Safari - 02 (18 page)

Kill ‘em all
, he thought, but how to do it? The firebomb had worked. Trouble was, it destroyed the house. Firebombing the whole city wasn’t a good idea.

Why not
? the captain asked.

Gus stared at the bottle. He suddenly didn’t feel so drunk anymore. There wasn’t anyone left alive in Annapolis. Who would he be hurting if he burned the whole city? Razed it to the ground.

The rats would stay underneath until it burned itself out.

Gus knew they’d do exactly that,
unless
he could toast them underground, fricassee the little furry shits right in the storm drains. But how could he do that? How could he torch them underground? He’d have to stuff something into the drains. He’d have to…

Holy shit
.

The gas tanks.
All
of the gas tanks. The gas stations all had underground tanks. All of them were probably empty, but still dangerous. They all had fumes, and fumes were where all the magic happened. If he could explode each of those stations, that would certainly be… a start.

But he needed more gas.

Then, the mother lode struck him. At the west end of the city, in the Kentville area, the Western Oil storage facility had maintained eight huge fuel containers, each capable of containing half a million liters of ethanol and gas—potentially four million liters of burnable liquid and certainly explosive under the right conditions. Gus knew that the gas stations in the valley had been emptied, but how many people, in their panic, had actually thought about the Western Oil facility? He didn’t think there were too many. He hadn’t even thought of it much, as just popping gas tanks and draining them was more manageable. He knew they were there, but the pipelines were too big, too much trouble. But if he were only unleashing the fuel with no other intent other than to torch the city….

The dark face of the city gleamed evilly at him, knowing he was on to something. Gus leaned back and smiled at Annapolis. He exhaled, feeling the rum’s magic. It helped him think.

Fire. Purify the place with fire.

He rocked in the chair, not feeling the cold, and stared into the distance. He had the beginning of a plan in his head.

Firebomb Annapolis. Burn it all down.

That thought burned in his mind like a single bright candle.

He would do it. The final decision made him blink and almost brought him back to sobriety. The city made no sound, wary of the course of action he’d decided upon.

“Have to do it soon, ’cause I have a theory. I think them little bastards hate the cold just as much as their two-legged cousins. Slows them down. Keeps them underground where it’s warmer. I’ve seen rats—live rats—scamper around old storage sheds and garbage sites, but these move like something’s wrong with them. Either the cold or the virus or whatever. Spring is comin’, though. Might come a time when they’ll be above ground all the time. The sun won’t keep ’em down. Not for long. Certainly not forever. But one match at the right time and I could potentially nuke the whole fuckin’ bunch of ’em..

He thought more about it, feeling in his guts that it was the right thing to do.

“You’re not sayin’ much,” he said to the captain.

And the sailor didn’t respond.

*

The next morning, Gus woke up in miserable condition, nauseated and flooded with diarrhea. His bones and joints felt as if someone had thread wire through them during the night and was currently jacking him up by yanking on the ends. He spent the morning on the bucket in the bathroom, and later meditated on the outhouse throne. He swore he’d never drink again. It was the booze, his old love, leaving him stricken with the morning light. He’d had enough. He didn’t want to see another bottle. But by mid-afternoon, the thirst became so bad, he gave in without even a curse. He went back to sipping on Jack Daniels, needing just one bottle for comfort. It helped him control his shaking hands. His supply of that particular brand of whiskey was dwindling, and he hoped that maybe he’d find some in the city soon.

While it was still there.

He wrote the day off, drinking equal amounts of water with his whiskey, and stayed home. He took it easy and watched the snow melt. Once, he wandered outside to look at the city. He thought he heard the sound of children playing, but when he stopped and strained to hear, the kids became coy and didn’t make a peep. He stayed out there, though, shivering in the early spring air, listening anyway.

The day after that, he felt in better health. He got up just before dawn, got dressed, ate, checked his hands for shakes, and performed a once-over check of the truck he’d prepped the night before, transferring most of the equipment over from the beast. He covered himself in Nomex gear, tightening a leather belt around his mid-section. He located some hockey gloves and tossed them on the passenger seat of the truck. Those would be for heavy combat, he figured, and went back to the fingerless gloves he preferred when heading out to town. The Nomex gloves would stay behind. He cracked open a fresh bottle of amber rum and took a long, steady drink, lowering the bottle only once for a breath and an unseeing look at the wall. The half-empty bottle went back on the shelf.

The pickup made its way down the mountain side, feeling out every knob and rut in the road and rocking Gus to an irregular beat. When he got to the highway, he thought maybe winter would be over early this year. The pavement looked dark and wet under the dreary daylight, fringed in gobs of white. He slowed when he came to the body in the road. Curls of snow dressed the dead man, but he was still in place. The rats hadn’t taken him yet.

“You’re my marker,” Gus said grimly and motored on.

Halfway through the drive, the sun turned the dark sky orange with all the subtly of a lit match scorching paper. Watching the road with leery concentration, he unconsciously checked off the familiar sights of the junk left and plundered as he passed them—an old truck charred to the metallic bone, gutted trailer of a semi stabbing a billboard straight through the gullet, motorcycle on its side as if the rider had been clawed from the seat. Yellow foamy innards spilled on the pavement. All landmarks. All old acquaintances. Unmoving, unchanging.

Uncaring.

The full bottle of dark rum rolled and nudged his leg with every movement of the truck. Next to that, the captain rode in the passenger seat, in all his duct-taped glory, grinning and obviously happy to be riding shotgun. With the captain were three of his Molotov soldiers, his marines, loaded with gas and primed with a cloth wick. Gus had wrapped them in a blanket to keep them safe. He was glad the bottles were there. The bottles were on
his
side.

He stayed on the main roads upon entering the city. The sun rose above the mountains, turning on its bright charm. Houses thickened into residential areas. Lanes split into two. Hulks of abandoned shopping malls and super stores lay silent, snow still covering their parking lots. Looking down side roads, he glimpsed the occasional slouched figure, but he didn’t engage. He wanted to avoid confrontation until the very last moment. On the far side of what was once known as Kentville lay his objective. He was going to start at one end of the city and work his way back
, burn
his way back. He’d brought all the supplies he needed in the back of the truck, vowing never again to be caught in the city on bad terms. He had tinned food and bottled water, enough for a few days, and he’d thrown his mountain bike into the back. If he lost the truck, he wouldn’t be walking home.

He’d burn his way back.

Jesus Christ
, he thought and suddenly felt the need for a very long drink. Was he actually going to do burn the city? He took in the streets and the trees and everything that was once good.

He took a deep clarifying breath.

Yes, he was. Goddamn right, he was.

Little furry fuckers had tried to
eat
him. He couldn’t have that. Word might get around. That notion made him giggle.

Twenty minutes later, he turned onto the forested street that led to the Western Oil storage facility. The place had been built outside the city limits for safety. But the concrete and steel rash that was the city had crept up on it, leaving only a thin veneer of forest around the area. To the east, an industrial park pinched off any expansion. Beyond the industrial park, a twenty-year-old subdivision snaked around the entire works. So much for safety. And Gus could not have been happier for it.

He slowed at the wire fence that enclosed the area, a mesh ten feet tall and topped off with barbed wire. A checkpoint lay just inside in the form of a red and white bar running the length of the road. A gatehouse stood to the left, and Gus couldn’t see anyone inside. The vertical tanks loomed perhaps forty feet high and at least that wide, gleaming like barrels of ivory in the morning sun.

Gus put the truck in park and got out, studying the treeline. He walked to the gate and eyed the steel padlock. When the world was still the world and folks weren’t eating each other like slabs of Japanese sashimi, there was an old show called
Mythbusters
on the Discovery Channel. The purpose of the show was to debunk questionable stunts and feats found in movies and TV shows. The one segment he remembered was where the guy shot off a padlock with a gun. He couldn’t remember the make of the gun or the type of padlock, but he did remember it not working, as it so often did in the movies.

Flipping down his visor, Gus took out the Benelli and flicked off the safety. He braced the skeleton stock against his shoulder and took aim through the scope. Checking to see how far back he stood from the gate, he sniffed and fired, blasting open the lock.

Mythbusters was full of shit
, he thought as he unhooked the wrecked lock and tossed it into the nearby trees. With a metallic squeal, the gates swung inward with a push. Flipping his visor back up, Gus went to the gatehouse and studied the box and motor that would lift the blocking bar. Electrical. He pushed a black button, jabbing it impatiently with his thumb. Nothing happened. Placing the Benelli across his shoulder, he supposed he’d have to do it the hard way.

Bending low enough to step under the bar, Gus entered the storage facility. Wary of any lurking gimps, he approached the tanks, which were surrounded by a concrete dyke wall that came up to his waist. Equidistant from each other, the tanks were connected by a network of pipes and metal stairwells. An opening in the wall allowed Gus to move between the tanks, and a lattice of pipes and hoses threw snake shadows on the white ground. Western Oil didn’t have any tankers on site, and a quick look informed him that the small office built off to one side probably didn’t hold much of interest. Gus stepped up to the first one and, with the barrel of his shotgun, tapped its side. The connection echoed dully and told him nothing. He didn’t know if the thing was full or not.

He walked along the base until he came to an oversized red pipe with yellow markings. A large valve with a yellow handle stood on top. Another metal padlock and chain kept the lever in place. The mouth of pipe was large enough to stuff a grapefruit inside of it. He gripped the lever and pulled it to the right. The padlock and chain kept it from turning.

Gus took a deep breath and looked at the little office building. Painted in gray and black, with windows on all sides except in the rear, the structure appeared glum under the sun. A huge load of orange sand bags were stacked behind it, like a collection of heavy bean bags. A stack of fire hoses, coiled like great green serpents, lay to the side of a hydrant. He walked to the front door and peered through a window. Charts and notepads covered the back wall, along with a blond model, topless, showing off a little more than her tan lines.

Tapping the glass with his plastic elbow pad, he smashed it on the second try. In seconds, he was inside the office and rooting through the one desk. He found a set of keys, but a quick search informed him there wasn’t anything else of interest. With no power, the box with a bunch of switches and levers was useless, so he exited and returned to the first tank.

Fingers trembling, he found the correct key and removed the padlock and chain with a yank. Steel crinkled and rasped on steel, and he tossed the length to the ground. He wrapped his hand around the valve lever, and after a dramatic pause, he pulled it.

And couldn’t budge it.

Best use a crowbar
, the captain called out from the truck.

“Don’t need no… crowbar,” Gus growled through clenched teeth.

I’m telling you. Use. A crowbar
.

“Lay off… with the crowbar.”

The sailor didn’t comment again. Gus strained with the valve and failed to make it move. Panting for air, he inspected the metal for rust and scowled. Grunting, he returned to the truck and fished out the crowbar.

“Not one goddamn word,” he warned the captain.

The old sailor kept his thoughts to himself, but the smile gleamed.

Gus went back and applied the crowbar. After almost a minute of wrestling with the valve and lever, he opened up the lines. Greenish liquid squirted out, splashing onto the ground in gulps. Amazed, Gus pulled harder on the crowbar, fighting the crankiness in the valve. He moved it another notch, and more gas splashed onto the ground, pooling at his boots. He wondered why they left the entryway for the tankers open. Perhaps they had something like sandbags to seal the opening if there was a spill. In any case, Gus didn’t mind. He stood back and became mindful of where the gas pooled. It interested him for only a few more seconds before he went to the next tank and repeated the process. More gas splashed down, its smell pungent, sharp, and not at all bad. He believed the second one was filled with ethanol from the urine-like colour, but wasn’t sure. He knew there were plenty of octane-spiking additives that went into engine fuel, and there were probably more beneficial ones he wasn’t aware of, but none of that mattered as long as it all burned when he put a match to it.

He opened the remaining tanks, but only four had fuel in them. The valves spat fluid onto the concrete as if vomiting. Gus looked around for the storm drain, but couldn’t find one. The grated hole wasn’t anywhere inside the compound either, which puzzled him even more. Had he missed something?