The Survivors: Book One (29 page)

Stomach and teeth clenched, the sobbing woman forced her shaking hands to drop the knife and grab the full, open bottle of rubbing alcohol. She dumped it over the heavily-bleeding wound, snatching up the second knife with her other hand before the waves of agony could overwhelm her, moaning.

Tears blurring her vision, she shoved the red-hot end over the gaping hole, and her lungs burned before she stopped screaming.

Twice more to be sure she had gotten it all, Sam could feel her heart thudding in her chest, nothing else except the flames that had become her leg. She dropped the bloody metal back into the fire, grasping the syringe of morphine with jerking fingers.

Crying waves tears of misery, she only gave herself half of the liquid, and was grateful when the waves of pain immediately sank down into a nasty monster. The morphine was powerful, consuming, and she was unprepared for the strength of the liquid gold as it made her head swim.

When she was sure she had herself under control, she shot a generous dose of antibiotics into her thigh and then sat still, trying to stay awake, afraid of the wound breaking open, terrified of her dreams. Melvin and Henry were with her most nights, often joined by the Press Secretary from the bunker, and while she knew it was just her mind working through it all, she couldn’t help being afraid, looking over her shoulder.

Brief flares of light in the darkness had come sporadically, made her go still until they were gone. With NORAD being destroyed, Samantha saw no reason to keep looking for the government. She didn't know for sure what she would do yet, but if the surgery worked, she might be in Cheyenne by April Fools’ Day.

Pain was on her in thick waves, stealing her breath and Sam thought of her Seattle office with longing. She had spent more time there than the small condo she’d been left in her parents will. She hadn’t been an active member of the weather service, only a computer message they’d been told to listen to no matter what the data said, but she had been well-treated, her office full of luxuries designed to keep her close.

"Prize rat in a cushy run,” she slurred, crying again, ashamed of her life. She’d been part of the problem.

Some of this was her fault. Miserable, exhausted, her eyes closed less than a minute later, the pain and drugs too much. Sam slumped back against the bed of cushions and pillows she’d made, as the darkness swallowed her. Outside, the snow began to fall.

2

Wwhhhoooo!

Sam was moaning in agony before her eyes were even open, hands automatically going to her wound. She screamed as clumsy fingers found the raw, angry flesh of her leg.

She jerked awake, groaning as the room spun, and her stomach lurched from the smells and mess. Taking shallow, rapid breaths, she gave herself the rest of the Morphine in the syringe without sitting up, slamming the needle into her other thigh.

Her empty stomach churned, and she gagged. Tears streamed from her eyes, and Sam concentrated only on holding her guts in, as the pain slowly sank back.

After a moment, she pried her eyes open. Cleanup had to be done. It had been an animal outside that had woken her. The mess was already drawing predators, even though she could hear the wind and snow beating against the cabin. Her dream flashed through her mind, the latest vision. A blizzard where places on the edge of the storm would see sudden temperature drops. The War’s death count was about to climb.

As if to prove her point, the storm outside picked up, freezing rain slamming against the windows, and she jumped at a quick movement in the corner. Squinting, her blurry eyes told her it wasn’t a threat. It was a mouse, and it looked normal. It was the first good thing she’d seen in weeks. Maybe she could find it something to eat.

Samantha forced herself to move, and to use the bedpan, leg crying the whole time, flaring up to shout at each jar and wobble. She gently cleaned herself with alcohol pads, relieved to see the dark red lines were lighter, and then forced herself to drink a cup of water and eat a pack of stale peanut butter crackers. She tossed one into the corner for the mouse to find later.

She already missed the fire, shivering and hating the dark, but she just wasn’t up to all the effort required to relight it. For now, she had a big stack of blankets and a couple of flashlights nearby, and that would have to be enough.

Leg starting to scream, Sam took another half syringe of morphine, eyes closing in bliss, and she jerked the covers over herself with careless hands, head swimming. She would rest a while and then she’d be okay. She told herself that repeatedly, needing the comfort now that loneliness had caught up with her on her solitary journey.

Sam had finally come to hate the constant silence that enveloped the world now, longed to hear a compassionate voice. She needed to be with people again and as soon as she was able, she would be on her way to Cheyenne. Even if the people at the base were gone, there was an EPA approved weather shelter there that few knew of. She would check it out and stock it for the winter, make it her hideout.

It would be with a heavy heart. She couldn’t help but hope there would already be other survivors there, but knew it was too much to ask. Likely, there would be only more pain and death.

Chapter Fifteen

February 16
^th
, 2013

Near Roosevelt, Utah

1

“Harrison to Eagle One. Twelve o'clock, high.”

Adrian looked up from the roadmap he had splayed across the steering wheel, eyes narrowing on the huge black cloud coming over the distant hill towards them. It moved like a badly-trained platoon, spreading an evil shadow over the land, and Adrian leaned forward, “What the hell is…Shit! Convoy halt! Put it in park, and get down as low as you can!”

Doing 35 mph, he slammed both feet down, reaching for the trailer brake. Pulling the curved handle, he applied the clutch as he downshifted through half the gears, and then tugged the rear controls harder. The semi shuddered, grinding as the tires started to lock up and thick white smoke rolled from the back wheels.

Left hand straining to keep the heavily-loaded truck straight, he let go of the chicken-stick, using the pedals again, and the semi ground to a halt. “Neil, Kyle, get that truck of turkeys away from us!”

“What is it?”

Adrian groaned as their birds began clucking loudly, responding to the faint echoes, and were answered. “Everybody stay down! Fate sent us another wild card!”

The sickly flying birds headed straight for the convoy, an enormous flock of possible contamination. Adrian had enough time to wonder what species they had been - seeing bald wings and dead, black eyes - before all the flock arrived.

Birds began slamming into them, shattering windows, banging off doors and hoods with awful thuds, sending blood and guts flying as the blind, feetless radiation victims came in for a landing. They flew through open windows, pecking, calling to each other ceaselessly, and were killed by the vehicles nauseated occupants with horrified feet and fists. They squelched against trees, ripped apart on sharp, bare juniper branches, and hit the ground with wet, sickening thuds, the cloudy wind gusting them down faster than even the Eagles could handle. The flock was uncountable.

Adrian watched, knowing the sounds of their guns wouldn’t be enough to carry through the din of birds calling, screams, glass cracking, and awful, wet thuds. A fire of some kind? Loud stereos?

Now holding his vest over the cracked, gore-splattered windshield, Adrian saw Kenn step out of his truck, and knew instantly that the Marine was about to work his bolt and make himself look good doing it.
About damn time!

That’s exactly what Kenn was thinking as he quickly climbed onto the roof of the school bus. Birds were diving in for sightless landings all around him, and he began blowing the air horn he’d taken from his glove box. The kids had their windows down and were being pecked and scratched by the incoming birds. Sick birds, and he knew Adrian would be relieved that only a couple had gotten through. The lower half of the glass was taking the brunt of the aerial assault so far.

Kenn began blowing birds out of the sky before they could get into an open window, rotating and blasting the piercing air horn, and those watching were amazed when the flock immediately began to divert from their straight-at-the-ground course. How had he known that would work?

All of the Eagles followed Kenn’s lead, the guards carrying the loud horns for backup in case the weather knocked out their radios. The flock circled the camp in groups, dipping and spinning. Some stayed high, but most were confused, not sure where to go, and their bodies dropped from the sky like rain.

The guns were starting to take their toll, the ground littered with carnage, and the rest of the flock finally seemed to understand there was anger simultaneously, returning to higher ground in ragged staggers. Neat lines were also a thing of the past for the animal populations.

 Now, the guns were louder than the cries of the sick, blind birds, as they were flew by instead of trying to land. They called anxiously to each other to keep from getting lost. A minute later, they were out of sight, but their calls echoed for a long time through the gritty February sky.

“We’ll call it a day,” Adrian informed them. “Man on Point, take over.”

“Yes, sir!”

Kenn jumped from the bus, jeans and army jacket splattered with streaks of blood. He turned in a short circle, eyes evaluating, then waved Kyle over. He would cover things in the order he knew Adrian would have, and enjoy it that the Mobster wouldn’t be able to argue. For some reason, Kenn still found Kyle to be a rival, and though he had some hopes of swaying the Italian to his side, he couldn’t stop himself from showing the man where his place was.

“Have Neil do a perimeter, over in that onion field. Set it up and get them inside it. Send someone to the bus with first aid kits, and then set up a couple of showers and wash areas over here so we don’t contaminate our campsite. Make the wire tight and short.”

Kenn looked at his watch. “Almost lunch anyway. Tell Hilda to go ahead, but scrub the tuna sandwiches. There’s no way anyone will eat that shit now. Also, have Doug see to the Bitch. She’s taking pictures. When all that’s done, we’ll need new vehicles.
You
and your team see to it personally.”

Deeply-tanned hands clenched in anger, Kyle swallowed a nasty remark and got busy. He did indeed have a beef with Adrian’s new suit, but now was not the time.

2

Hours later, Adrian groaned as he lowered his 6’1” 230 lb, sore body to the dark bank of Duchesne Creek, not caring that mud was soaking into his dusty jeans. Both his knees popped, head aching from the fumes of all the cars they’d stripped, tanks they’d emptied. It had been a 20 hour day for him already, and it wasn’t over, but this area was ugly, full of death, and devoid of normal life. Even the mutating ants wouldn’t live here, and that frightened him. Would spending a day or two on this ground make his people sick?

Adrian sighed. They had to have a break soon, but not tomorrow or the next day. He had settled for making camp under the retractable awning of an apple orchard (long since stripped, with the owners body rotting on the front walk), and after seeing that Kenn knew how he wanted things, Adrian had come here to steal a few minutes alone in the darkness, worrying.

Inhaling softly, the tired leader tensed at a ripple from the slow-moving water that said something was still alive in that reeking liquid. He tried to take hope from it, moving his hand away from his gun. They were only about fifteen miles from Roosevelt, Utah, and he was very aware that horrible, unspeakable things had happened there. It was bad enough to make him consider backtracking despite all the extra miles it would add.

This land was broken, rotting and muddy. The roads were unbelievable, impassable without the tow trucks. Bridges were gone, fallen and washed away. Nearly every street was crammed full of vehicles, most empty of their drivers, and Adrian assumed that was from people fleeing California and Washington. They had watched entire, distant hillsides of mud collapse in the last few days, the thick, reddish ooze swallowing homes and highways, and the weather was the cause. It rained each morning now, and the saturated ground simply couldn’t hold any more. Barely above freezing most nights, the cold sleet was the color of ashes, and added more weight to the muddy hills…more chemicals to the land.

He had people wearing extra layers to avoid contact with the precipitation, sure it was full of toxins, but Adrian was almost positive they were on the very edge of some type of ground zero here. Besides the possible danger, the views were hard to ignore, and impossible not to feel.   Twisted, burned metal, crushed cars and building walls lay over the ground like grave markers. There were charred shoes, flattened fire hydrants, and of course, bones. Human and animal mixed together and scattered across the sagebrush land like a huge jigsaw puzzle that had been shoved off a table.