The Plague Years (Book 1): Hell is Empty and All the Devils Are Here (32 page)

The new guys had arrived late the night before last and they were trouble of a different sort. It was bad enough when Macklin was the only functioning adult in his little fiefdom; the new group had brought another with whom he was going to meet now.

“Hey Macklin,” shouted Kevin Erwin, who had brought the MRAP over from Walla Walla with two other guys who could loosely be termed technicians. Both were often strung out on Slash and so work on the MRAP was going pretty slow.

“What now!?” said Macklin irritated. “You are always short of something, tools, Slash, beer, whatever. What is it now?”

“No call to get all riled up,” said Kevin with an accent that seemed put on, like most of the rest of him. Kevin, unlike Macklin, had been a Slash user before the plague while he was a failing professional football player. Had there been another season, he would have been out of the game. As it was though, he was a tad over six foot six inches tall and a tad under three hundred and fifty pounds of mostly fit muscle which gave him a very intimidating appearance. That appearance and his willingness to crack heads had moved him to the head of his little group of users who were all either current or former athletes. When their supply stated to dry up, Macklin’s employers stepped in.

After the collapse of law enforcement, Kevin and a couple of drug users who claimed some mechanical expertise were ordered over to Walla Walla to get some police vehicles going. They had managed to get the SWAT van that Macklin was currently using both in his recent attempt to retrieve Amber Hoskins and now as a drug van and potential living quarters, in running order, and now had shown up with an MRAP.

Now Kevin was ordering people around like he was running the show and it was apparent that he intended to do just that. Right now though, Macklin had the keys to the drug locker in the van so he was still nominally in charge.

“It’s done,” said Kevin smugly.

“Are you shitting me?” asked Macklin with a trace of incredulity. It had seemed to him that all Kevin’s ‘technicians’ did was drink beer, get high and chase biker girls.

“There is an M1919A4 machine gun in the ring mount on top the MRAP, courtesy of a gun collector in Walla Walla, and we have also unblocked all the rifle ports so folks inside can shoot too.”

“When can we roll?” asked Macklin.

“Well now, I was about to talk to you about that,” said Kevin smiling. “You know, me and the boys, we worked pretty hard on this rig. We figured we earned a little down time. We was hoping that we could get maybe a couple of balloons of Slash so we could maybe …”

“A couple of balloons?” said Macklin. “That’s enough to keep you and those women you hang with high for a week!”

“Hey man, no need to get all riled up,” said Kevin placatingly. “It’s not like your targets are going anywhere. They will be there. Why don’t you take a chill pill or better yet, you can come party with us.”

“I’ll give you one,” said Macklin, “and we have to be ready to roll in two days.”

Inwardly, he knew that getting this motley collection to hit the Stricklands again would be an uphill battle and most of the guys that went with him would be high as there were lots dead bikers and hangers on from this already. He had to stay on their good side to get anything done.

“Wait one while I get the Slash,” said Macklin with resignation.

May 31
st
, Sunday, 12:12 pm PDT.

After Chad, Dave and Chris returned from Phil’s, Chad called for a full house meeting.  Everyone came, even eight year old Ginger. Everyone had to decide. First he related what they had learned from their conversations with the people at Fort Lewis. There was anger and surprise over what they had to face.

“OK, folks,” said Chad after everyone had settled back down. “I don’t like this anymore than you do, but we have to at least consider the option of moving on. Maybe we go to Fort Lewis or to Moscow where my brother is.”

“Are you sure we can’t fight them?” asked Mary.

“Well,” said Dave, “We can always fight, but our options are limited. I have a day or two at most to concoct some explosives and plant them where they would do the most good. Everything I can think of is pretty low energy.”

“What do you mean by that?” asked Amy. “I thought explosions were explosions, you know, like in the movies?”

“Oh, I can make a pretty big bang,” said David, “just like in the movies with lots of flame and bits of metal flying around. The problem is that the MRAP is designed to take that kind of thing. If I get them to drive over just the right spot, I may be able to blow off a wheel, but I would have to make a pretty big divot in the road and they would likely just drive around it.

“The issue is the amount of energy and velocity that you can generate with explosives. When the Tsarnaevs set off those bombs at the Boston Marathon back in 2013, they had a target with lots of people closely packed together and many of them were hurt pretty badly, but only three were killed. They were limited in the type of explosives they could use. In the end, it was found that they used the contents of commercial grade fireworks in a pressure cooker. Trouble is, that stuff actually burns pretty slowly, relatively speaking for explosives, so the pressure cooker exploded before it could build really high pressures. All the really cool stuff like an EFPs require something like C-4 or Semtex at a minimum and I can’t make that stuff in the kitchen.”

“I don’t want to give those people the satisfaction,” said Mary angrily, “that they can make us move!”

“If it were just a question of standing and fighting,” said Chad trying to be reasonable, “I’d be with you. But Dave knows explosives and MRAP’s. He doesn’t think he can make something dangerous enough and focused enough to kill the folks in the MRAP and not level the whole block. We could try burning them out with Molotovs filled with homemade napalm, but we again would likely burn the neighbors out as well. All the houses around here are wood framed. Add to that the fact that the air conditioning on an MRAP is pretty damned good. It would take a while to heat it up hot enough to do some damage. Long enough for them to hurt us pretty bad. I don’t want to have more friends end up like Clinton.”

“Damn it,” said Mary, “I know. Intellectually, I know that, but I still want a piece of them. They shouldn’t get away with this. I am also worried that they will hurt our neighbors whether or not we leave trying to get some clue.”

“I have an idea,” said Dave. “This doesn’t mean we can stay, the more I think about it, the more the more I think we should move along. Even though I am pissed at our neighbors, I don’t dislike them enough to want Macklin and his stooges to shoot them all up trying to get to us.”

“What’s your idea then?” asked Mary.

“We booby trap the hell out of this place and my house,” said Dave. “They will likely shoot the houses up and maybe burn them down anyway but I want them dead as much as you. We can take a lot out of ill-trained combatants with the low energy stuff I can make when they are outside of the MRAP, investigating where we went. The MRAP will be able to drive away, but I want them to use it as an ambulance!

“I am worried about the neighbors though. This type of explosive is not surgical and there will be a lot of collateral damage. Also, these cretins won’t stop just because we aren’t home. They will go shoot up the neighbors and see if they know anything.”

“Leave that one to me,” said Mary with a smile. “You may have pissed off the neighbors but the neighborhood wives’ coffee klatch is still in fine form. We still compare notes, share essential supplies, and complain about our husbands.”

The last line was said with a smile and a wink in Chad’s direction.

“So Dave,” said Mary, “how long would it take to teach someone like me for example, to make some of this stuff?”

“A couple of hours would do,” said Dave after some thought.

“OK, you teach the class, I will bring in the attendees. We can show them how to build bombs and how to protect themselves from the effects. It’s probably the least we can do and the most we can do as all the rest of you will be involved in packing what we need to survive.”

“I have one more thing,” said Chad. “You said it’s likely that they will burn this place to the ground right?”

“Sadly, yes,” said Dave. “That’s what I would do were I them.”

“Fine,” said Chad with resignation in his voice. “Then after we take out all we can carry, we should give the keys to some neighbors we trust and let them use what they can. It’s only right.”

“So where should we go?” asked Mary.

“When I talked with the folks at Ft. Lewis,” said Chad, “they made a strong point about coming there. They also made it clear that the Government net was penetrated. I’d say that they were warning us off. One little factoid tipped me off. They complained about a POL shortage.”

“What’s POL?” asked Heather.

“It stands for Petroleum, Oils and Lubricants in mil speak,” said Dave without thinking.

“Right,” said Chad, “then in the same conversation, they said that they had a company mounted on MRAP’s that were on site being demilled for civilian usage. Ft. Lewis is the depot maintenance center for Stryker Infantry vehicles. They have hundreds on base. If they really had a POL shortage, why are they taking up MRAP’s for secondary companies?”

“You mean they were not telling the truth?” asked Chris with a grin. “I am shocked, shocked I tell you, that a representative of the US government might not be totally truthful.”

“Cute,” said Chad sarcastically. “The point is they likely don’t have a POL problem. General Buckley had the tankage at the base pretty close to full when I was there and was working on contingency plans to get more from the tankers and holding tanks in the waterfront area.

“Here is another point. If they did have a shortage of POL, why would they rehab MRAP’s? Why wouldn’t they just make them leg security? They also made a point of telling us that we were welcome but that they couldn’t come get us. Even if the POL shortage story was true, they could fly out that nice general’s plane and pick us all up and leave all our gear. I think they were saying, do not come here, we can’t protect you and our comm is bugged.”

“Do you always analyze everything like this?” asked Chris in a more serious tone.

“It’s what they used pay me for,” said Chad. “So is what I am saying without merit? Am I just being paranoid?”

“In this day and age,” said Dave, “just because you are paranoid doesn’t mean they aren’t after you. I hadn’t thought about it this way, but yeah, I agree with you.”

“So where do we go?” asked Amber sadly. “I have local family, but we would just transplant the problem if we moved there and anyway, I am supposed to be dead remember? I think it’s the only way I can really protect them.”

“I have a brother up in Moscow, Idaho,” said Chad. “He invited me and friends when this started brewing up. He and some like-minded professors and grad students at the University of Idaho were making preparations similar to what we did. I hope the offer is still good but going to Moscow gets us out of here and will be at least a waypoint on our path to somewhere without Macklin and friends.”

“So we have a bunch of logistics to plan then,” said Heather. “We also need to decide which vehicles to take, provisioning, trade goods, and a dozen other things I haven’t thought about. I have my iPad all charged up. There are several lists we need to make and checklist of things not to forget.”

“You sound just like a staff officer that used to work for me,” said Dave with a little awe in his voice.

“She was one,” said Mary with a twinkle in her eye. “She was mine.”

May 31
st
, Sunday, 8:53 pm PDT.

There was a regulation two tap knock on General Buckley’s door at his office. He was working late as head had almost every night since he had gone to the Tri-Cities to get briefed on the Plague. He was sick and tired of it all, but that that didn’t matter. A lot of people, including the three waiting outside his door, depended on him for leadership and support.

“Come” he said without looking up.

The door opened and in came Colonel Antonopoulos, Captain Whipkey, and Dr. Grieb. The two Air Force officers assumed the position of parade rest precisely four feet back from the general’s desk. Colonel Antonopoulos being senior, saluted. Dr. Grieb, being a lifelong civilian did straighten up a bit, but the three day beard and the generally disheveled look from working seventeen hour days took away from the image.

“Reporting as ordered,” said Colonel Antonopoulos still holding the salute.

General Buckley, who was a stickler for military protocol, straightened up in his chair and returned a crisp salute, though he felt far from being crisp himself.

“At ease gentlemen,” said General Buckley

The two military men hardly moved. Dr. Grieb settled into the chair opposite the desk.

“Coffee?” asked General Buckley indicating the pot on the credenza.

“No thank you sir,” said Colonel Antonopoulos.

“Do you think he got the real message Andy?” asked General Buckley.

“When he thinks about it, he will,” said Colonel Antonopoulos. “He was the best damned analyst, commissioned or enlisted, I ever had.”

“I still blame you for letting him get out,” said General Buckley with a small, weary smile. “It gravels me all the same, to send the message that we can’t protect him here.”

“With respect sir,” said Colonel Antonopoulos, “we still don’t know if there are any more hidden Slash users, even with the amnesty, and we know that somewhere in the NSA there is a mole. I bet they have some on this base too. We have laid a crisscross pattern of misinformation, telling some agencies fallacious details that we don’t tell others and all roads point to the NSA. Not the whole thing certainly, but there is someone, more likely several someones who are feeding information to … whoever they are. The hits they have run are too focused for it to be anything else.

That same matrix of misinformation also leads to your personal staff. Someone who sits in your weekly staff meetings is leaking information. Since we have to make the staff meetings functional, I can’t tell you any more than that.”

“You are not too bad an analyst yourself Colonel,” said General Buckley. “Any idea who ‘THEY’ are?”

“No,” said Colonel Antonopoulos heavily. “I don’t trust any sources I don’t know personally. Two months ago, I commanded an Airlift Wing, I didn’t think I would be running intel analysts again. These folks have apparently had a long time to infiltrate our system. I have gone to personal reports only. Thankfully, your little jet doesn’t burn as much JP4 as a C-17 and the navy RPV’s burn even less.”

“Don’t feel too bad Colonel,” said General Buckley almost kindly. “You have rooted out two cells here on base already. My G-2 staff is invaluable with more traditional intelligence dealing with the ‘Infected’ but, you have a flair for this kind of work. Keep at it. Besides, there aren’t many air ops to command anymore anyway. You are far more useful doing this than sitting at a desk watching your airplanes rust.”

“Needs of the service sir,” said Colonel Antonopoulos quietly.

“OK, Whipkey, your turn,” said General Buckley. “You are now officially my MRAP expert. Have your troops found anything at all that Captain Strickland can use?”

“Sir, like the Colonel, I was a trash hauler a month ago,” said Captain Whipkey, “But no sir. The vehicle was specifically designed to be resistant to IED’s. Uncle Sam got his money’s worth for once. The best suggestion we can make is to disable the air conditioning unit with rifle fire and then bake them out with Molotov’s or napalm. I checked Major Tippet’s file. He is not long out of the active Marine Corps and he was an Operator sir, Force Recon. He commanded a Force Recon company right before he was injured. Major Tippet has likely already thought about those ideas. We have some anti-armor devices that would be of value; specifically an AT-4, but getting him some would tip our hand. If we can airlift something in, we could airlift them out. I am sorry sir, I don’t have anything for him.”

“Don’t make excuses Captain,” said General Buckley. “It’s a sign of weakness.”

“Yes sir,” said Captain Whipkey. “No excuse sir.”

“Dr. Grieb, I need your advice now,” said General Buckley. “You are now officially my Plague expert. And I know that you were an epidemiologist a month ago.”

“Ok, I get it,” said Dr. Grieb with a smile.

“Any clue on why this nameless gang or whatever is after the folks in remission? I have read your briefing papers but most of it is about the ‘how’ not the why.”