don’t know yet.”
“Well don’t drink too much of John’s homebrew, that will knock you on your ass.”
“You treated my injuries?”
“Yeah, and your friend’s.”
“You’re a doctor?”
“A veterinarian.”
Bexar shrugged; he really didn’t care. “What’s my list, what’s broken?”
“We’re not really sure, we don’t exactly have the ability to take x-rays anymore, but we’re pretty confident that you fractured your radius in the wreck, as well as maybe a tib/fib. The cast is precautionary. As for your friend, the ulna, some fractured ribs, and I’m really concerned about possible fractures to two of his vertebra from the bruising he has. Both of you had serious concussions, abrasions … thank God nothing became infected; the antibiotics probably helped.”
“If you’re not sure we fractured these bones, why the casts?”
“The bruising for one, but we gave you both detailed evaluations. Did you try to stand on your leg when you got up?”
“Yes.”
“Did it work?”
“No, I fell over.”
“That’s what we call a clue, Dr. Watson. I’d leave the cast on your foot for at least four more weeks, and then we can cut it off.”
“I can’t wait four weeks; I’m trying to get to my wife, my pregnant wife.”
Angel stood and walked to the window. “Have you looked outside yet? With this many zombies in the area there’s no way you’re going to be able to hobble your way out of here yet. We’ve found that these migrating herds of dead eventually move on after a while. This is the third herd we’ve seen come through in the last six weeks, each one larger than the first.”
Doc nodded. “Besides, I’m not sure when your friend will be ready to be moved, much less walk out of here.”
Cutting to the chase, Bexar asked what had been troubling him since he first woke. “What about the gallows, the man that’s hung?”
After sharing a glance with Doc and Guillermo, Angel answered. “Our group is very simple; we welcome any who need help and are bringing a skill to the group. Leeches, people who want to use us as their own prepper supply house, are not welcome.” Angel raised his hand, noticing the expression on Bexar’s face. “No, that man was part of another group in the area, raiders really. They have tried twice, unsuccessfully, obviously, to take our compound by force. After your experience with the motorcycle gang, I assume you can understand.”
Bexar nodded slowly. “Yes, yes I can.”
“We know you don’t intend to stay, but like my husband said, we welcome those who need help, so you and Chivo are welcome as long as you need. As you heal we will start assigning some of the daily tasks to both of you to earn your keep.”
“That’s fair, thank you. Thank you for everything.”
Groom Lake, NV
“THREAT!”
Jessie watched as seven people standing on the firing line drew their pistols and fired twice into the paper target in response to her command. The pistol fire echoed softly off the mountains. She had trained with Bexar, been to the same classes, except for the police-specific training days, but Jessie still felt a bit like a fraud teaching a firearms class. She didn’t feel all that qualified, but Sarah, who was walking down the line of students, watching to make sure that they all scanned a full three-sixty for any more threats before holstering, had encouraged her. She didn’t have to be the best, she didn’t have to be some sort of tactical ninja, she just had to help others who hadn’t been exposed to good training. That boosted her confidence. It was one thing to feel confident in her
own skill and use it well, but it was another thing entirely to try to teach it. Like Sarah told her, she was a teacher before the attack, so she could be a teacher now, although tactical firearms weren’t typically taught in the public school curriculum.
While the class selection was underway, Jessie had spent many late nights with Sarah and Erin designing the class structure and lesson plans, and determining how much ammo and how many targets they would need. They also discussed basic logistical issues they might encounter for the pistol course and then the rifle course. The dorms still weren’t cleared yet; after speaking with Jake, they’d decided to hold off until the pistol course was completed. They could use one of the already cleared buildings on the north end to practice room clearing and then set the newly trained teams out to clear the rest while the next class started.
Binoculars in her hand, Erin stood on the roof of the rifle range, her big rifle lying at the ready, bipod extended, and her short M4 at her feet. Turning slowly, she watched for any reanimates approaching. So far, since the class had started, the noise had brought two towards the range. She’d put them down before they became a threat. One of the survivors had arrived in a large fifteen-passenger van, which now sat pointed back down the mountain towards the hangar and facility. A handful of dead showing up was nothing to get excited about, but if a large number crested the mountain, they were ready to flee back to the safety of the underground facility.