by Bradley West
chapter thirty-three
BULLSEYE
Tuesday, July 14: Oakland, Marin County and Kentfield, California, mid-morning into late afternoon
“Whether you live another day or a hundred years is up to you,” Katerina said from her perch on the teacher’s desk. “I can let Horne in here and he’ll drain you dry. That’s five liters and at ten milliliters per dose, sets me up for life. As for your brat, maybe we get a pint out of him, or Horne feeds him into the cafeteria sausage grinder while you watch.” The evil PhD smiled with her eyes from the front row desk.
“What . . . what do you want from me?” Stephanie asked.
“I want you to stop trying to escape, stop sweet-talking Shuckies and tell me everything Burns says and does.”
“Burns? How would I—?”
“He’s had a relapse. Since the baby and you are immune, it makes sense that you nurse him until I inject him with the cure. He’ll move in here and, if it’s like last weekend, he’ll soon be burning up with fever and flat on his ass. Burns is in charge of sales and finance for my operation, and if he dies and hasn’t shared the details, then I don’t get my money and Horne will take those shears to your baby’s hands.”
“I, I don’t—”
“Don’t interrupt.” Katerina held a USB drive between her thumb and forefinger. “I need you to insert this into whatever laptop Burns brings down here. Leave it in for at least two minutes before you remove it. If you perform, I’ll let you look after the baby full-time. You’d like that, right?”
“Yes, more than anything.”
“Then don’t fuck up and keep an eye on Burns.” Katerina stood up and left the room.
* * * * *
“What do you mean you don’t have my food? I have a printout of agreed quantities and prices.” Jaime’s tone was calm, but his tense body was as rigid as marble.
“I confirmed your order for pickup and payment on Monday. Today’s Tuesday. That ship sailed and the cupboard is bare unless you want raw almonds, quinoa or green olives.” The warehouse club black marketeer wore a green work shirt with TIM stitched over the left breast.
“I’m here now with one hundred seventy thousand in cash. I also have an M-27 rifle in my car. It’s cash or lead, plata o plomo, you choose.”
The eyes above Tim’s facemask lost their smirk. “Let me check.” He thumbed through a jumble of printouts, handwritten notes and stickies on a clipboard. “Here we go. I have a U-Haul out back that’s due to be collected today before four p.m. Yesterday they bought and paid for just over half of what you ordered. I have the list right here. See if it’s acceptable.” He handed Jaime three pages of itemized goods and prices.
Jaime skimmed it and handed it over to Barb. “Check it against our master list, but it’s a lot less than what we want, and the prices are higher.”
“The rest of what you ordered went out the door Sunday when you missed the five o’clock payment deadline.”
“We had unexpected developments. You could have called, and I would have transferred funds.”
“The per item prices are at least thirty percent over what you agreed before,” Barb said.
Jaime said, “Look, I’m tired of your bullshit. Since you don’t have anything left to sell but olives, shut this place down and drive with me to Kentfield.”
“And why would I do that?” Tim asked.
“Because after you help unload the U-Haul, I’ll pay you our agreed price for what I ordered and the new guy’s price for the extras, plus throw in five thousand more for your time and understanding, and all of it in cash. You can then drive back here and return your customer’s money when he comes to collect his merchandise.”
“I’ll have to think about it.”
“Actually, you don’t.” Jaime hefted the bag of money onto the counter and showed Tim the contents. “Get in the U-Haul and ride with me or be left with nothing.”
Tim handed over the keys. “I’ll follow in my car. Give me a minute to lock up: I won’t be coming back.”
* * * * *
Sal felt exposed as he tooled around town in a badly dented Audi with three bullet holes. He’d called the body shop multiple times about his Lexus and no one answered. A drive past the garage showed that it was locked up and there was no sign of his car. That hurt, but he felt better after next stopping by the bank and exiting with two million dollars. Then he felt anxious when he put the money on the back seat in a big cardboard box. Arkar cradled an M-4, wearing half-fingered shooter’s gloves and sunglasses to complete the Spec Ops look. Sal realized that he’d better get used to large cash sums and armed people around and drew a deep breath. The sign for paulson’s vacation wonder rvs came into view with a banner hanging off the perimeter chain link fence declaring Going out of Business Sale! Sal tooted and the gate swung open remotely. He noted that the lot was far emptier than it had been a week ago and parked around the back next to the gas pump. One of the perks of spending a half-mil on a motorhome that listed for just over three hundred was free fills.
The owner stepped out of the office and waved to Sal. Henry Paulson was about sixty with receding gray hair to match his scratchy beard. Like everyone else in a barbershop-impaired world, he could use a haircut. He ignored his customer’s companion, a short tan man with an automatic weapon who looked like a Zeta from Chiapas. “Your Horizon 42 is parked on the side. My man in the back is a welding Zen master and added the extra fuel tanks yesterday. I have the title and other paperwork in the office. You still in the market for a bulk sleeper?”
“That’s right. We leave town today. If you have one, I’ll drive it off the lot or else we’ll close on a deal over at Perkins RV.”
“There’s no reason to look elsewhere, Mr. Maggio. Yesterday, I had a last-minute cancellation when the buyer passed away. Four hundred thousand for a 2014 ’Bago Forza 38 that sleeps eight. Diesel Cummins just like your new 42, so you save on spares and simplify maintenance. Let me duck inside my office and find the keys.”
“Sounds like you have a deal but let me take a walkthrough anyway.”
Without turning his head, Arkar said, “Take cover,” as he flicked off the safety.
Sal flinched and fumbled for his revolver, while at first Paulson didn’t react. Sal scrambled around the corner and into the office with Paulson trailing. Sal ran up to a window where they had a view.
A trio of armed men had scaled the back fence and was working their way through the dozen or so parked RVs, pausing at each one to yank the door handles. Each rig was locked until one of the men struck gold: Sal’s prepped and ready-to-roll Horizon had the keys on the seat. “Fuck yeah, boys! We got a winner,” said the diminutive leader.
The short man started to climb into the cab when Arkar yelled at him to stop. The leader froze, his back to Arkar. His two companions looked just as scruffy as their boss. The peckerwood in a blue Dodgers shirt said, “Kent, he’s a little brown fucker with an M-4 dressed like a YouTube Green Beret.”
The third man ended the standoff by drawing his sidearm. Arkar pivoted right and shot him twice in the chest. Kent pulled the cab door shut and the second man scrambled for cover among the RVs. The Dodger popped two shots at Arkar’s former position, but the ex-commando had moved. The two men on the ground exchanged single shots, pinning one another down.
Sal heard his Horizon start up and saw his future pull away. Kent took a looping left to set up a clear run to the gate and the main road. Sal ran outside, the heavy Smith & Wesson in his hand. Kent finished the turn, crushed the accelerator and the Winnebago picked up steam. Sal stood sixty feet away as the RV shuddered to a halt and the Dodger darted from cover and climbed into the front passenger’s seat.
Sal’s first shot missed high, piercing the windshield above Kent’s head. The passenger door shut, and Kent hit the gas as Sal let loose with two more rounds. Flames leaped from the magnum revolver’s muzzle as Sal’s insufficiently braced forearms recoiled and the shots again went high. There was one more hole in
the windshield and the motorhome bore down on him at a lethal pace. This time Sal extended his arms fully before he pressed the trigger twice. The RV slewed to the left and screeched to a stop, ignition on. The passenger door opened, and the Dodger was out with a large-caliber pistol of his own. Sal switched his attention to the new threat and squeezed off his sixth and final round. Sal missed wide and saw with dismay that he’d holed the open passenger’s door. The man took aim and died as Arkar put two shots through the back of his head. Sal’s ears rang and he stood in shock as Arkar ran up and pulled the nearly decapitated driver out of the cab.
Sal’s mind came back into focus. “See if there’s anyone else,” he shouted to Arkar. “We have to leave.” Sal turned to Henry Paulson, who stood petrified in the office doorway, phone in hand. “Don’t call the police. Just draw up the papers for the second RV: four hundred thousand as-is. I’ll count out the money as soon as I fill my tank.”
Paulson nodded and retreated into the office. Sal went to the Audi to retrieve the box of ammo in the glove compartment. He reloaded as the hands-free nozzle pumped gas. He’d just killed a man and was surprised at his reaction: nothing. He wasn’t sad; the man was a thief and if he’d succeeded, the Maggio family’s chances of survival would have dropped. It was a zero-sum world; time to move on and overcome the next hurdle.
Twenty minutes later, Paulson’s welder drove the Audi while Arkar sat next to him with a fresh mag. Eighty feet of RVs piloted by Sal and Henry eased out the gates which closed behind them. In the dumpster lay three bodies wrapped in thick PVC sheets, phones dismantled and crushed. Henry Paulson realized for the first time that he really was going out of business.
* * * * *
Burns had to rest after his second trip between the lounge and his new accommodations. Shuckies had been hostile to the notion that the sick man would share quarters with his fair maiden and declined to help with the move. Burns lugged bedding on his first trip—towels from the gym substituting for sheets—and laptops and accessories on his second. He felt faint. He hadn’t changed his black shirt and trousers in what seemed a week, but under current circumstances there wouldn’t be a trip to the laundromat anytime soon.
Stephanie wasn’t in a good mood either, since Katerina had refused to hand over Tyson when Steph admitted that she hadn’t uploaded the keylogger. How could she when there weren’t any laptops in the classroom yet?
Burns explained the rationale for his relocation and she remained quiet. He tried again to break the ice. “I’m certain Katerina will let you bring Tyson across. There must have been a mix-up.”
“She was crystal clear that I won’t see him again till his one o’clock feeding.”
Burns’ brow furrowed and he considered confronting the scientist but thought better of it. “I’ll load today’s Examiner onto the screen and take a photo of you with it. Don’t mention it to anyone. As soon as Tyson’s here, we’ll upload another.” Steph cooperated, realizing that the ransom negotiations were underway again. She even managed a half-smile for the FBI or whoever would receive the photo.
Burns uploaded her picture with a note that Tyson was next door, and a photo would be forthcoming this afternoon. He took a few minutes to type out the science lab's and adjacent classroom’s precise locations, described his four accomplices, emphasized that the rescue operation couldn’t damage the lab equipment and promised to provide their address when he uploaded Tyson’s proof of life. How soon could they get here? With that, he put aside the laptop and fell into a troubled sleep on his makeshift bed.
Steph tiptoed over and had the thumb drive in and out before the laptop timed out and locked up. She knocked at the door, where Shuckies stood vigil outside. “I need to see Katerina.”
“Didn’t she say that you couldn’t have Tyson until one? You’ll just piss her off.”
“No, I have what she wants.”
Shuckies let the waif pass and watched as the two women whispered out of earshot. Katerina ducked into the lab and reappeared with the baby.
“Be a dear and bring his diapers and wipes, will you?” Steph asked as she walked back to Shuckies. “He stays with me from now on. And we’ll need another toilet bucket and lots of water. Burns has a fever.”
Burns awoke after an hour, head in a vice and that infernal dry cough. Shuckies had found an old-style water dispenser with a ten-gallon plastic jug on top for a gravity feed into a cistern. Burns drank out of the spigot until he thought he would burst. His head was fuzzy, but he was quick to recreate and email the Examiner photo with Tyson and his mother. Now he just had to hang on and wait for the rescuers.
Katerina took a break and looked for Muller. She found the platinum blond as he assisted Horne with boobytrap assemblies on the internal staircases. “No one drops in uninvited, that’s for certain,” Muller said as he pulled the hair-thin tripwire across the bottom step.
“Honey, our gal did the job.”
Muller noticed she put too much sugar into the “honey.” “Great,” he said. “The laptop will export every keystroke three times an hour. Give him a little time, and maybe we’ll be able to celebrate in style tonight.”
“Sounds like a larger share for the rest of us,” Horne added, then watched for their reactions. Sure enough, that bitch Katerina’s eyes shone in mirth while Muller remained inscrutable. Those two don’t intend to pay me. No real surprise, but a disappointment, nonetheless. He had to agree with Shuckies’ breakfast-time analysis: They had better start looking out for themselves.
* * * * *
It looked like the circus had come to Crown Road. Jaime, a passel of Burmese teens and a human potato in a gas station-style work shirt humped cartons out of a U-Haul and into the RVs’ voluminous external storage compartments. Barb balanced on a stepladder and applied clear packing tape to the new ’Bago’s windshield cracks. Zarni and Chesa scrubbed the upholstery where Sal’s round had caught thieving Kevin in the larynx. Tina packed medical supplies while Carla followed Travis’ instructions for distributing their armory of rifles, shotguns, pistols and ammunition among the RVs and support vehicles. On the back patio, Arkar sorted rappelling equipment, climbing gear and NVGs. He was somber as an hour ago the two Burmese families had cremated Maung’s fragmentary remains in a Buddhist ceremony. In the kitchen, Greg packed cooking gear, plates and utensils, hopping around on old crutches.
Sal sought peace in his study as he scrutinized the McClatchy High School layout and stole glances at the photos of Steph and Tyson he’d downloaded from Tor. Tonight was the night: no Maggio left behind. That they were soon to leave was no secret in the neighborhood or among those he’d pitched, pleaded with, cajoled and given up on. The official date was tomorrow, but by mid-afternoon Tuesday, it was obvious that departure was imminent.
Via Jaime, Sal had learned that Barb was obsessively monitoring Kentfield’s goings-on via a “hyperlocal social networking” website. What she’d learned wasn’t pleasant: owners had either abandoned or died in at least a quarter of the homes. Hungry residents conducted armed reconnaissance missions, sometimes finding empty houses, and other times, the dead and dying surrounded by thousands of dollars worth of food and consumables. The Neighborhood Watch had become the Neighborhood Scavenge, and Sal could see it morph into the War-Between-the-Streets by next week.
He had withdrawn the 3M invitations to even close friends, sending everyone who reached out the same canned response:
The last ten days’ events showed that no one can predict the future other than it will be dangerous. Small groups of trustworthy, self-reliant people bound together by love and sacrifice hold the keys to our long-term survival. My extended family group is full. It’s smaller than I had planned for and features less technical capability than anticipated, but everyone in it is willing to die to protect each other. These are the people I’ve chosen to make my stand with, and I pray that you find a similar family for yourselves. Someday when there’s a cure, perhaps we will meet again: good luck and God bless, Sal.
Like a sign from heaven, the power surged and died up and down the street as transformers exploded. Through the front windows, he heard a burst of gunshots and bullets striking outside, with booming single shots in reply spaced seconds apart. That would be Travis. From the back of the house, a new weapon opened up on the porch, pairs of shots every few seconds. Arkar. Up front, another semiautomatic rifle joined in the controlled firing. Jaime.
Three hours ago, nerves had almost caused Sal to fail his baptism of fire. All he felt now was annoyance that he hadn’t finished the McClatchy High School assault plan before the mob made its move. Before he reached the portico, Sal heard the firing die down to the odd shot. The door burst open and civilians piled in: Carla, Barb, Tina and the five Burmese.
“Any good guys hit?” Sal asked.
“No, we’re fine, but there were near-misses around Travis,” Carla said. Her cheekbones were red with fury. “He didn’t even move off the sofa.”
In reply, one more shot sounded from the portico.
Sal stepped outside. Jaime was in a prone position behind a low stone wall at the bottom of the driveway, black rifle pointed down the road. Travis brandished a long gun with a big scope on it. “Everything okay?” Sal asked.
“Seems so, though Jaime’s stock boy caught one between the horns.” Travis gestured with his hand, his eye never leaving the scope as he surveyed the terrain. Sal looked over and saw a stranger dead on his driveway, pink goo sprayed where a bullet had taken off the top half of his head.
“Ugh. Any idea who did that?”