The protocol, p.15
The Protocol, page 15
“I’ll take the lead,” Mulligan said, opening the Escalade’s door and sliding behind the wheel. “I’ll have to break north as soon as possible.” He glanced at the instrument cluster. “Tank is full. Hope the same is true for yours.”
Riker said nothing. He was already compiling a list of things they would need to survive the long trip home.
Frenchman Mountain Complex
Conk was drinking the last of his bourbon when he saw the SUV drive out of the garage that he had just watched seven people enter. He was issuing orders to have the vehicle followed by the Reaper when a second SUV rolled out of an adjacent garage. Both were black with deeply tinted windows. Even from a couple of thousand feet up, it was impossible not to see the sun glinting off the glass and chrome. When the second SUV pulled in behind the first and they wheeled onto the outer oval track, he got a good look at their slab sides. They both bore identical graphics that he guessed had something to do with the exotic car experience whose name and logo adorned the middle track in multiple locations. Annunciating his words slowly lest he slur them, he said, “Zoom in tight. I want to know who’s who in those trucks. And if anyone can read what’s on the side of them, tell me what it says.”
Conk watched the SUVs enter the westbound tunnel, exit the opposite end, and turn left. They traveled a city block south, paused at the intersection, then slow-rolled a left turn onto Las Vegas Boulevard. The entire time, the two vehicles had stayed so close together that one may as well have been towing the other. Conk’s first inclination was that Riker—the man who had experience driving foreign dignitaries and American ambassadors in war zones under the most dangerous of conditions—was the one driving the trailing SUV. The reaction time to the lead vehicle’s every move was near instantaneous. But the longer Conk thought on it, as the two SUVs sped east, toward the interstate, weaving through automobile pileups while avoiding the occasional Zulu, the point driver was the one who looked more comfortable behind the wheel. If he didn’t know better, he would have thought he was watching the president’s motorcade on the move. But he did know better. The deserter had no defensive driving training. And the president, as far as Conk knew, was no longer breathing air. Word had come down shortly after the president had given the order to unleash the nukes on American soil that the man, who was already mourning the loss of his wife, had ended his own life with a combination of alcohol and pills. Not a bad way to go, thought Conk, filing it away for future consideration.
“God damn it!” he bellowed. “How long until the vehicles are ready to roll out?”
“Last I heard, the tires are all patched,” answered the airman who had been watching the action in the motor pool on his personal monitor. “They’ve been working nonstop, sir. Shouldn’t be long now.”
Conk didn’t reply. He was fixating on the vehicles on the big screen. They were approaching an interchange and seemed to be slowing. The point vehicle was still moving at a fair clip when it abruptly drifted right, taking an exit that Conk knew fed US 93, a two-lane that skirted the Delamar Mountains as it snaked toward Alamo, Nevada, eighty miles to the north. The trailing vehicle continued eastbound, accelerating rapidly before moving into the left lane.
The airman in contact with Creech said, “Wait one,” and regarded his commander. “Sir … what vehicle do you want Vader to shadow?”
“No joy on a second bird?”
“No joy, sir. They’re all away on battle damage assessment missions.”
“Which vehicle is the girl in?” asked a man out of sight to Conk. Conk didn’t recognize the voice, so he turned to see who had asked the question. It was Doctor Payne. And like some of the people who’d been underground, deprived of sleep and breathing sterilized air for days on end, the doctor’s voice had gone hoarse. Conk had no idea how long the little man had been standing behind him.
After pausing for a spell to think, Conk first addressed the airman monitoring the motor pool. “Did Airman Mulligan have family in the area?”
If the airman on the other end of the question noticed that his commander had referred to his friend’s family in the past tense, he didn’t let on. He didn’t need to consult a database. He knew Mulligan well. “His mom and dad are in Portland, Oregon,” replied the airman. “His ex and kids were in North Carolina.” He paused. “Just north of Asheville.” Because a nuke had been detonated near Asheville to halt the southerly advance of a mega horde made up of infected from Washington D.C., Baltimore, Philadelphia, and all points north, the airman had purposefully spoken of Paul Mulligan’s ex and kids in the past tense. “They were close to the Asheville strike, sir.”
If Conk cared about Mulligan’s family, it didn’t show. Moving on, he said, “Where did the others come from?”
Before the airman had a chance to answer, the doctor said, “Santa Fe, New Mexico.”
After pulling the stunt Riker had, only a fool would take a direct route home. Mulligan, on the other hand, would make a beeline to his kids’ last known location. Replying to the doctor, Conk said, “The girl is in the one that just turned off the interstate.” Turning to face the airman, he went on, saying, “Order Vader to shadow the northbound vehicle.”
“Copy that, sir,” replied the airman.
“What if you’re wrong?” asked the doctor.
After ordering the ground element to also pursue the northbound vehicle, Conk turned to the doctor. “I’m aware of her importance to your colleagues at Looking Glass. We have the upper hand. We’ll catch up to them, one way or another.”
Chapter 16
Three hours after coming to from the drug-induced stupor somewhere south of Lincoln, Nebraska, Groot was at the wheel of the new Dodge Ram pickup and watching the fuel needle creeping steadily toward E. With Chance driving, they had skirted Lincoln and eventually entered Crete, a college town with a population just north of 7,000. Steely glares from an armed group of locals had put them on notice that they were not welcome there.
Friend, Exeter, and Fairmount, Nebraska were more of the same, the exits off the interstate manned by grim-faced citizens, all armed to the teeth. It was clear to Groot as he watched the countryside scrolling by from the Ram’s spacious backseat that not only was the military facing an every-man-for-himself existence, but so was the rest of the populace. No one was coming to save them. So, just like their ancestors had done close to two hundred and fifty years prior, to protect hearth and home and life and limb against tyrants both foreign and domestic, the American people had taken up arms to repel both the living and the dead.
Groot had seen towns and cities like these after they had fallen to the walking dead. It wasn’t a pretty sight. He wanted to be nowhere near one of those mega herds he had heard about but had yet to see up close. And because he knew it was only a matter of time before these people would be on the receiving end of a herd like the ones currently coalescing on the Eastern Seaboard, he felt a profound sadness for them.
Reaching the quaint village of Fairmount, where a sprawling ethanol production plant sat idle, they had exited US-6 and then quickly transitioned onto US-81, a straight 125-mile-long stretch of four-lane freeway that plunged due south toward Salina, Kansas, a city of 46,889 just across the state line.
Now, having had an entirely dissimilar experience during the most recent border crossing than they had endured coming into Missouri from Iowa, the Ram was carrying them west on I-70 toward Ellsworth, Kansas. While Groot kept his eye on the road, Sloane and Chance were looking for cars from which to siphon fuel. Their intention had been to stop at the Elkhorn Corner Store when I-70 merged with K-156—the state route they were on now; however, from the interstate, they saw NO GAS displayed prominently on the station’s reader board. As they were exiting the interstate, the station slipping past on their right, it was clear that not only was the place out of gas, but someone had set fire to the store. Glass from the shattered windows littered the ground all around the storefront. A lone corpse, burned beyond recognition, was supine on the carpet of glass, its upper body trapped between the partially open front doors.
Coming up fast on Ellsworth, the countryside bristling with trees whose leaves were signaling autumn’s imminent arrival, Sloane said, “This looks promising,” and stabbed a finger at the Ram’s dash-mounted navigation screen. “Buford’s New and Used Auto Sales. Bet we’ll find an abundance of vehicles. And where there are vehicles, there’s fuel to siphon.”
As Groot eased off the pedal and started to drift to the right lane, Chance said, “How much further is it?”
Sloane said, “Up the road a bit. It’s going to be on the left side as we enter town.” She stared at Groot. “I know you saw there are gas stations farther down the road. I have a feeling it’s going to be no different there than what we saw at the Elkhorn store. The runs on gas early on were insane. Can we just try the car lot first? Can’t sell a car with no gas in the tank.”
“As you wish,” Groot replied. She did have a point. Plus, it wasn’t like he had any choice in the matter. If they didn’t find fuel soon, they’d be walking around town with the siphon pump in hand and nothing to collect the fuel in. “While I’m following orders,” he added, “I need one of you to go into my pack and get out that last MRE.” He held up one hand. Because he hadn’t eaten since the day before, it was shaking.
While Chance was digging through the pack to find the MRE, his stomach growled in anticipation. “You’re going to share, right?”
“That was my intention,” Groot replied. “But sooner or later, we’re going to have to find some real food.”
Sloane said, “We could use water, too. We drank the last of it an hour ago.”
Gino’s IGA was the first thing they saw as the highway entered Ellsworth from the north. Sheets of plywood covered the windows. DO NOT GIVE UP was spray painted across two of the half-dozen sheets. On the rest was the message: THE END IS HERE – REPENT.
A zombie was thrashing around in the driver’s seat of a compact EV, the only car in the IGA lot.
Chance groaned as he passed the MRE over the seatback. “No food for us in there,” he said in a funereal voice. “Maybe some of the used cars in the lot will have some old French fries under the seats.”
“Stop worrying,” Sloane said. “We’ll find something to eat. If we need to break in someplace … a home or apartment … we still have the tools to make it happen.”
Groot gave the MRE to Sloane to open. “Thanks to you,” he said, slowing down to avoid an old three-car pileup blocking the entrance to the IGA’s lot. “How’d you get away from the siphon op so fast with all that in your hands? That bag isn’t light.”
“You should see what my trainer puts me through.” She went quiet. “Put me through. I still can’t believe he didn’t return to the gym. He was a tough motherfucker. Beat a couple of the UFC GOATs when he was in his prime. Part of me wants to believe he’s still alive.” She rested her head against her window.
Groot glanced over and saw tears welling in the woman’s eyes.
“My dad was no slouch either,” Chance said, more so to break the tense silence than to try to minimize Sloane’s loss. “I don’t know how he went out, but I’m sure he was swinging away when he died.”
As Groot steered off the highway, nosing the Ram toward Evans Street, an undivided two-lane running parallel to the highway, he saw that the Dollar Store on the corner had suffered the same fate as the IGA. It came as no surprise. It was the same story all over the country, which lent credence to the saying: Hungry people don’t stay hungry for long. He remembered his father telling him that a civil society was only nine missed meals from chaos and anarchy. He wasn’t wrong. Rarely was. Throw in a virus that turned the recently dead into ravenously hungry versions of their former selves, and suddenly, the people who usually toed the line of law and order had two choices: participate or die. And going by the devastation wrought on Ellsworth, it was clear which route they had taken.
“Dollar Store’s a wreck, too,” Chance noted. “You think roving bands of raiders did that?”
Groot said, “I think the locals did it. Hell, those first days, every store in my neighborhood ended up getting sacked.”
“The car lot’s coming up on the left,” Sloane said, pinching the tears from her eyes. “Who’s doing what?”
No hesitation, Chance said, “I’ll be lookout.”
“Do you want to pump?” Sloane asked Groot.
Eyes on the road, mind slipping toward the gutter, Groot said, “I’ll do whatever I’m told.” With that, he steered across the empty oncoming lane and slowed down to get a good look at the place. Above the lot, colorful flags on streamers strung between light poles popped in the wind. The business encompassed the entire block. The only structure in the sea of blacktop was a garage with two windowless roll-up doors and an attached office. It was equidistant to the side streets and set way back from the road. Groot guessed that back in the day, before the conglomerates took over the retail arm of the energy sector, Buford’s was a gas station run by a lone proprietor.
Close to two dozen vehicles occupied the lot. None of them looked new. Buford had some explaining to do where false advertising was concerned. The sexy models with the prices displayed on sloped windshields faced the road. There were a couple of older Corvettes, a red Camaro with black stripes on the hood, and a pair of sporty Japanese imports. The right side of the lot was where the sensible shopped. He saw the flat roofs of a long row of minivans. There were very few economy sedans. The offerings on the near side of the lot were what he was looking for.
Groot spotted three curb cuts. He steered toward the one nearest to the row of pickups and drove onto the lot. The only place to park was a long patch of smooth blacktop central to the lone structure and the rows of vehicles on display. He didn’t like the idea of the Ram being hemmed in on three sides, but unless they found gas cans inside the garage, transferring fuel between vehicles using just the hand crank siphon would necessitate the Ram being close to the vehicle giving up its bounty.
Groot set the brake and cut the motor. He looked at Sloane. Her eyes were red, but they were dry now. “Back when you two still had guns,” he asked, “which one of you was the better shot?”
Sloane said, “You’re assuming we shot people with those guns.”
“If you came out of Philly, I’m assuming you at least shot at people with those guns. Can’t imagine that nobody challenged you for your vehicle … or worse.”
“We ran into some of those types,” Chance admitted. “Most were more bark than bite. The ones that pushed it … well, they got pokerized.”
Groot pocketed the Ram’s key fob. Grabbing up the M4, he said, “Pokerized?”
Sloane said, “He got it from a book. I guess one of the bad guys said ‘pokerized’ instead of outright saying he killed a person. Isn’t that right, Chance?”
“Correct,” he replied, elbowing open the door behind Groot’s. “Now, which gun do I get?”
Groot said, “Neither of you answered my question.”
Sloane said, “We’ve both pokerized a couple of opportunists. As for who’s the best shot … hard to say. We’re both still alive. There is that.”
“Okay,” Groot said. “Chance gets a chance to prove himself to me.”
Chance groaned again. “Now the Army man thinks he’s a comedian. I’ve never heard that one before.” He reached over the seatback and took the revolver being offered to him. “Five in the cylinder?”
“Six. When you get out, you just cock the hammer and you’ll be ready to go. Keep your finger off the trigger until you’re ready to destroy something. The trigger is a bit touchy.”
“I’m guessing, with this stub of a muzzle, this is pretty much only good for Jack-Ruby-type of kill shots.”
Groot was amazed. “You know your history, Chance.”
“Jack was but a cog in the machine,” Chance said. “It was all orchestrated by the clowns in America … if you know what I mean.”
Groot nodded. He was aware of the Central Intelligence Agency’s dubious reputation.
Sloane checked the mirrors. Still no zombies. Which was a good thing. Stepping onto the lot, she said, “I’ll get the tools.”
Groot met Chance’s gaze. “Find a place where—” he began.
“I can see every avenue anyone or anything might approach from,” Chance finished.
“I get it,” Groot said. “It’s not your first rodeo. Just don’t get too cocky.”
“I’d feel more comfortable if I had that rifle of yours.”
Before closing her door, Sloane said, “He knows how to use it. We had a .223 ranch rifle before the run-in with the dudes who were chasing us. There’s not much difference between the two.”
Groot closed his door. Reluctantly, he handed over the M4. “One in the chamber. Thirty in the magazine. Safety’s on.” He held onto the rifle for a tick. “Don’t make me regret this.”
Chance smiled as he handed over the revolver. “Never regret anything that makes you smile. Mark Twain.”
Calling across the load bed, Sloane said, “There are no regrets in life, just lessons. Jennifer Anniston.”
Tucking the .38 into his waistband, Groot said, “I regret opening my mouth.” He looked at Chance. “Pick your spot and stay there.”
Chance hustled over to one of the sports cars and tore off a wing mirror. Returning to the Ram, he deposited the mirror and M4 in the bed and crawled in after.
“Good thinking,” Groot said. “Keep your head down and stay frosty.”
“Let me guess,” Chance said, hunkering down, his back pressed against the rear of the cab. “That’s a Groot original.”
Groot shook his head. “I got it from Generation Kill.”
Voice at a near whisper, Chance said, “When the Amish were taking off your uniform, your wallet fell out. I picked it up. Considering what I saw in there, it’s conceivable you could have thought up the saying.”
