“All right,” Benny said. “You had your chance.” He ripped open the orange wrapper and removed the pair of peanut butter cups. Handing one to Riker, he discarded the wrappers and wolfed his down in one bite.
While Benny had been conducting his little experiment, Riker had been staring at the short run of two-lane between the front of the pileup and where the helicopter had landed.
On the blacktop were the remains of more than one person. A mangled arm had come to rest against the base of one of the Jersey barriers, fingers curled tight, like a bug in repose. A leg missing the foot was nearby. A limbless torso was wedged underneath the car at the head of the pileup. It was totally naked and partially burned, the skin blistered and weeping a viscous yellow and red liquid.
Whether the person had been a living breathing specimen when he or she suffered the horrific fate was a mystery to Riker. They were dead for good now. No disputing that.
Chapter 7
Their final destination, the place where Benny hoped to fulfill the promise he’d made to Rose, was a couple of miles southwest of the pileup. Backstopped by mostly open range, it sat on a huge tract of flat desert terrain at the end of a short run of two-lane that began at New Mexico State Route 14 and ended at a closed gate abutting an unmanned guardhouse.
Identical runs of twelve-foot-tall fence topped with coiled razor wire encircled the entire facility. The no-man’s-land between fences was maybe a yard wide.
Inside the perimeter was a pair of lined parking lots that looked as if they could accommodate at least a hundred vehicles. At the moment, a scant few dotted the larger of the two lots. The smaller lot fronting the building, likely used for short-term visitors, held less than ten automobiles.
“Nobody home,” Riker said.
“There goes Plan A,” replied Benny. “I had a feeling that just rolling up and having someone answer my question was probably not going to happen.”
“You know who Murphy is?”
“Murphy Brown?”
Riker chuckled. “No,” he said, shaking his head, “not the lady on that show. In the Army, Mr. Murphy was the fictitious guy who everyone blamed when things went sideways. I just chalk how my cards fall up to fate. But some people … my buddy, Cade, for instance, thought Murphy was out to get him. A malevolent force always conspiring to muck things up.”
“Is Cade one of the reasons why you do the pushups every morning?”
Riker nodded. “He didn’t come home.”
“Want to talk about it?”
Silence fell heavy in the cab. A gust rolling over the flat plain pushed a cloud of dust over the pickup. As Dolly was rocked on her suspension, Riker shook his head.
Purposefully steering conversation back to the previous topic, Benny said, “You know who you remind me of when you dismiss Murphy like that?”
Riker looked a question at Benny.
“I’ll give you two a clue.” Benny took a pull off a bottled water. Turning in his seat, he regarded Steve-O. No participation. The man was staring out his window. The reflection told Benny the thousand-yard stare hadn’t left the man’s face.
“Well?” Riker said. “Who do I remind you of when I dismiss Murphy? Whatever that’s supposed to mean.”
Meeting Riker’s expectant gaze, Benny said, “Hokey religions and ancient weapons are no match for a good blaster at your side, kid.”
Nothing.
Crickets.
Riker yawned. “Doesn’t ring a bell.”
Benny looked to Steve-O. The man hadn’t moved.
“Han Solo. You know, the arrogant scoundrel from Star Wars.”
“I don’t get it,” Riker said. “When I did watch sci-fi, which was pretty rare, I was more of a Star Trek kind of guy. Or Alien. Those were some badass monsters.”
Palming his face, Benny said, “Never mind.”
Riker said, “I prefer to be grounded in reality. Trust my gut and my eyes.” He opened the center console and came out with the Steiners. Powering on the binoculars, he glassed the facility, panning slowly left to right.
In the distance, abutting the larger of the two lots, encircled by yet more razor-wire-topped fence, was a cluster of two-story buildings. The main structure consisted of four separate buildings arranged in a diamond shape. Each building was square, the outer walls mostly windowless and roughly the length of a football field. Square guard towers, each rising a few yards above the main buildings anchored each corner. Each building was connected by a slightly shorter elevation Riker figured was for allowing passage between cell blocks. Narrow barred windows were inset high on the throughway.
Coiled razor wire was strung horizontally along the entire flat roofline. Where roof and wall merged, razor wire was strung vertically. Boxy car-sized heating and ventilation equipment rose up from the four main buildings. Smaller units were perched mid-run atop the passages and encircled by razor-wire-topped chain-link. Branching off of both sides of the smaller heating and cooling units, twin runs of identical fencing ran diagonally along the entire length of roof, to an eventual merger with the larger main buildings.
A long, squat building ran away from the right side of the main parking lot. It was connected to one of the cubes and had more windows than the rest of the facility combined. The glass was mirrored and reflected the angry pewter-gray bank of clouds pressing in on them from the south. On a trio of poles rising up in front of the building was a trio of flags. Old Glory, the yellow and red New Mexico banner, and a dull white flag he guessed was a county item. All stood at half-staff.
Benny said, “What’s your gut telling you?”
Riker said, “Nothing.”
“Your eyes?”
“There’s no way to see inside. Therefore I have no firm opinion on occupancy, other than the lack of vehicles in the lot. There may be a separate lot for correctional personnel that we can’t see from here. That could change things.” He paused for a beat, the binoculars still trained on the front of the windowed building. Finally, he went on. “Flags are all at half-staff. Tells me that, at the very least, the warden was aware of the attack on Manhattan. Means they probably knew about Romero and went on lockdown.”
Gesturing at the brick guardhouse straddling the road thirty feet in front of them, Benny said, “What do you make of that?”
The sign affixed waist-high on the guardhouse read Santa Fe County Adult Detention Center. Another sign was planted in the dirt beside the road, just opposite the guardhouse. Spelled out in large attention-getting red letters was the dire message: WARNING! DO NOT BACK UP OVER SPIKES OR SEVERE TIRE DAMAGE WILL OCCUR.
The “that” Benny was alluding to was taped to the inside of the window facing the pickup. It was a sheet of copier paper bearing a message handwritten with a fine-tipped black pen. Riker squinted and focused hard on the cramped scrawl. The result was a bunch of black squiggles cutting horizontally across a field of white. So he brought the Steiners into the equation. Expecting to have to pan slowly and read the message in small chunks, thanks to overmagnification, he instead saw nothing but a bunch of blurry black squiggles cutting horizontally across a field of white.
Regarding Steve-O, Riker said, “You’re wearing glasses. Can you read that from here?”
Nothing from the backseat. The man was hunched over, hat pulled down low, and unmoving. He’d been like that for the duration of the short drive here. Five minutes spent statue still. No observations on the outside world had been levied by the man. No country and western song lyrics had been sung, either.
Not a peep had crossed the talkative man’s lips since he’d been splashed in the face with zombie brains.
Hearing no response, Riker posed the question to Benny.
Benny shook his head. “I can’t read it from here.”
Riker took his foot off the brake and let the idling engine pull the Shelby forward half a truck-length to a spot in the road equidistant from their previous position, but still about a yard shy of the horizontal gash in the asphalt where curved met
al spikes clawed upward.
Stepping on the brake pedal, Riker scanned the road all around the truck. Finished, he said, “I still can’t make it out. Can you? If not, one of us is going to have to dismount.”
Leaning forward, Benny focused on the paper. “It says: ‘Back in ten minutes. Turn motor off and have identification and all pertinent paperwork ready for inspection.’”
“Pretty straightforward,” Riker said as he slipped the transmission to Park and killed the motor. Along with the silence came the realization the headache had subsided. Same with the tinnitus.
With the hot engine block ticking as it cooled underneath the hood, Riker spent the first couple minutes of the promised ten-minute wait scrutinizing the lots and adjoining buildings through the Steiners. After two slow sweeps, left and right and back again, he said, “Still nothing moving—living or dead.”
“Let me get this straight,” Benny said. “Plan A was to have us just roll up and ask if Crystal Wagstaff is here?”
“If any place was still up and running, I figured it’d be this place,” conceded Riker. “It’s where I would stay until the military gets a handle on things.”
“You said all the military vehicles you saw on your cross-country jaunt were either heading south or east.”
Riker nodded. “No doubt there’s still a sizable presence in the Midwest. Around the Great Lakes, too. I’d even bet they’re amassing a blocking force along the Ohio River Valley.”
“Illinois was highly active with military. We saw a few Humvees and some tank-looking things in Missouri. We didn’t see anything once we got into Kansas. What makes you think they’re operating here? In the desert states?” Benny shook his head. “Case you didn’t notice … we’re in the middle of effing nowhere.”
“Better than being near a major metropolis full of those things. You just saw how one Bolt can ruin the day.”
“That reminds me,” Benny said. “When are we going to talk tactics?” He looked back at Steve-O. “Any thoughts on the matter?”
No response.
Riker said, “Clearly this place is operating with a skeleton crew. Might take them awhile to come out to check on us.” Silently, he hoped the inmates weren’t running the asylum. If that were the case, the risk wouldn’t be worth continuing on with the mission.
Benny said, “This is where we need to do something to see if there are dead things here. Draw them out into the open. How about you lay on the horn for a second or two?”
“Agreed,” Riker said. “From now on that’ll be our protocol. But no need to do it now.”
“Why not?”
Opening his door, the Sig Legion already clear of its holster, Riker said, “Because once Plan B is up and running, we might as well be ringing the dinner bell.”
“Let’s get set up.” Elbowing his door open, Benny drew the Glock and stepped to the road. Peering back inside, he said to Steve-O, “Sure you don’t want to get out? We could use your expertise.”
That didn’t move the needle. Steve-O was completely withdrawn.
Wondering what it was going to take to draw the man out of his shell, Benny closed his door and stalked down the flank of the Shelby, head on a swivel, his attention focused solely on the immediate surroundings.
Chapter 8
Plan B was tucked away inside a specially built case stowed out of sight in the pickup’s bed. Riker had the tailgate down and the upper half of his body underneath the rigid tonneau cover when Benny emerged from around the passenger side.
“Coast is clear for the moment,” he said.
Emerging with the case, which resembled a large backpack, complete with shoulder straps and a zippered outside pouch, Riker said, “Let’s hope it stays that way. Keep watch while I set this bad boy up. This is Steve-O’s department, so it might take me a minute.”
Without making eye contact, Benny said, “Lots of open ground between us and the main road. Then there’s the fence. Unless they can climb, I think we’ll be safe out here.”
Riker flipped the pack over, then worked the zipper all the way around. Flipping the top half onto the tailgate, he said, “If nobody comes back to the guardhouse, I figure we have less than fifteen minutes to finish the job before it starts pissin’ rain.”
Voice a bit strained, an obvious sign that being so exposed was not to his liking, Benny said, “Then quit with the play-by-play and get on with it.”
Five minutes after taking all of the components from the pack, Riker had the quadcopter fully assembled, he’d checked and confirmed the battery held a full charge, and to get reacquainted with the remote controller, he’d given the manual a cursory glance.
About the size of a manhole cover, and maybe a foot or so from landing gear to the top of the props, the exotic-looking gloss-white drone was much bigger than Riker had expected it to be when he purchased it online weeks ago.
On each corner of the drone was a sleek vertical nacelle. Atop each fixed nacelle was a white two-bladed prop. From tip to tip, each prop was roughly five inches across. Positioned between the landing gear and nestled in a belly-mounted three-axis gimbal was a camera capable of transmitting moving images in stunningly high resolution.
Riker had acquired the drone during one of his late-night spending sprees at Villa Jasmine. Back in the good old days. Back when the Internet was still up and working and having seven million dollars in the bank was still brand new to him.
All of that didn’t matter now. Save for the gold and guns and supplies he’d bought in Florida in the days prior to them all heading north, he was back to square one. Back to being who he was before he boarded the bus to Middletown: broke as a joke and unemployed.
Not that he desired work. Staying alive, he’d quickly learned, was a fulltime job.
The drone’s handheld remote controller was roughly eight inches across and six inches top to bottom. A six-inch color touchscreen positioned horizontally on a swivel protruded from the controller’s top edge. Milled from some kind of alloy, the centrally located pair of joysticks seemed incredibly small once Riker wrapped his mitt-sized hands around the controller.
After swiveling the monitor so that the watery sun wasn’t glaring off the glass, Riker searched the multitude of buttons and thumbed the one labeled Start.
The four electric motors came to life. In no time they were emitting a high-pitched whine that reminded Riker of the sound made by an overworked weed whacker. With the noisy craft getting light on its dual landing skids, Riker started the timer running on his Casio G-Shock.
Benny asked, “You sure you can fly the thing?”
Setting the drone on auto-hover, Riker said, “It’s idiot-proof. It’s got a panic button. I hit that and it recovers from whatever trouble I get it in. This button here”—he pointed to one labeled Return Home—“brings it right back to us.”
Benny scanned the distant road. He let his eyes linger there for a beat, then walked his gaze along the feeder road. “All clear. Let’s see what you got.”
Gripping each dainty joystick between a thumb and forefinger, Riker broke the drone from the hover. Applying throttle—a little too much, as he soon found out—the drone shot into the sky, the high-speed climb reined in only when Riker pressed the Return Home button.
Sure enough, after halting its climb and adopting a hover that lasted a couple of seconds, the drone began a slow and steady descent that had it tracking straight for the Shelby.
Nodding toward the parking lot, Benny said, “Why don’t you go check out the cars before committing to the prison.”
“Jail,” said Riker.
“Is this where they fitted you with the ankle monitor?” asked Benny. “The one you promptly cut off.”
“Nope,” Riker said. “That happened at the precinct where they questioned me.” He shrugged. “No need for it now. I don’t think the courts will be convening any time soon.”
Riker watched the quad getting near the end of its return flight path. At seemingly the last second, the drone
throttled down, flared hard, and settled softly on the tonneau, just inches from where it was when he ham-fisted the initial launch.
“Just like you know what you’re doing,” quipped Benny.
“The learning curve isn’t as steep as one would think,” Riker admitted. “I’ve flown it a few times at Trinity. It’s damn useful when you don’t want to go out and check the perimeter on foot.” Biting his lip, he stepped back from the pickup and worked the controls, relaxing only when the quad was in the air again and well on its way toward the parking lot.
“Ever thought of using it to ferret out the Bolts from the … what does Steve-O call the slow ones?”
Eyes narrowed and tracking the quad, Riker said, “I’ve heard him call the slow ones Slogs. Never crossed my mind to use the drone to draw out the fast ones. Sounds like it would work. But I sure wouldn’t do it out in the open. Those things cover ground so quickly. And the way they snarl and growl … I’d hate to get caught with this remote in my hands in place of a gun.”
Benny said nothing. He was watching the drone cross the open ground to the parking lot. A couple of times along the way the wind picked up, causing the craft to yaw and careen groundward while still under full throttle. Both times Riker hit the panic button, which sent a radio frequency command across the distance, instantly saving the craft and likely sparing them all from having to get any closer to the prison than they were now.
After the second brush with disaster, Riker set the quad on automatic hover and took a moment to let his heartrate return to normal.
“How long do you have on this charge?”
“Twenty to thirty minutes,” Riker answered. “And that’s dictated by flight distance and how much you hotrod the thing. Steve-O usually milks the full twenty-five out of a fresh battery.”
“So what you’re seeing on the screen is what’s being recorded onto the onboard memory card?”
Riker's Apocalypse (Book 3): The Precipice Page 5