Redaction: Extinction Level Event (Part I) (51 page)

David paged down. It took a blink for the satellite to update the area. Scorched earth lapped at the South Mountain preserve. A used tire lot belched black smoke, obscuring most of the ground. Nothing seemed to be moving in the two square mile display. Had Wheelchair Henry made it out or been asphyxiated by the lack of oxygen?

“We’ll combine your men along with the few healthy Airmen and Marines that we have left and send them out to set up evac stations along the route Mavis and I settled on.”

“We can be ready to leave in an hour.” David accepted the handheld and used his body to stop the sunlight from bleaching the screen. The routes followed washes more than established roads. Obviously, the plan was for the citizens to walk across the desert. Could they make it to safety before the nuclear power plant melted down? “We’ll have to make multiple trips to disperse everything.”

Reaching over the tablet, Lister swiped at the screen, changing the display. The dots were identified as land supplied. The triangles would be air drops. “You won’t have to do it all.”

David nodded. He hoped the pilots were half as good as they bragged. Misplacing even one shipment would be the difference between life and death for everyone.

With so many sick, they couldn’t afford to lose even one person to a fubar moment.

Chapter Forty-Two

Trent shambled forward, keeping his attention on the ground. A blizzard of ash fluttered around him, shrouding the cortege of people accompanying him east. Sweat matted his hair from the heat. In the distance, fire roared, wood crackled, and things blew-up. What, he didn’t know nor did he particularly care. He just wanted to reach his condo, shut out this hellish world, and breath clean air.

Another explosion rocked the world.

This one transmitted itself through the ground. He staggered to the right. A can rattled to a stop against the weeds trimming the side of the road. His vision dimmed—maybe from the thickening smoke, maybe not. The soggy, wet fabric of his repurposed shirt sleeve clung to his face and his lungs heaved like bellows.

He had to reach home. He had to be there when the cops arrived to tell him about his ex-wife’s suicide.

Then he’d tell them about his Jag and the bitch who’d stolen it.

The thought prodded him on.

It was her fault he was stuck in this mess. Hers, his fucking ex-wife and that stupid whore, Belinda who’d died on him from a few drops of GHB. He should be home, enjoying a glass of wine and maybe an explicit phone chat with one of the other sluts who had been sexting him lately.

A human shape dropped from his peripheral vision. A soft thud soon followed.

And then something hit his boot and wrapped around his ankle.

Stumbling, he went down on one knee. Stones dug into his knee through his worn pants. Fuck! Rolling over, he sat on his ass and groped for whatever had tripped him. His fingers danced over the pavement, before closing over paper. It fluttered in his hand as he brought it close enough to see it. He stared at Andrew Jackson. Holy shit! It was a twenty.

That couldn’t have brought him down.

After tucking the bill into his pocket, he reached down to his boot soles. His fingers brushed something hard. His nails scratched the bumpy surface before he grasped it. When he lifted it, his wrist protested. Damn, the thing was heavy. Once he brought it closer, he blinked the ash from his eyes. A book? What good was that?

He dropped it onto his lap. Ash blew off the white cross on the cover. A gust of hot air whipped the cover open and flipped through the pages. The motion stopped at a Benjamin wedged into the pages. Trent slapped the one hundred dollar bill, before the wind snatched it away. Money. There was money in the Bible.

Now that he could use.

Pinching the covers closed, he surged to his feet and then tucked the book under his arm. Someone bumped into his side. He clamped down on the Bible as he spun about. “Watch it, asshole.”

“Rats!” The silhouette shouted before being swallowed by the gray and black blizzard.

Rats? Trent’s brain struggled to make sense of the word, to place it in its proper context.

Someone screamed—a high-pitched shriek.

The hair on his neck rose.

Squeaks followed.

Then more screams.

And more squeaks—a sonic wall of them.

A gust thinned the ash blizzard baring the street to his eyes. No, not street. The writhing squirming mass of black and brown had shiny beads for eyes and pink tails. They swarmed closer, leapt onto the legs of a fleeing man, bringing him to the ground. He collapsed with a grunt and thud, before being buried under the mass of furry bodies. Most of the vermin kept charging. To the tune of muffled screams, a few stayed to chew on fingers and soft tissue.

Cries pierced the haze as the rat-covered mass rolled from side to side, plucking at the vermin swarming him.

“Rats!” Pivoting on his heel, Trent surged forward. His pounding heart kept time to his churning feet. Run. Faster. Faster! They wouldn’t get him. He overtook a large lump and slammed against the side of it.

The person went down with a yelp.

Good. Trent continued his sprint. Gasping, he sucked the mask into his open mouth. Maybe if he knocked enough people down, he could get away. He raced through one intersection then another. His gaze flew to the sign at the corner. Ash obscured the letters. Where was he? The shrieks and squeals faded a bit. A stitch dug at his side. Digging his fingers in, he slowed to a jog. Humming started in his head. How long could he keep up this pace?

Another ten minutes?

Twenty?

He used to do an hour at the gym. Why couldn’t he keep up the pace now? Right foot. Left foot. He plodded on. What was wrong with him? Wheezing, he slowed to a fast shamble. Shouldn’t there be a tree around here somewhere, so he could climb it and get a little rest? He staggered on. Bits of cinderblocks and wood littered the road.

“Come to my voice.” A man called out. One that rang with authority.

Finally! Trent’s knees buckled and his elbow clipped a hunk of block standing in the road. Peering into the ash fog, he tried to pick out a shape. Any shape. Pain shot up his arm and ricocheted around his skull. Panic soured his mouth. Had the man left? “Hello?”

His voice sounded rusty with disuse and his tongue stuck to the roof of his dry mouth.

“We’ll get you to safety. Just come to my voice.”

Safety. Home. Paradise. Trent kept his attention on the ground. One boot followed another. He’d make it. He was strong. A ray of light speckled the veil of ash.

“I—I see a light. Is that you?” Trent forced his left foot forward, and then his right. His lungs heaved, blowing the mask out before sucking it against his teeth. He tried to follow the light to its source but lost it in the swirl.

“Yes,” the man answered. “Come to the light.”

Fear trailed a cold finger down his spine and he stumbled. Pebbles bit into his palms and knees. When he landed, trembling muscles begged him to stay down. That’s what those new age freaks said happened when you died. He was too important to die. He coughed tasting soot and grit.

“Did you hear me?”

Trent swallowed the clot in his throat. If this was his Maker, he wasn’t about to meet Him prostrate. He pushed to his feet, swaying. “Y-yes.”

A man stepped from the swirling ash. A cone of yellow light surrounded the smooth silhouette of his head and highlighted the rifle in his arms.

Trent blinked. Not his Maker after all. “You’re a soldier!”

About time they showed up. He thought all the bastards had gone to cower in their bases.

“Not a soldier, a Marine.” Stepping forward, the Marine latched onto Trent’s arm and tugged him to the left.

Gripping the bible, Trent stumbled along. “Stop pushing.”

At least the soldiers would understand money. How many Benjamins would he need to get a ride home? He sure as hell wouldn’t be walking. Too many losers clogged the streets to say nothing of the rats.

Glowing yellowish eyes burned through the gray haze.

The Marine stopped as the eyes brightened. “We’re hearing tales of rats.”

Trent heard the rumble of an idling truck engine right before the light sharpened into headlamps. A truck. They had a truck. He should definitely be able to get a ride.

“Sir!” The Marine shook Trent’s arm. “How far back are the rats?”

He snapped back to the present. What had the man asked? The sound of a squeak punctuated the haze. “Rats. They’re a couple of blocks back.”

The Marine shoved him toward the truck. “Get in the back.”

Trent stumbled forward. With his free hand, he traced the side of the truck until he reached the back. The truck rolled forward. He chased after it.

In the strong beams of Halogen headlamps, uniformed arms reached out. Strong fingers wrapped around his wrist. “We’ll need both hands to pull you up, Sir.”

Tucking the Bible under his chin, Trent reached his newly freed hand up.

Another soldier grabbed hold of his wrist.

Soon his feet left the ground. His thighs slammed into the bumper then scraped against it. Son of a bitch! Were they trying to skin him alive? He clamped his jaw shut. A heartbeat later, he’d cleared the gate.

“Can you stand?” The soldier on his right asked.

“Yes. I think so.” Clasping the Bible, he panted and locked his knees as they released him.

The truck rolled forward, hit a bump and pitched the bed to the side.

Trent lurched against another soldier. The bible with his money fell out of his hands and dropped to the floor.

The soldier grunted and pushed him away. “You’ll have to sit on the floor. We’re pretty full.”

Floor! Trent straightened and brushed at his clothes. Ash smeared into the fabric lightening the colors of his flannel shirt. Only then did he look around. In the faint light, he made out the gray faces staring back at him—young, old, men, women and children.

Flakes of white swirled under the canvas covered ribs of the truck.

Maybe it was the ash, but they all seemed to be in a trance of sorts. Only the sobbing woman in the corner displayed any emotion.

Great, he’d have to sit next to her! Women. Why did the soldiers have to pick up the useless ones? And that one. He eyed the fat blob taking up two seats on the bench. He wouldn’t want to screw her even after consuming two bottles of tequila. This made her pretty worthless as far as he was concerned. Should have left her to the rats.

“Sir” the soldier barked.

Trent braced his hand near Fatty’s thigh, before turning to face the man. “Yes?”

“I think this belongs to you.” The soldier held out the Bible to Trent.

He eyed the three feet separating them. Why couldn’t the soldier bring it to him? The lazy bastard just wanted to get fat off the public dole. Sighing, he retraced his steps and grabbed the Bible. The soldier didn’t let go. What the fuck was wrong with him now? Had he seen the money? Anger coiled low in his belly.

“Are you a preacher?”

Trent blinked. Preacher? He stared down at the book. The white cross gleamed in the faint light. The preacher down at the Mission had garnered respect. Sure, it was from a bunch of losers, but this lot was only one step above. Besides, no one liked, let alone respected insurance salesmen. “Sure. I’m a preacher.”

Maybe it would get him dropped off first. Preachers had to be busy men, didn’t they?

The soldier nodded and released the Bible. “Maybe you could say a few words of comfort.” He jerked his head to the sobbing woman in the corner.

Fuck! Trent hugged the book to his chest. He’d rather offer the bitch a smack across the face and give her something to cry about. That wouldn’t work. The soldier probably thought women should be protected. They were too stupid to know of female treachery. “I’ll see what I can do.”

Of course, if he comforted the blubbering woman, he might not have to pay for the ride. He cleared his throat while picking a path through the legs and feet of the other passengers. None acknowledged him or offered him their seat. Bastards.

He reached the sobbing woman’s side.

“Hey.” Feeling the soldier’s eyes on him, he cleared the swear words from his throat. Twisting about, he slid down the side of the truck until his ass hit wood. Great, he’d probably get a splinter while the worthless bitch cried on her comfy bench. “I’m a preacher. You have something you want to confess?”

She rocked back and forth and continued to sob.

Trent shrugged. He’d tried. Drawing his legs up against his body, he thumbed through the bible. The hundred was still there. So was another. And another. Practically one for every Apostle and Saint. He counted ten fifties in the mix. Not a bad haul.

“We got incoming!” The shout pierced the canvas. The truck lurched to the side and metal groaned as if someone jumped on the running boards. Soon after, the rat-a-tat-tat of gunfire sounded.

Squeals responded. Bile applied a coat to his tongue. He drew his knees tight against his chest sandwiching the book. He’d be safe here. It was the soldier’s job to ensure it.

“Faster! They’re climbing up!”

The truck picked up speed as the firing continued. The truck jumped with a bone crunching slush.

The people in the bed collapsed against each other and the sobbing started in stereo.

Christ! Wasn’t he safe up here? He was high enough. Didn’t the soldiers know their job?

The two Marines at the back of the truck opened up their weapons. The light from the muzzles painted their masked faces in a golden glow. “Preacher!” yelled one. A ball of light hurtled toward him. The headlamp landed a foot away and skidded to stop against the sole of his boot. “Now is the time to read from the good book!”

Read. Now? Screams punctuated the squeaking. Numb fingers closed around the light. Why not? It would drown out the other sounds. Trent flipped open the pages. This was that damn Marine’s fault egging him into saying he was a preacher. Clearing his throat, he began to read. “In the beginning...”

Chapter Forty-Three