Probably longer. She still had to research how long it took for the atmospheric radiation to normalize after Chernobyl and Fukushima. All she knew was that it took less than seven days to sweep around the globe multiple times.
Multiply that by a thousand and their future was so bright it practically glowed.
She pushed the thought aside. Now was not the time for pessimism.
He adjusted his glasses. “I’ll have the supplies loaded.”
“Good. And have the sailors with families take them too.”
“Uh, Doc, I don’t think that’s such a good idea. There could be knife fights in the sardine can.”
She pushed her bangs out of her eyes. “I know that under normal circumstances that is to be avoided at all cost. However, this is not normal. And Joe Squid might miss the reactor going from screwed to fucked because he’s worrying about his wife and kiddies somewhere on shore.”
His jaw thrust forward. “A phone call will set that straight.”
“Don’t count on phones or any technology working after the meltdown. Nothing but the green robots worked at Chernobyl. Nothing.” Men in uniform had saved the planet in the end. With only one tenth of one percent of the population predicted to survive, she couldn’t afford to throw anyone into the breach.
Doubt beetled his clipped eyebrows and he sighed. “Yes, Ma’am.”
She smiled at his acquiescence. Sometimes it was good to be the nail holding the kingdom together. Hiding her gloating, she turned her attention back to her tablet. What other assets had she overlooked?
The door opened ushering in a whiff of smoke. David set his weapon across his lap before closing it. He started the engine just as the passenger door opened next to Lister.
A Marine with Ladykiller stenciled on the side of his helmet leaned inside. “Everyone’s nipped and tucked, Sir. The menu is being prepared.”
Referring to the survivors as dishes to be served up was a little crass, but dark humor was a survival mechanism just like fight or flight. Mavis opened her email, waiting for the new data attachment. Maybe they’d get lucky and this bunch would have stayed home instead of visiting Burgers in a Basket, or living near one, or breathing anthrax-laden air.
Lister glanced up from his laptop. “Excellent. I hope this one was a bumper crop.”
David started the engine.
The Marine stepped back then paused. “Sir, Meals-on-wheels are reporting hostiles east of our position. Or north, they’re a bit confused. Our chefs haven’t reported anything, but they’re—”
Bullets thunked against the side of the Humvee. One shattered the front passenger window with radiating fractures. Ladykiller’s forehead opened up like the splatter of an overripe melon.
“Get down!”
Clasping her hands over her head, Mavis dove for the floorboards. Heat stretched across her back and warm blobs rained down on her.
Chapter Four
“I think I see a miracle at eleven o’clock.” Using the face of a clock to define position, Papa Rose spoke into the mic dangling in front of his mouth like an overfed blowfly. Easing up on the gas, he swerved the Harley Davidson around the corpse sitting next to an abandoned Honda. Lucky bastard. Imagine just sitting down and dying like that.
Some people had all the luck.
“Roger that Papa Rose.” On the motorcycle next to him, Falcon nodded. Lightning glinted on the ex-Ranger’s ebony helmet. Instead of covering his mouth, his yellow bandana fluttered against his black neck. “Looks like Santa came early.”
On the seat behind Falcon, Brainiac lowered his face mask and adjusted his mic. “A tanker should keep Palo Verde running until we can join Doc and the others in the safety of the mountains.”
More than enough. Unfortunately, Papa Rose had hoped to buy a one way ticket to ground zero. God needed to stop fucking with his plans.
He hopped the curb and drove down the sidewalk. The semi’s cab tilted down the entrance to a gas station several blocks away. The hoods of cars, vans and trucks aimed at it. The stubble on his bald head stood on end.
Brainiac’s panting came over the wire. He raised the M-4 off his lap, ready to aim left or right. “Anyone else’s ‘oh shit’ meter pinging?”
Papa Rose scanned the area. Right to left. Left to right. Smoke crept between the open spaces, not thick enough to hide anything. Rats waddled along the debris trimming the storefronts. Car doors remained shut. Windows were rolled up. Interiors were empty. “Where are the black and tans?”
He scanned for the corpses—black where the blood pooled and tan where the flesh rotted. Bodies decomposed on every corner and street. Every one but this one. That just wasn’t natural.
“Fuck,” Falcon swore softly as they wove through the congestion. “Should we abort?”
Abort? They taken this mission to ensure they died. But…shit. What had been the point of his surviving his wife and kids if he died in an ambush. “Hell no!”
“We need that gas to keep the generators running for four more days.” Brainiac eyed the rooftops, the muzzle of his weapon tracked his progress. “Doc just needs four days.”
Doc. A woman who they’d met once, right before they’d volunteered for this mission. She’d given the survivors hope, and now she counted on them to keep it alive. Today was not a good day to die. “I’ll take point.”
Papa Rose added enough gas to dart in the front. The extended front wheel ate up the distance and the throbbing of the engine echoed off the store fronts lining the street. Vertical blinds rattled in the empty window panes. Papers rustled in the gutter. A cool breeze carried the scent of smoky water.
His gaze shifted right then left. Back and forth, to and fro. There had to be some evidence of what had gone down here, of where the people went. His attention dropped to the asphalt. No blood puddled under the trunks. Was it possible they had simply walked away?
A hundred feet from the corner, he eased between a Dodge caravan and a Ford pick-up. He took his hand from the handlebar and skimmed the hood as he passed. “It’s cool.”
“The others were as well,” Falcon confirmed.
The information was paltry and could be lethally misleading if they put too much stock in it. They didn’t know in what order the cars had arrived. Papa Rose zig-zagged around the nose of a sedan then a coupe. One more lane of traffic to go. The wind kicked up, tugged at his denim jacket.
“Still looks clear,” Brainiac whispered.
“This has to be the end of the world. We have a squid for lookout,” Falcon muttered. “You’re not looking for rocks, are you Brainiac?”
“Or icebergs.” He joined in the hazing as his front wheel cleared the cars. His heart raced and his palms sweated against the handlebars. The dark glass face of the convenience store stared back at him. What lurked in the interior?
“Actually I was looking at how high the swells are,” Brainiac shot back sarcastically.
His tire bumped over the curve. He quickly glanced up at the awning over the pumps. No one peered back. He pulled alongside the tanker and stopped. The engine throbbed between his thighs. His reflection stared back from the shiny tank.
Gravel crunched as Falcon parked behind him.
He killed the engine. After nearly two hours of the hog drumming in his head, the silence nearly knocked his legs out from under him. A breeze stirred the grand opening banner draped from the red and yellow eaves. His nose twitched at the stench of death and the hair on his arms stood up.
He knew what black and tans smelled like long before the Redaction hit.
“I think I know where the people are.” Hooking the kickstand with his boot, he set it down and lowered the bike’s weight onto it. He tugged the Glock from his waistband and nodded toward the double glass doors at the front of the store.