The Plague Years (Book 1): Hell is Empty and All the Devils Are Here (36 page)

“It’s about what I expected given his conversations with us,” said Chad.

“He has some other news about Macklin.” Said Craig. “He is apparently ‘wanted for questioning’ in regards to a bombing attempt.”

“He is in the Tri-Cities or was as of yesterday,” said Dave. “We chatted with one of his minions. So how is it you are in contact with Fort Lewis if NSA is penetrated? And we were told there was a POL shortage and electronic media was compromised.”

“POL is not a problem right now,” said Craig. “They have a quality assurance problem getting things like gasoline, but diesel, JP-4, and the like are flowing. We get motorcycle couriers back and forth through the exclusion zone pretty regularly to some pre-arranged document drops. They have also been using light aircraft and General Buckley’s jet to do message delivery. Because of how they are being watched, they don’t dare land and so they just drop small packages with messages and sometimes key supplies like medicine. We have a couple of diabetics in our group and it has been a Godsend. There are some plans for setting supply drops for cells like ours for food, fuel, and such, but they are just plans.”

“Exclusion zone?” asked Dave.

“There is an approximately twenty mile dead zone around the base with only a few pockets of survivors,” said Craig. “There are still large populations of infected in that area. Some are pretty far gone and merely violent and unpredictable, others are in reasonable condition and functioning rationally if violently. It’s confusing as it seems, some are controlled like the one you folks are dealing with and others are just plain nuts. Getting through it is tough. Lone motorcycle riders going fast can get through quickly but any larger groups draw too much attention.”

“Well, I am glad they are still fighting the good fight,” said Chad with resignation, “If you would, inform the Colonel that we are headed for Moscow, ID. I have a brother there and hopefully we can stay out of the limelight.”

“Right, he didn’t know or didn’t tell me where he thought you might head,” said Craig, “but he would like to make you an offer. He is desperate to set up cells that can give him reliable intel on what is happening. Wherever you end up, get word to us here or, if we have to move, leave a message in the toilet paper dispenser in the woman’s room. It’s been out for quite a while. Right now, there is little they can offer but big things are happening at Fort Lewis, it won’t be long before they can provide useful help. If you agree, take these.”

Craig handed Chad a sealed, tabbed note book.

“What’s this?” asked Chad.

“It’s a code book and authentication passwords that change daily based on the date,” said Craig. “That way, we won’t have to rely upon your dietary habits. It also includes a duress signal that only you will know. Get that word or phrase into any communication, and they will do what they can for you. The goal is to build a force to do extractions, but that is in the future.”

“Small beginnings,” said Dave.

“I’ll have to clear it with the rest of our party,” said Chad, “but I think we are in. One last thing though, we still need to get across the Columbia.”

“Well, the next bridge that would take your vehicles is up at Vantage,” said Craig. “If this was before the Plague, I would say just get back on State Route 24, go into Yakima, get on I-82, take it up to I-90 and that will take you to Vantage and the I-90 bridge across the Columbia. However the Yakima tribe has become very … isolationist. They banished any members who became infected very aggressively and are largely unscathed. They are armed to the teeth and shoot first and ask questions later. Attempts to communicate with them have been terminated with prejudice so I would go back down this entry road a few hundred yards and take the Priest Rapids Road along the Columbia. It turns to gravel for a while after the Priest Rapids Dam but take it slow and you will be alright. There are quite a few fishermen and such that have camped out down there so don’t be moving at night, they will likely shoot if they get scared.”

“I appreciate the information,” said Chad. “Give us a little time and we will be out of your hair.”

“Take all the time you need. Macklin’s gang has visited us twice,” said Craig with a smile, “and we let one guy go back last time with a note pinned to his shirt that said don’t come looking again. They haven’t.”

June 2
nd
, Monday, 12:36 pm PDT.

Macklin was furious. That nitwit Kevin had sent that kid called the Rugrat into the Strickland’s neighborhood and the punk had been caught and probably interrogated. Then that big wart on the face of humanity had Macklin dragged out of bed to hear the kid’s ‘confession’.

Macklin knew that he had better get out there quickly because they now knew about the MRAP. They could have rigged some fiendish countermeasure or could be gone completely. However, getting enough of these Slash heads to move and be semi-coherent took all morning. They were rolling now, but only God knew what awaited them.

The first thing they saw as they approached the neighborhood was the disconcertingly large pile of bodies, no doubt left as a warning to them. His normally loud and obnoxious confederates were quiet as they approached.

“Hey Macklin,” shouted Kevin from one of the ports on the side of the MRAP, “all these houses have signs in front of them. You suppose they are for sale?”

As Kevin laughed at his own joke, Macklin worried. He had been made to look the fool before trying to get at these people.

They drove around the pile and up to the front of the Strickland’s residence. Macklin grabbed the mike for the PA system before Kevin could get to it.

“Strickland, you know who this is,” said Macklin into the PA which amplified his voice to a painful level. “I am done messing around. Send out the girl and we will leave even though nothing would give me more pleasure than to kill you all. Mess with me one little bit, and that is exactly what I’ll do.”

One of the outriders on his Harley walked up to the sign that was posted in the front yard of the Strickland’s house and indeed, every other house in the neighborhood.

“Hey Macklin,” shouted the biker, “this sign says they left. It also says to leave the house alone as it is booby trapped.”

“Bring the damned sign here,” said Macklin through the open window of the MRAP, “so I can read it for myself.”

The biker grabbed the sign. There was resistance so he pulled harder. As the sign finally came up there was a small crack followed by a much larger explosion that hurled the hapless biker back against the MRAP. The explosive device was pretty low energy but the remains of Dave’s snow tire wheel had focused the blast like a primitive claymore mine and imbedded in the device’s outer shell were approximately a hundred roofing nails which killed the biker before he hit the side of the MRAP. Three nails also hit Macklin as he shouted through the window, none of which were fatal. It did cause him to slump in his seat and so he was spared the blast that came from Mary’s newly tilled flower garden.

Embedded in the newly tilled earth were four two foot PVC pipes that were six inches in diameter. They were horizontally laid with a slight up angle. The bottom foot contained a primitive black powder explosive. The next four inches had some cotton wadding and finally, a coffee can loaded with homemade napalm and a chemical igniter. As an added touch, Dave had added ground rust flakes and powdered aluminum. These last additives were the ingredients in thermite and as such, the flame burned very hot for the first few seconds.

The last few inches of the pipe were loosely packed with earth and rock to camouflage the opening. The name for these devices was fougasse or foo gas as the Americans called it in World War II. This weapon had been used in several conflicts as was taught in the improvised explosives course at Quantico that Dave had attended.

The same electrical charge that triggered the claymore also triggered the homemade fougasse mines. As the MRAP had not parked exactly where Dave had thought it would, the first mine’s projectile flew past the front of the MRAP and hit Heather’s Camry which was parked across the street, setting it aflame.

The next three impacted the MRAP and burst, covering the vehicle with flaming jellied gasoline. The gunner for the machine gun was covered and even in his drug addled state began screaming because of the high temperature burns he was receiving.

Two of the outriding bikers were also splattered with the burning napalm and began screaming and rolling on the ground, trying to extinguish the flames. The rest of the outriders, remembering what had happened previously at this address, took off for safer places, heading both directions along the street.

Those who decided to travel up the street and away from the route taken by the MRAP found several lengths of monofilament fishing line strung across the street in several places at varying heights. The first biker hit the line at sixty miles an hour and was in the process of accelerating. The first was a 50lb test line and even though it broke, the jerk took the first biker over backwards. The bike carried on and hit the second line and set off another homemade claymore which completely shredded the bike. The second rider, seeing the explosion, laid his bike down attempting to stop and so was below the level of the third trip wire which set off another fougasse mine. His gang mate behind him was not so fortunate and caught the wire across his chest.

The can missed the biker and bounded high into the air after ricocheting off of the roof of the house across the street. The chemical detonation was slightly delayed because the shock was not hard enough so it blew up spectacularly in the air raining fire down around much of the neighborhood. Several small fires were started in backyards and one abandoned home also was set on fire.

Those who retraced their route into the neighborhood fared better because the neighborhood, at Dave’s suggestion didn’t want to trigger the ambush prematurely. Never the less, from a half a dozen homes, people opened fire on the fleeing bikers with shotguns, rifles, and pistols. Few connected with the retreating bikers because of the difficulty of hitting a moving target, but after a couple of blocks, most of the bikers were injured, either by gunfire or mishaps while riding too fast on a city street.

In the MRAP itself, things were even more confused. Even though Macklin was out of the direct line of fire, quite a bit of napalm spattered into the cab through his open window. Droplets of extremely hot burning napalm scattered across Macklin, the dashboard, and the driver, momentarily incapacitating them both.

The automatic fire extinguisher kicked in and rinsed the burning napalm to the floor. Macklin rolled out of his seat. Meanwhile, Kevin, hearing the screaming gunner and seeing the burning napalm drip down through the open hatch, shot the gunner in the back of the head, ending the screaming. Then, grabbing a seat cushion to shield himself, he pushed the gunner’s dead but still burning body up and out of the hatch which he rapidly closed. The internal fire extinguisher rinsed the burning napalm to the floor and then out the baffled drain.

Kevin then took his smoking Glock 23 .40 caliber pistol and stuck the hot barrel in the ear of the driver.

“Drive, bitch!” he shouted.

The driver shook off his fear based paralysis and mashed the accelerator. The MRAP began moving forward about the time the mines triggered by the escaping outriders went off. The driver turned around and by driving through several front lawns and over one of the downed bikers, got the MRAP headed more or less the way they had come. Heather’s Camry, which was in flames and on that side of the street, hardly slowed the MRAP down as it smacked it out of the way.

“What do you think you are doing?” screamed Macklin.  

“Saving our asses,” said Kevin now aiming his pistol at Macklin. “You sure as shit don’t seem to care!”

“Why you,” sputtered Macklin, “I ought to …”

“I don’t give a shit what you ought to do,” said Kevin interrupting Macklin and pointing his pistol squarely at Macklin’s head. “I’ll be calling the shots now. You can stay or you can leave, but you will be on foot because your nice van with all the drugs and guns stays with me!”

June 2
nd
, Monday, 7:43 pm PDT.

Chad Strickland’s family and friends had spent most of the day picking their way along the Priest Rapids Road. A significant portion of the road was gravel fading to a two track dirt road and three times they had to pull the Camaro off the hump in the middle and adjust the road bed using hand tools. The last time had taken close to an hour. They had also gotten lost twice, taking roads that ended up in salt licks for cattle or farmer’s fields. They had seen several camps along the river but had so far been able to avoid getting close to them, although it had taken quite a bit of time to drive around them.

Everyone was hot, tired, and a little dehydrated. So it was to everybody’s vast relief that when they pulled onto I-90 from Huntzinger Road and could see the Vantage Bridge. It was almost two miles from exit to exit and it appeared to have a clear path across, though there were many abandoned cars and motor homes on the road.

Unfortunately, the rocks on the Priest River road had taken their toll on the tires of all the vehicles and Chad’s Subaru had the oldest set. They had just pulled out onto the interstate and were accelerating when the Subaru’s right front tire decided at that instant to fail catastrophically. Pieces of rubber flew everywhere but because they only doing thirty miles per hour and because of Chad’s quick reactions, they managed to keep it on the road. The other two vehicles pulled into a defensive triangle and while some members of the party worked, Dave, Heather, and Connor kept an eye out for traffic or other threats.

Sadly, the spare was under several hundred pounds of food, water, and other gear. Unloading it took the better part of an hour and it was agonizingly tantalizing to be literally on the entrance to the bridge that was obviously clear enough to cross. It was also aggravating that it was growing dark and they still had not yet gotten down to the spare tire.

Chad, Chris, Amber, and Mary were trying to unload the car as fast as they could, but because of the limited space, only two people could actually work so they created more inefficiency by getting in each other’s way. Finally Dave waved Chad over.

“We don’t have much time left before dark Chad,” said Dave.

“I know, and being out here in the open gives me the creeps,” said Chad. “I feel like every biker, infected gangbanger, and various other unsavories are watching every move. It’s also abundantly clear that we won’t make Moscow tonight. I’d hate like heck to camp here.”

“I was thinking the same thing,” said Dave. “I recall that there are some dunes and a gravel pit up on top of the canyon here just off to the south of highway 26. It would make a good place to hole up if we can get out of here before dark and across the river.”

“I’d hate to try and check the place out after dark,” said Chad agreeing. “But it’s going to be dark before we get this tire changed.”

“I could take the truck up the hill,” said Dave scrutinizing the route up the other side of the canyon, “and check it out before dark.”

“I don’t think so,” said Chad. “Most of my tools are in the truck and if what I suspect is true, there are going to be pieces of tire in between the calipers of the brake and the rotor as well as in other, less pleasant places to dig out. If we leave them, they could make for some serious problems before we get to Moscow.”

“I could go check it out, Dad,” said Connor. “We could run over there in the Camaro, check it out and be back in a few minutes. Fiona is getting bored and when she does, she is tough to put up with. I suppose I could leave her here with you guys while Amy and I took the run up to the gravel pit and came ...”

“No way are you leaving me behind, Connor,” said Fiona. She was as hot and tired as everyone else and riding all day over bumpy roads in the backseat of the Camaro hadn’t improved her mood one bit. “I am going nuts listening to you and Amy making lovely eyes at each other. I’d walk the rest of the way if I could, but if you two are going to do something interesting, I am not sitting here.”

“Young lady, that will be quite enough,” said Mary straightening her aching back. “That’s not a job for Connor and Amy anyway. If something should happen, who would take care of it?”

“Mom, I am almost eighteen and so is Amy,” said Connor in an exasperated tone.

“Your mom is right on this one, son,” said Chad raising his hand. “I know you have proven yourself level-headed and good in a fight, but maybe Chris or Dave might be a better choice?”

“Aw Dad,” said Connor, then, with an effort, he controlled his emotions. “I hate it when you are right. Look, we are just … scared and anxious just sitting here on the freeway with no traffic and looking out over a set from the ‘Walking Dead’. I thought we could get off the road and could calm down a bit.”

Chris looked up from the unloading task and wiped his brow.

“Connor, as much fun as I am having sweating here in the oncoming gloom, I think it might be better for Amber and me to make the recon run. If there was trouble, your mother would give your dad no end of grief. Besides, since I joined the ‘family’ I have always wanted to drive the Camaro,” said Chris with a smirk.

“Ok, that sounds good to me too,” said Dave. “I will limber up the .338 and Connor, you can stand watch with the M-1. It’s almost two miles across the bridge, if they do need help in the crossing, we can be some support from here.”

As the darkness approached, Chris and Amber took the Camaro out of the defensive triangle and slowly made their way down the left hand lanes of the freeway. While it was technically going the wrong way, it also happened to be the clearest lane.