15
“GOOD EVENING, LADIES AND GENTLEMEN. A special shout out to any Drinkin’ Bros out there still breathing. You don’t know how lucky you are. I just breezed through Albuquerque and let’s just say that it was never a beautiful town, but now it’s as though God left a steaming turd on a parking lot. Some poor bastard on the street told me the cartels have started coming in at night, raping and burning just for fun. If you’re planning on wintering in Albuquerque, I would reconsider travel.
“Halsey Field in San Diego, California called in. The entire Coronado isthmus has been locked down since the collapse. The naval base has a nuke ship supplying power and water. Sounds like a large armed force from Mexico — probably cartels — had been sweeping through San Diego looting until they ran into the SEALs and Navy boys holding down Coronado Island. Big mistake for the cartels. The Navy’s planning an offensive to clear out San Diego soon. What is it the cartel says, ‘plata or plomo?” Give ’em nothing but lead, Navy boys, nothing but lead.
“On a personal note, I’m running low on water and, quite frankly, I can no longer pretend that my blow-up doll is a real person. If there are any Drinkin’ Bros listening in who would like to invite slightly ripe-smelling radio show host to Sunday dinner, I would be greatly obliged…”
Holiday Inn
Rawlins, Wyoming
In the wee hours of the morning, long before daylight, Chad rousted his family. They had packed everything the night before.
Pacheco drove Audrey and Samantha in the Blazer, dropping Chad off on the corner of a residential street just outside downtown Rawlins.
The day before, Chad had been introduced to his pilot, gleaning enough information to figure out where he lived. The town owed Chad a flight to Salt Lake City, but Chad had become eighty percent convinced the mayor intended on dragging his feet, forcing Chad and his family to stay in Rawlins, forever prostituting themselves to the town’s interests.
Chad pretended to consider the offer, quietly gathering the information necessary to take matters into his own hands.
The back door of the pilot’s house had been left unlocked, a bad habit during the Apocalypse. But Rawlins had never been a town that required locked doors. Chad slipped quietly inside, wearing his NVGs and carrying his 1911 handgun.
After exploring a bit, he found the main bedroom and stepped to the foot of the bed. He carefully laid back a heavy quilted comforter and tapped the pilot’s big toe with his handgun.
“Whaaaa…?” The pilot sat up, groggy.
“Hey, bro,” Chad whispered. “I’m Chad. We met yesterday. Our flight’s been pushed up. We’re leaving now.”
The pilot stared at the dark shape at the foot of his bed. “Why’re you in my bedroom?”
“It’s all good,” Chad calmed him. “We need to get in the air. We have an early departure time.”
“Okay, let me get my pants on.” The pilot slid off his bed, groggy enough not to question anything. Amazingly, his wife kept snoring.
Ross Homestead
Oakwood, Utah
Dawn broke clean and crisp, fall now undeniably upon the Homestead. One of the doctors, Doc Eric, smoked a cigar, standing on the cobble drive outside the infirmary.
Jeff hadn’t slept, spending the night cleaning up the night battle. The last thing he needed was for more wounded enemies to end up in the infirmary. He stayed up to make sure all the bodies had been policed up from the forest and deposited outside the mountain perimeter.
Doc Eric had acquainted himself with assault rifles and handguns long before the collapse. Few knew this, but Doc Eric scored as one of the best combat shooters in the Homestead. Even so, he would probably never pick up a gun in anger, his skills as a surgeon more urgently needed in the infirmary. Unlike the other four doctors who were part of the group, Eric carried his Glock 17 everywhere, including the infirmary and surgical bay.
Jeff walked up silently beside Doc Eric, testing the waters.
“You got yourself a passel of trouble this morning, big guy,” Doc Eric said, taking a puff on his Swisher Sweet.
“I suppose you’re right about that,” Jeff said.
Doc guffawed. “On the positive side, your boy is hanging in there strong. He’s still sleeping and feverish, but my money’s on him making it.”
Jeff nodded, thankful for the update.
“I couldn’t let those wounded men stay here,” Jeff launched into his explanation. “The longer we worked on them, the more we’d want to keep them here, and the more they’d find out about us. When we finally decided to send them away, they’d be a gaping wound in our security—a massive leak of information.”
“Trust me,” Doc Eric said, “I understand. Those men had to go, but that doesn’t change anything. The med staff, and everyone who listens to the med staff, have convinced themselves that you’re the new head of the Gestapo.”
“I guess that makes me Adolf Hitler.”
“No, I believe that would make you Hermann Göering.”
More a lynch mob than a meeting, a group of concerned citizens of the Homestead gathered outside the infirmary. A night’s sleep had done nothing to temper their anger.
As the crowd formed on the cobblestone drive outside the doors of the four-car, garage-cum-infirmary, an angry debate circulated around the mass of people, the tide leaning precariously toward revolt against Jeff Kirkham and, by extension, Jason Ross.
Alena Jameson did more than her fair share of the shouting. “If we allow this to continue, every one of us is complicit in murder. If we choose to live like this—like barbarians—then why is there any reason to live?”
Doctor Hodges followed. “I cannot, in good conscience, practice medicine like this. I’ve taken an oath. I could be stripped of my license for what happened last night.”
“Who elected these men to run this place anyway?” another person shouted.
The mob raged on and, as it did, contrary voices arose.
Walter Ross shouted, “I’m no fan of killing. But I have to trust that our military people know what they’re doing. I trust that what Jeff Kirkham did is an appropriate response to being attacked.”
“They aren’t behaving anything like military professionals,” Alena hissed. “We don’t stick enemy wounded on fence posts to die. When has America ever done that?”
Round and round the shouting went. The tides of fear and anger came and went, smashing against one another. Many feared the violence, worried it might turn against them. Others feared for their children’s safety, willing to accept violence to protect them. Others channeled their despair—brought on by the collapse of society—and turned it against Jeff Kirkham.
Above the infirmary, standing back from the edge of the balcony so he couldn’t be seen, Jeff listened. Then he did what he always did when faced with a threat: he acted.
Switching to the radio channel reserved for his commanders, Jeff called in all QRF squads. He ordered his men to surround the meeting, weapons ready.
As Jeff spoke into his radio, giving orders, he didn’t notice Jason Ross silently stepping around the corner of the balcony. Jeff turned and regarded Ross, knowing he had been overheard ordering troops to take up arms against the people of the Homestead. Jeff and Jason looked one another in the eye for a long moment. Jason nodded and took another sip of his coffee.
It took five minutes for Jeff’s armed men to file into the courtyard. Nobody appeared to notice. The argument had taken on a life of its own. Without restraint and leadership, the debate could go on for hours.