Holding Their Own VII: Phoenix Star

Holding Their Own VII: Phoenix Star

By

Joe Nobody

Copyright © 2014

Kemah Bay Marketing, LLC

All rights reserved.

Edited by:

E. T. Ivester

D. Allen

www.joenobodybooks.com

www.prepperpress.com

             
This is a work of fiction. Characters and events are products of the author’s imagination, and no relationship to any living person is implied. The locations, facilities, and geographical references are set in a fictional environment.

             
Other Books by Joe Nobody:

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Holding Your Ground: Preparing for Defense if it All Falls Apart

-
        
The TEOTWAWKI Tuxedo: Formal Survival Attire

-
        
Without Rule of Law: Advanced Skills to Help You Survive

-
        
Holding Their Own: A Story of Survival

-
        
Holding Their Own II: The Independents

-
        
Holding Their Own III: Pedestals of Ash

-
        
Holding Their Own IV: The Ascent

-
        
Holding Their Own V: The Alpha Chronicles

-
        
Holding Their Own VI: Bishop’s Song

-
        
The Home Schooled Shootist: Training to Fight with a Carbine

-
        
Apocalypse Drift

-
        
The Olympus Device: Book One

Prologue

The Texas Panhandle

July 19

Cresting a small rise, Bishop immediately slowed the pickup. For the past few hours, they had encountered the random, abandoned car or truck, usually parked on the shoulder as the motorist had run out of fuel. What he saw ahead was a completely foreign scene – an unfamiliar and unusual pattern of color and shape.

Illuminated by a bright moon and crisp, clear sky, he didn’t need the night vision to detect the change. Still, he flipped on the truck’s headlights. The region was remote, desolate, and unlikely to be populated with snipers. Whatever was in front of them was dark and dead, and it appeared to have been so for a very long time.

Glancing at his wife and child in the back seat, he made sure Terri was alert to what lie ahead. She had noticed the change in their landscape as well, stretching her neck to peer over the passenger side headrest.

“I’m going to scout this on foot,” he declared, letting the truck coast to a stop, milking every last drop of mileage from their limited fuel supply.

“That looks weird. What do you think it is?” Terri asked, staring at the oddity illuminated in the headlights. “Did an airplane crash into the road?”

“No idea, but I know I don’t want to drive through it until I check it out. No telling what might be lurking in that debris. You stay here with Hunter while I stretch my legs. I would suggest you do the same. Just stay close to the truck.”

Nodding, Terri opened the rear door and exited with her AR15. He had to smile when she stuffed an extra magazine in her back pocket.
That’s my girl
, he thought.

It took Bishop a minute to throw on his load-rig. While he’d been driving with his body armor already strapped to his chest, most of their trip so far had been through Alliance territory, a population living within rule of law. Piloting the truck was so much more comfortable without the bulky vest and its assortment of pouches and gear.

Now, they were in the badlands, and his optimism only went so far.

Pulling both rifle and sidearm from the cab, he nodded at Terri and began walking toward what was definitely an unusual scene. Again, without verbal instructions, his wife moved toward the driver’s door, ready to jump behind the wheel and either charge or retreat. Bishop grinned. “She’d charge,” he mumbled under his breath.

What had initially drawn his attention was the color of the pavement. The mundane off-white concrete they had been passing over for hours suddenly changed to a charcoal gray with streaks of black.

There was also something in the road ahead, blocking both lanes and towering as high as a two-story building.

As he approached closer, Bishop could see the wreckage was - at least in part - comprised of automobiles. An axle here, an engine block there … remnant fragments of cars and trucks littered the roadway. Rusty hulks of what had once been fenders and bumpers were scattered everywhere.
What could have sliced and diced all these cars like that
? he wondered.

He finally managed the edge of the black pavement, reaching down to test the surface of the road. He pulled back his fingers, a carbon-like soot covering the tips. Something here had burned.

Using a boot, he scraped away a layer of black, the swipe revealing pavement beneath. The concrete was crumbly, a different texture and feel than the highway just a few feet behind him. Something had not only burned; there had been an inferno right in the middle of the road.

He cautiously stepped into the blackish void, unsure of what to expect. Other than his footprint outlined in the soot, nothing happened. Shrugging, Bishop continued into the dark landscape, head swiveling and rifle high against his shoulder. The scene was surreal, reminding him of the backdrop of a scary, “B” movie. It was just creepy.

A few of the vehicles were reasonably intact, but there was something odd about the way they rested on the dark carpeting of ash covering the earth. After passing several examples, it dawned on him that the tires and wheels had melted away, leaving what remained resting low to the ground, almost like children’s toys.

It was impossible to tell the exact scope of the destruction. Neither the truck’s headlights, nor his night vision could identify the opposite side or any discernable boundary. Whatever happened here had involved an enormous release of energy. For a moment, he thought he might be roaming into ground zero of a small nuclear blast. He quickly dismissed the idea, as there had been no such rumors or news. Word of something like that would get around. India and Pakistan had exchanged a few low-yield nukes. One immigrant arriving in Alliance territory claimed that Taiwan and Red China had
glassed a few cities. But there hadn’t been any reports of such violence on the American continent. No one had tried to take out Santa Fe to Bishop’s knowledge.

As he progressed further into the dark zone, the evidence continued to support an explosion, followed by a horrendously hot fire. The occasional piece of sheet metal now had jagged edges, a sign of the scrap being ripped away from its parent machine. Glistening pools of melted glass added to the melancholy decor, the moonlight just bright enough to give them a haunting hue.

Traveling further into what he believed was the epicenter of the disaster, Bishop began to detect strong odors. It was a few steps before he realized that his footfalls were the cause – each step disturbing the now half-inch thick layer of carbon powder covering the ground and releasing the smell. Burnt rubber and plastic assaulted his nose, sulfuric and harsh with every inhalation.

He continued his journey, more curious now than fearing any threat. Up ahead was the monolith, a tall formation rising from the roadway and the clue he hoped would explain the surrounding mystery.

He was over 150 yards into the disaster when he finally reached the edifice. There, rising at least 30 feet into the air was a sculpture of twisted metal and deformed machinery. He had to hike halfway around the mass before he was able to recognize what it was … the trailer of an 18-wheeler - a tanker, probably hauling gasoline.

Bishop keyed the radio mounted to his vest, “I’m okay up here. Everything cool back there?”

Terri’s voice sounded through his earpiece, “Yup. We’re doing just fine. What the hell is all that?”

“I’m not 100% sure just yet, but I think a tanker truck full of gasoline exploded somehow. Go ahead and pull the truck up to the edge of the dark area, please.”

“Will do.”

Bishop returned to his detective work. He poked around the tanker, having to use a lot of imagination to recreate the scene. “Where’s Sherlock Holmes when you need him?” he whispered to the ghosts.

The semi-tractor, or at least the shell of it, was still attached to the twisted remains of the trailer-mounted tank. The high-rise scrap pile was actually compiled of two halves of the tube-like container, split in the middle like an upside-down “V,” each section standing on end. The foundation of the rust heap was comprised of three or four different vehicles, all welded together into a single metal cadaver by the intense heat.

“A sculpture of death,” Bishop whispered. “A super-sized monument to the souls who were lost here.”

While still a guess, the Texan was pretty sure he knew what had happened. Frantic, distressed motorists in need of fuel had identified the gas tanker traveling down the road. Somehow, the truck driver had stopped, perhaps a roadblock of some sort… maybe he had pulled over because the route was blocked by stalled, empty cars. He could have even run out of diesel while hauling gasoline. There was no way to be sure.

Whatever the reason for the traffic stop, the driver had probably been unaware of how desperate people were for his cargo. Bishop envisioned a crowd of riotous men clambering for the fuel. Perhaps some of the looters were armed.

Gasoline transports aren’t designed to fuel cars. Their hoses and flow are far larger and more powerful than the equipment used to fill automobiles at the corner station. That fact probably hadn’t mattered to the crazed, stranded motorists who could see nothing around them but desert for 100 miles. Their screaming, hungry children were motivators of bravery above and beyond. The fear of watching their loved ones perish persuaded them to try and access the fuel stored in the shiny steel tube of the tanker’s trailer. Life-giving fuel. Life-taking fuel.

Bishop shook his head, morbid curiosity causing him to wonder how the fire had gotten started. He pictured a mob crawling all over the tanker, pulling levers, twisting handles and turning valves. Someone had finally gotten the precious, refined liquid to flow, and that had been the beginning of the end.

The fuel had flowed all right. Thousands of gallons gushing out, spreading a mini-flashflood of gasoline across the ground. A few fools had probably tried to fill a bucket or lawnmower can, hoping to power their nearby sedans and make it to Uncle Joe’s place.

The smart ones had run, but it probably hadn’t done much good.

It could have been a hot muffler, a tossed cigarette butt, or maybe even a bullet. No one would never know. But something ignited the shallow lake of gasoline and vapors. The explosion would have been tremendous, shaking the ground for miles.

Anyone not killed instantly in the blast would have perished quickly in the heat. Those who were at the edge of the disaster probably had the oxygen sucked from their lungs by the firestorm that followed the initial detonation. The exploding vapors in every stranded automobile would have added to the bloodbath.

Bishop sighed, reversing his course to make for the truck. He’d seen enough evidence of desperation for today. In fact, he was almost acclimated to carnage - and that bothered him more than anything else at the moment.

He hesitated just a moment before continuing, glancing over the scene one last time. No, it did bother him, but not for the right reasons. He couldn’t put faces or names to the dead – probably didn’t know any of them. It wasn’t the senseless loss of life that caused his gut to tighten.

It finally came to him. Was taking his family into the badlands worth his freedom? What kind of man takes his wife and infant son into the unknown frontier? A place where scenes like the one surrounding him might be common… might still be occurring.

Bishop shook his head, confused by the emotions he was experiencing. He grimaced, knowing that it was human nature to fear the unknown.
How bad could it be?
he pondered.

“We’re loaded with food, ammo, shelter, and heart,” he whispered to the ghosts. “We’re headed into one of the most remote, unpopulated areas on the entire continent. We can handle this. I bet we don’t see more than a handful of people the entire trip. We’ve faced far worse… far more danger.”

The sound of his own voice seemed to reassure. He pivoted without further thought, and double-timed it back to Terri.