The Survivors: Book One (17 page)

Kenn's sharp gaze found Adrian directing the camp members in the parking area and his eyes narrowed, feet already moving. Was someone sneaking through the cars?

He was at the leader’s side seconds later, drawing frowns from the men around them, but instead of saying anything, he chose to handle it himself, hoping to earn points. When the shadow tried to slip a hand between the metal bodies, Kenn locked in a tight grip, nine-mill pointed at the infiltrator's head.

Adrian felt his spirits lift. “Easy, Marine. He’s one of ours."

Realizing it was a test or challenge of some type, Kenn leered, as he let go. “Boo-ya.”

Adrian looked around at the surprised men, most of whom hadn’t seen the rookie, Jeremy, at all because of the blowing sand. “Training lesson number eight - sometimes, no matter how or what you plan for, Fate throws in a wild card and you do the best you can to survive.”

He gave Jeremy a nod. “Pass. Help them set up the targets and we’ll see if our new man knows how to use the weapon on his hip."

Kenn took the hint, reholstering, as Jeremy threw him a sharp glare and moved off.  “Maybe I could help with a drill or something."

Adrian eyes were full of warning, “That and more, but you’ll have to work for it. Nothing’s free in this new world, and certainly not here in Safe Haven."

“I’ve always earned my way before and I expect to now.”

“Welcome aboard, grunt. Let’s get to work.”

Kenn grinned as he fell in on Adrian’s right, very aware of the camp watching him openly, whispering, wondering who he was.
Finally! The attention he craved.

Charlie hid his frown and stayed close to Kenn. It felt good here, but it wasn’t home and he had a strong feeling that the Marine would want to stay and never go back. These were okay people, the teenager could feel that, but he wanted his mom.

She said she was coming soon, he couldn’t help but doubt. He’d heard her calls to someone named Markus, was sure Kenny had too, though he had pretended to be asleep, and Charlie was afraid for her. He and Kenn were Marines and they had been in big trouble more than once - been lucky to escape. She would never make it alone, needed help that could not only get her here, but fight for her. Kenny was a true bad-ass and not just anyone would be able to handle him.

Chapter Nine

Ground Hogs’ Day

NORAD Road, Colorado

1

Any hopes Samantha had of finding help at Cheyenne Mountain was gone before she got there. The smoke she had sort of been following all morning rolled up from behind the hills in thick, black waves that signaled fresh devastation. Then, there were those big, wide-winged birds circling menacingly in the sky above Colorado Springs - all clear signs that something was wrong.

Sam had built it up in her mind that the government had been ready for decades. All she had to do was get there, persuade just one guard to check her name, her prints, and she would be safe inside the protective bunker. Ignoring the voice that asked why she was more worthy of protection than any of the dead she’d passed along the way, Sam had pushed herself relentlessly, making eight to twelve miles a day on foot. She longed to drive (she was sure some of the vehicles she passed wouldn’t have been damaged by the EMPs), but she couldn’t handle any attention she might attract.

The dreams of safety and authority had been the only thing keeping her going for the last four frightening weeks. Alone and mostly defenseless, Samantha was moving through a new, unknown world that tried hard every day to break her.

This kind of existence went against everything she’d been raised with. Her sheltered childhood and wealthy parents allowed her to stay above all the human misery she was seeing daily now, and it was heartbreaking. So many times she had the thought of just gathering supplies and hiding somewhere, but the idea of real safety at the compound had kept her feet moving through Rawlings, where rats as big as a loaf of bread were starting to take over, and by Table Rock, where she’d been chased out of a barn by an animal that looked like a cat and acted like a rabid raccoon.

This morning, she had bleached her yellow locks to kill the lice that were now immune to pesticide products. She wasn’t sure where she had picked them up, thought it was likely from the dead soldier when she’d taken his gun and ammo. In all reality, the tough little bugs were the least of her worries.

To distract herself, she’d been looking for a groundhog, only a little interested in knowing if another six weeks of winter was in the future. Even more so, she needed a break from the flashes of murdering Henry, of the fear that Melvin was lurking, looking for her, but mostly, of finding no help. She hadn’t seen one of the elusive creatures, but she had seen a dead porcupine with what was probably a gunshot wound, and wasn’t comforted.

Bracing against the stiff, gritty wind trying to shove her off of her feet, Samantha shifted her battered pack onto her other shoulder, stepping carefully over broken glass and wide cracks in the rough, weedy pavement. Ahead, she could see a lump in the street that was surely a body.

With the sole of her boot flapping with each step, Samantha drew in a ragged breath and kept going. Instead of giving into the tears that wanted to drown her in disappointment and fear, she took another step. When she passed the uniformed man, who had been shot in the back, she wiped away a stray tear, telling herself it didn’t matter if they were all dead. There would still be something she could use, maybe even a radio she could listen to for some idea of where to try next.

Longing for the warmth of the sun she could only just make out behind the thick layer of debris covering the sky, the Storm Tracker instinctively stayed to the left as she came to the top of a hill, where the wind was sharper, stronger…reeked.

Glad for her goggles in the heavy smoke that swirled over the top of the road in waves, she moved between the trees so she wouldn’t be outlined by the dim sky. Kneeling down, Sam looked own at the place she would have been, where she would have died, if not for the chopper crashing.

Buried inside the Cheyenne Mountain complex, the huge steel doors to the government’s once impenetrable compound were open, releasing pillars of thick, black smoke. They drew Samantha’s eye repeatedly as she looked over the devastated shack city that was spread out far into the distance. There were no signs of survivors.

The fences which were supposed to protect the cave-like entrance were gone. Entwined with blackened strings of holiday lights, she could see parts of barbed wire littering the sprawling refugee camp that lay smoldering on the canyon floor at the base of the enormous stone entrance. The sign announcing what was inside wasn’t visible through the smoke and flames still shooting out of the airtight doors.

The refugee camp was a sad, pathetic mix of moldy, box homes. Most covered in plastic, boards and wood of every kind formed haphazard living quarters. There was also a crowded cemetery at the far corner, telling her that these people had come here just after the War. These were the families of those who’d been taken in the draft and they had been here ever since, slowly dying on the indifferent doorstep of safety. Had anyone been let in?

Almost able to hear the hum of flies swarming around the dead, Sam's horrified eyes went over row after row of destroyed cooking, sleeping, and laundry areas. A junkyard of cars stripped of everything usable or tradable, more than a few obviously used as shelter. She raised her goggles, unable to stop the tears. No. Not one of them. These people had been desperate, dying. They would have overrun the guards the second the door was opened.

 This was something the government had planned on doing nothing about, and those running things inside had probably watched the slaughter with relief. Well, probably, until just one compassionate soldier or unwilling "draftee" had opened the door to help, unable to watch his own people, maybe even his own family, be murdered, and the compound had been breached.

Sam settled deep in the cover of the flower-dotted brush, sheltered from the sharp wind, while she waited for the fires to burn out.
It could have happened that way.
Then again, these people might have just been the bait to get the doors open. That also had a ring of truth to it and she looked at the battle scene with new understanding.

Blackened, smoldering piles of debris highlighted dead bodies lined up on the compound’s huge front steps, mostly men with gunshot wounds. The women and girls were gone, obviously taken. She pushed away the thought of how bad their lives must be now.

Sam wasn’t sure if she could see anything moving, her view blocked by huge mountain slopes of constantly swaying spruce trees, but from this vantage point, she might be able to see their campfires tonight, she decided.

The thick layer of clouds overhead threatened rain, or worse, by morning so she began setting up her small shelter - a painstakingly tight-woven roof made of rubber bands around straw and leaves, and lashed over a wooden frame. Tomorrow she would go down. She was dreading it, but hoped there would be little bits of food and maybe, just maybe, the location of another compound she could go to.

2

Early the next morning, with the smoke mostly gone from the front doors, Sam went to see what remained of the facility.

She had a very hard time forcing her feet to pass through the blackened, bloody entrance to the bunker. She tried hard not to stare at the dead, but again, she couldn’t help crying for them as she moved over and around hands outstretched for mercy that hadn’t come. Another two hundred American lives, gone.

Footsteps echoing back eerily, Samantha slowly entered the tall, concrete tunnel with wide, nervous eyes, as sharp, glittering pieces of glass crunched loudly under her boots. Thin clouds of smoke still lingered above her head, and snapping flies tried unsuccessfully to invade her long trench coat and gloves as she walked.

The red lights that signaled a backup generator in use comforted her as the dim daylight faded from view. She wasn’t sure she could have come in without it. The feeling made her think of the King novel where the guy walked through a tunnel crammed with cars full of dead bodies - in the pitch black with only a lighter. Not her and not for any reason.

She had a gun, a Taser that may or may not work, two knives, and a can of mace, but she didn’t feel any safer as she wound deeper, ears straining for any sounds. This new world was full of death and destruction, more of it down here in these long, dark, concrete halls. As she picked through each room, Sam kept a hand on her weapon, thinking the downside of the red lights was that she could see the horrors too.

Dead men in uniform littered the stone halls, blood smears and bullet casings hard to avoid slipping on. She flipped her belt light to high as she stepped into the first room. It was obviously a security area, the four stiff bodies and blood splatter making her step right back out.

The next three rooms held more of the same. There were no corpses, but the spray on the walls showed that there had been, and she wondered why these bodies had been removed and not the rest. A trap for troops just making it to the complex?

Catching a faint hint of gasoline, Sam moved by open doors marked Utilities and Lavatories, knowing they wouldn't hold anything she needed. The tunnel she was in quickly dead-ended into a spacious, bunk area with a lot of bodies in the beds, wearing clothes that were an even mix of uniforms and Capitol Hill casual.

Not sure if she could make herself go into the room despite the lights, Samantha went back to the stairs, thinking she would try it last if there was nothing else. There had to be three dozen corpses in that big room and she didn’t want them between her and the outside for any length of time.

Certain the main compound would be deeper, Sam chose the door marked ‘Sub-basements E-M’. Moving into the bowels of the Cheyenne Mountain operations center, she could hear water gushing like falls, beating down above her. The next level was K, marked ‘Water’. She stepped through the doorway, but only stayed for a minute. The reservoir was there, but the reek of gasoline told her the attackers had filled their own supply, and then ruined what they couldn’t carry so that no one else could use it.

There was damage was on the stairs too, torn pieces of signs and posters, more bullet casings. Sam eased further down the narrow metal steps, wincing when her sole flapped loudly. She went through each door she found, coming right back out of most - the fire damage and reek of corpses was simply too much. On the wall next to the door marked only as ‘M’, was a charred and broken hand scanner, and Sam knew she was in the right place.

Open, riddled with gunshots, the door hung crookedly on the frame and looked like it had fared the best. The room itself was destroyed - broken furniture, bodies, glass, and bloody papers littering the thin, red carpet. Her eyes scanned the room, but saw no other exits, no other doors. Surely, there was more than this?

Climbing the stairs to the previous floor, Samantha noticed another door in the shadows of the wall, another melted hand scanner. When the door wouldn’t open, she frowned. Survivors who had locked themselves in? What should she do? Sam looked down, saw that the floor was dark and blackened as if it had been burned. Her stomach lurched as she realized what odor was lurking under the harsh smell of smoke.