From his vantage point, high up in the hotel’s top floors, Sam looked over the neighborhood wondering where to go next. His system still threatened another round of purging, and he needed to get a little more rest and time to make a plan for how to get to Zeke and the mysterious fifth man.
As he compared his recollection of the area with what little he could see, he decided against going into any of the apartment buildings. Those would have food and liquor, clothes, possibly weapons. All the things people would defend very aggressively, or that the gang would be trying to get control of. Same with any of the stores and shops. But just a block south of the Marriot was a smaller office building. It had housed a couple of non-profits, a yoga studio, a few psychologists, and a little financial planning firm. None of those places would have the kinds of things that were useful in the current situation. Maybe a couple water coolers and their five-gallon jugs, the contents of office refrigerators, some coffee makers. Sam figured any looters would have hit it in their first pass, and forgotten about it afterwards.
The trip down more than a dozen flights of stairs was punctuated by two courses of vomiting and one squat in a corner, but he was still out of the building before there was enough light to see more than a thirty feet or so. With his bulky pair of backpacks, Sam was more worried about the noise he was making. It was with a huge sigh of relief that he found the office building, the glass of its front door shattered, reams of paper scattered about the little foyer.
Sam paused and forced his breath to still and quiet so he could listen intently for any sound coming from within the building. After a couple minutes, he was satisfied that there was nothing moving around, at least, and started to slowly stalk through the hallways until he found a flight of stairs. He didn’t want to hole up on the ground floor, because height was an advantage. By the same token, he didn’t want to find himself cornered if anybody came into the building, so he picked a second-floor office, thinking he could take a leap out a window if it really came down to it. The office had been thoroughly trashed, its furniture and computer equipment tossed, all of its files scattered around. The tiny kitchenette had, predictably, been stripped of anything edible.
As quietly as he could, Sam moved some things around, wrapping a power cord here, balancing something on a wheeled chair there, trying to set up some impromptu alarms to give him a few seconds warning if anybody came in. Only then did he pick a corner office, push the desk against the door, and find a little spot that wasn’t visible from any internal or external windows, and let himself fall asleep.
Chapter 11
A few hours later, the rumble of a diesel engine woke him up. It wasn’t that it was loud, it was just so unexpected and abnormal that it busted through the thick layer of exhaustion that had been blanketing him.
Sam chanced a careful look out the office window and saw an ancient pickup truck riding down the road, with uniformed soldiers standing in the bed. It pulled up to the corner and the driver cut the engine. One of the soldiers in back took a deep breath – so big that Sam could see his back arch from his vantage point.
“Attention! Attention! Attention! Martial law remains in effect and this area remains under general curfew from four PM until noon every day. No citizens are to approach non-residential buildings during the free movement period from noon until four PM.”
Sam glanced at his watch. It was 10:48.
“Food distribution for persons residing in the quadrant bordered by Eight and Fourth streets, Main Street, and Center Avenue will commence at 12:30 today. Supplies will be distributed from this intersection. Do not leave your homes prior to the free movement period at noon. Do bring photographic identification with your current address on it to the food distribution. Food will only be distributed to those persons residing in this quadrant.”
The soldier continued with additional announcements, but none of them struck Sam as important. He had a hunch about the food distro, though. Something in his gut told him it would be worth checking out.
His hunch wasn’t the only thing he was feeling in his stomach. The rest had rekindled his appetite, and he burned his waiting time by digging through the supplies he’d brought from the Marriot to assemble a quick early lunch. While he ate, he stalked through the office building, finding his way to a window where he could see the front of the hotel. Unfortunately, between the distance and a few unfortunate awnings obstructing his view, Sam couldn’t see the spot where Ricky’s body had landed the night before. He had no idea if word had gotten to the Sundogs that one of their own had taken a short flight out of an upper window or not. Nor could he tell if the military had found the gang banger.
Sam hadn’t heard anything in the announcements that gave any clue either. But with the occasional bursts of gunfire he’d been hearing the night before, maybe random dead bodies weren’t notable enough to merit comment. He went back to his supplies and took a moment to check over his wounds again. The several hours of rest had done him some good, and it looked like the active bleeding had stopped. Changing over his impromptu bandages had opened up some scabs, but there was no sign yet of bad infection. He used a generous dollop of hand sanitizer to clean the wounds, which stung like hell, and a couple more squirts to soak the next set of bandages as he prepared them. With a little more time and some actual daylight, he did a better job of wrapping and tying them off, hoping they’d help keep any more stitches from popping. He still had the little first aid kit from the house, and Linda’s sewing kit, but didn’t really want to have to stitch himself up again if he could avoid it
The pain of sanitizing the wounds and twisting around to bind them up, combined with his continuing lack of sleep left Sam winded. He wished he had some sort of alarm, so he could give himself a little fifteen minute nap before going to put eyes on the food distribution. He got up and paced around, keeping well back from the office windows while he watched the streets around the office building. It was just a bit after noon, when the curfew was apparently lifted and people were free to move about. He expected people to start showing up early for the food ration, but the streets were unnervingly empty. Sam knew there had to be people still living in the area, he could even see some people looking out the windows of other buildings, but nobody ventured out onto the street.
Then Sam saw movement to his left, coming from the direction of the Marriot. Four men came walking right down the middle of the street, strutting as if they owned the place. They weren’t anywhere near close enough for him to make out any tattoos, but by the way they were dressed and their insolent body language, he was sure that each one had a stylized sun somewhere on them. Two of them carried full backpacks.
But what really caught Sam’s eye was the gaunt frame and mohawk of the tallest of the group.
“Zeke,” he snarled, as he figured out exactly what was behind that hunch he felt to keep an eye out for the food delivery. Of course that skinny bastard would find some way to get himself in wherever there was food involved.
Sam picked up the M16 and the pistol he’d pulled of Ricky. He had a total of 21 rounds of ammunition, twelve in the rifle, nine in the pistol. Sometimes it seemed like a lot, but Sam knew it really wasn’t. Back when he was on the beat, he’d carry three 17-round magazines for his sidearm, and three 30-rounders for the rifle he kept in his car. But he had to do with what he had, so he went downstairs to a side door out of the office building. Cracking the door slightly, he could see the four Sundogs waiting in the middle of the street with their backs to him, and barely hear the approach of a vehicle. As much as it pained him to leave the M16 behind, Sam knew it would be way too conspicuous. He set the rifle down just inside the building, and folded up a couple pieces of paper to keep the door from closing completely and locking behind him.
With the pistol tucked into the waistband at the back of his pants, Sam crept to the mouth of the little passageway between the office building and its neighbor, moving slowly and using what cover he could to stay out of sight. Yes, it was supposedly free
movement hours, but his face had taken quite a beating the night before. It was the kind of thing that would definitely draw a lot of attention to himself.
He heard the vehicle approach and stop right next to the Sundogs. It was the same pickup he’d seen earlier on its round of announcements. Like before, there were four armed soldiers in the bed of the truck, but this time it was also hauling a trailer filled up with boxes.
“Where’s everyone else?” one of the soldiers in the truck bed asked. All four of the soldiers had their M16s rigged for front carry and looked nervous.
“We’re representatives of these buildings here,” one of the Sundogs said, gesturing vaguely up the street. “Figured instead of bringing a crowd down to you, you can unload enough for us, and we’ll handle it from here.” Sam dared lean out a little bit to look in the windows of the apartments around the intersection. A few had people peering out, but most showed no sign of life.
Between us, we’ve got 93 people,” the Sundog said. “So what say you make it an even hundred servings. Drop ‘em here and we’ll do the rest.”
Sam could see that the trailer held mostly cases of MREs, both military issue and civilian knockoffs, by the looks of it.
“No can do,” the soldier on the truck said. “We’re issuing direct, and only to people that can prove they live here. Anybody not from this block can go to their own block, or follow us back to base.”
“Look,” Zeke said. “You can see we’ve got things under control here. So just drop some chow and get on to your next stop. We don’t need you here, we just need the goods.”
“No, you look,” the soldier said. “If you got ID that says you live here, you sign for three meals, and you go on your way. Same for your buddies here.”
“You guys look pretty tired. Gotten any rest?”
“What?” the soldier asked, slowly moving his hand toward his rifle.”
“Rest. Gotten any rest since this all went down? Because I’m guessing your boss thinks you’re going to be out here for a few hours handing out grub. So why not just give us the grub for this block and find somewhere to catch some Zs. My man here might even have something to help you sleep. Show ‘em, Ty.”
One of the other Sundogs slowly and very deliberately unslung the backpack he was wearing and unzipped it, showing the contents to the soldiers on the truck. Sam heard the distinctive clink of glass bottles.
“You know, I just might have a little extra to go with this, too,” Zeke said. “Something that rattles instead of sloshing, you know?” He mimed the action of shaking a pill bottle. “So what do you say? Drop us enough for our hundred-ish people here, we set you up with a nice afternoon. Maybe let’s make this an ongoing arrangement?”
Sam could see the soldiers doing math in their heads. Do the right thing and haul the Sundogs in, but then lose the booze and goodies when handing the guys over and make enemies of the rest of the gang... Roll the Sundogs and keep the contents of the two backpacks, which would net them a one-time prize but make enemies of the rest of the gang… Take the offer on the table, and get some regular treats…
The gang was taking a calculated risk, but from what Sam knew of human nature, it was a worthwhile risk. Things were chaotic and uncertain, and they were putting an alliance of sorts on the table.
After a few moments silent deliberation, the soldier in the truck said, “Alright. But I’m going to need a whole lot of signatures that don’t all look like my handwriting here.” He bent down and picked up a clipboard. “Make the math work out right for 93 people total. Some of the signatures will be for adults taking their ration only. Some will be for an adult taking a ration for themselves and their kids.”
“Smart man,” Zeke said, reaching up for the clipboard. “Help these guys out,” he said to the other Sundogs, taking a step back. Soldiers swung their rifles around their back. Two hopped off and headed for the trailer, two reached down to collect the backpacks full of alcohol.
Sam recognized a very brief window of opportunity. He backed up to the door of the office building and retrieved the rifle.
Sam raised barrel of his weapon and took a quick, but careful aim. “Yo, Zeke!” he-stage-whispered. As the skinny, mohawked punk turned and looked at him, Sam gently squeezed the trigger.
Chapter 12
The bullet sailed right through one of the backpacks, shattering liquor bottles. There was a split second where it seemed nothing moved, except for a slow-motion spray of liquid, then soldiers and Sundogs alike went for their weapons.
“Come on, Zeke!” Sam said, running for the back of the alley, taking quick glances over his shoulder while he dodged trash and debris. Behind him, the street erupted into a chaotic maelstrom of close-range gunfire and screaming.
As Sam had hoped, Zeke opted to follow him instead of staying put or involving himself in the swarm of bullets. Being older, and nursing a bad beating and a gunshot wound, Sam knew Zeke would be on him fast. He also knew that a prolonged shootout would not end well. Either the Sundogs or the soldiers were going to come out on top pretty quickly, and they’d home in on the sounds of gunfire. Whichever side showed up, they were not going to hesitate to shoot him.
His best chance for survival was to deal with Zeke without either of them firing a shot. So as soon as he rounded the next corner, he spun on his heel and brought the rifle up. The moment Zeke came into view, Sam pinned him in his sights. “Don’t say a damn word!”
Zeke pulled himself up short. He had a pistol in his hand, but it wasn’t at the ready. “What do you want?” he shouted.
“Quiet!” Sam snarled. “Or I’ll put a round through your face right now.” He saw the wheels turning as Zeke tried to assess the situation.
“Alright, I’ll play,” Zeke said in a low voice. “You seem to know me, but I don’t know you. What do you want?”
“Information,” Sam said.
“Yeah. You could have asked before getting the shootout at the OK Corral started back there, you know.” The sound of gunfire had slowed but hadn’t stopped yet.”
“I didn’t think you’d give it up easily,” Sam said.
“You’re almost certainly right. Information is a valuable commodity.”
“A couple nights ago, you and four other men raided a house. Killed a mother and her son that were up in a bolthole. Cracked the father with a crowbar.”
“But apparently I didn’t crack him hard enough,” Zeke said. Sam could hear the epiphany in his voice. “I don’t suppose your plans involve letting me live after you get the info you want, so I can’t really say there’s any compelling reason for me to give it up. Whatever it is you want to know.” Zeke narrowed his eyes. Sam felt like he was being studied, weighed and assessed.
“Can you give me a compelling reason to let you live after what you did to my family and me?”
Zeke shrugged his shoulders. Sam saw a subtle shift in the man’s weight and a probably involuntary tensing of the weapon arm. “You know, it’s really not that easy to kill a person. I know. I failed with you. The first time.”
“I did just fine with a couple of your dumbass buddies at my house,” Sam said, changing his aim a little bit. “Ricky gave you up before I gave him a flying lesson.”
“Yeah, we found him this morning. So just for my edification, what exactly is it you want to know?”
“You probably have it figured out already,” Sam said.
Zeke nodded his head. “Yeah. But I ain’t giving it to you. Like I said, I can think of no compelling reason to cooperate with you since I end up dead either way.”
Sam had to admit Zeke was right. Whether he gave up the fifth man or not, Sam wasn’t letting him walk. He couldn’t help but admire the punk, though, his ability to read a situation and to throw people mentally off balance.
“Shit,” Sam whispered to himself, when he realized that the popping gunfire from the firefight he’d ignited had ceased.
“Exactly,” Zeke said. “Whoever won just might be coming to find us right now. Y
ou shoot, they’ll be on us, won’t they? If it’s my guys, you die. If it’s the Army, we both die. If they find us.”
Zeke did have the better odds if the standoff continued. The Sundog flashed an insolent smirk that made Sam want to drop his rifle and just walk over and smack it right off his face. Then he started doing his own odds. “Thing is, Zeke, if I pull this trigger, you die, and I have a chance of evading whoever it is that comes after the sound. So why don’t you gently put the piece on the ground and start walking over to that alley.” Sam quickly jerked his head in the direction of another small passage between two buildings.
“Alright. I’ll play along,” Zeke said again. Sam gently squeezed the trigger on the M16, right to the release point, just in case Zeke tried anything funny while he put the pistol onto the ground. Fortunately, Sam didn’t need to give the trigger that final, tiny fraction of an inch. Zeke put the pistol on the street and stood back up, slow and easy. Sam was sorely tempted to pick it up, but remembered how bad his luck had been with his previous attempts at snagging stray weapons. A part of him regretted greatly leaving another serviceable weapon behind, but more of him knew that he needed to keep his aim dead on Zeke, ready to fire instantaneously.
Zeke walked towards the alleyway, hands up, but the motion of his head showed that he was looking everywhere at everything, obviously searching for some sort of advantage. Sam knew he had to plan even faster. The first one that came up with a solid idea was likely to win.
Two blocks on, Sam hadn’t picked up any sign that they were being followed, but he kept instructing Zeke to take narrow and indirect routes away from the erstwhile food distribution point.
A few more blocks on, and Sam saw another small commercial building that didn’t look like it had anything of true value to looters. “Inside this one,” Sam said.
Our Survival: A Collection of Post Apocalyptic EMP Survival Thrillers Page 74