Endurance: A Post-Apocalyptic Thriller (Highway Book 2) Page 3

  The bikini-clad woman pushed herself up from a lounger in the sun and moved her sunglasses down the bridge of her nose. Her lips curled into a sly smile. “To what do I owe this pleasure, gentlemen?” There were perks to being the base commander’s wife, she mused.

  Reynolds immediately recognized Sheila Thompson, a woman whose beauty was renowned around base. But this was no time for pleasantries. “Sergeant Robert Reynolds, ma’am. We’re sorry to bother you, but the base has just been attacked. We barely made it out alive. Our clothes were covered in sarin, so we had to remove them.”

  Mrs. Thompson jumped out of the lounger as if it were molten hot, throwing a towel around her shoulders. It was a quick show of a modesty that hadn’t existed moments ago. The playful smile was gone. “Is my husband all right?”

  “I don’t know, ma’am. But we plan to check. The reason we stopped here first is that Colonel Thompson kept two hazmat suits here for both of you in case of a gas attack. The private and I need them to return to the base and see if we can find any survivors and to get the antidote. Unfortunately, if we don’t take it soon, we’ll both be dead.”

  O’Malley shot his sergeant a quick glance, not realizing their need was as great as he had just stated.

  Mrs. Thompson just stood, still in shock over the prospect of what she’d just heard.

  “Please, we need to move now,” Reynolds said, ushering her to the back door of the house.

  ~~~

  Even Reynolds wasn’t prepared for what they witnessed next.

  After gathering what they needed and calming down Mrs. Thompson, they suited up and exited the cottage’s main entrance, walking quickly to the base’s front gate. That was where the killing fields started.

  The sliding aluminum gate, crowned with razor wire, was slightly ajar. PFC Woo lay just beyond, dead. Other dead comrades were everywhere, strewn about like in a disaster movie. Like Woo, most were clutching their throats, their eyes wide and terrified.

  Sarin gas was the most volatile nerve agent known. It caused its toxic effects by preventing the proper operation of an enzyme that acted as the body’s “off switch” for glands and muscles. Without the “off switch,” the body’s glands and muscles were constantly being stimulated. Most infected died within minutes, typically from asphyxiation.

  “Sarge,” O’Malley asked, out of breath, his voice obscured by his hazmat suit, “do you think anyone’s alive?”

  Reynolds slowed only slightly, craning his head to examine O’Malley’s red face, now covered in a sheet of perspiration. Both men readjusted the bunch of towels and blankets each had slung around their backs, secured by a makeshift blanket satchel, all procured from the colonel’s cottage. “Yeah, I do. If anyone stayed out of direct exposure or got out of it quickly like us, they’d make it.”

  “So, what, we check all the buildings?”

  “First to the clinic for the atropine. Then yes, we clear each building, until we’ve accounted for everyone.”

  Luckily for them, the clinic was the second-closest building within the twelve-building complex.

  Before entering, they’d counted out loud fifteen dead soldiers. There were forty-eight on base. Three squads: Alpha, Bravo, and Charlie, each with their compliment of eight men and women. The remainder was support for their squads.

  Reynolds knew they were the only two who made it out from Bravo. He knew Alpha and Charlie were also on the field, and he hadn’t seen any of them running, although he only glanced once. So they probably didn’t make it. That left only maybe four more potential survivors. He was starting to lose hope.

  Inside the two-room clinic, they found two survivors, although they were barely hanging on.

  They were two young privates from Alpha Squad. Each rested in a heap in the corner of the reception room, their faces covered in a thick sheen of sweat and mucus. Both drew shallow breaths.

  O’Malley bent over them, desperate to help his fallen comrades.

  “Come on, PFC O’Malley. Let’s get the atropine. Then we can administer aid,” he said while pushing through the door of the clinic, hoping the doctor was here. He wasn’t.

  “Look there.” Reynolds pointed to a locked cabinet with glass doors. Behind it, medicines were perfectly lined up like little platoons of Army efficiency. “We’re looking for either atropine or pralidoxime.”

  O’Malley picked up a reflex hammer resting on a table. Using the metal end, he speared the middle of the glass case, shattering it. His oversized gloved hand probed the inside, knocking down several vials. Gingerly grabbing one bottle from each column, he read aloud the drug’s title.

  Reynolds hurriedly rummaged through a different cabinet of drawers. His internal clock told him they were running out of time.

  “Got it,” yelled O’Malley.

  “Grab all of it. I have the syringes,” Reynolds said, scooping the couple dozen hypos from the shallow drawer. He tossed them on the same table O’Malley had swiped the reflex hammer from and pulled off his satchel of blankets, wrestling from it a beach bag Sheila had given him—she’d said they’d picked it up on a Royal Caribbean cruise during their honeymoon, before she started to leak more tears of worry.

  “Toss the hypos and the atropine in there. Also grab some morphine, but hold that aside. Then, follow me.”

  Reynolds strode back out to the reception room. “Privates, get your asses up on the double,” he yelled at the two nearly lifeless forms on the floor. He rushed to a water cooler, grabbed the full bottle by the door and ripped off the top. Sloshing a little water on the path to the two men, he made his quick assessment. One was struggling to raise himself while the other barely moved, his breaths getting shallower.

  Reynolds laid the bottle down and tugged the standing private by the sleeves. His faceplate up against the struggling man, he demanded, “Son, you need to take your outer clothes off, now.”

  The private half nodded and started to unbuckle his pants, and Reynolds ripped his shirt off. Then while the private was trying to navigate out of his trousers, Reynolds hoisted the water bottle and poured sloshes of water over his head and face.

  “Scrub your hands.”

  O’Malley came over, breathing heavily, and waited for direction from his sergeant.

  “Switch out. Pour some of this onto a rag and wipe his face.” He grabbed the beach bag of medicine and set up the first and then the next and then another syringe. He counted the doses and figured they had maybe ten total. He jabbed the first needle into the private while his face was being cleaned by O’Malley. With the second hypo, he jabbed O’Malley through his suit. The young man didn’t even so much as flinch. He was tough.

  “What about you?” O’Malley asked.

  “I’ll get mine last. I didn’t inhale much.” I probably misstated their need for an antidote, he thought. O’Malley looked like he’d probably survive without the antidote. But he was more concerned about the long-term effects to O’Malley’s system, so he figured it wouldn’t hurt him to receive the injection, and it might even save him. As for himself, Reynolds figured whatever was going to happen to him would happen. He was more concerned about the other survivors.

  “All right, son.” Reynolds laid a gloved hand on the arm of the panicked private, who was starting to come alive, going from barely breathing to almost hyperventilating. “You’re going to feel your pulse race,” he said, this time including O’Malley with a look. “It’s okay, it’s part of the drug’s effect. You stay here,” he said to the private, whose eyes were still wide with concern. “And don’t go out for a few hours. If no one comes to get you, wrap this blanket around you and run out the gate and to the hospital in Endurance. You got it, Private?”

  The young man’s head nodded.

  “O’Malley, let’s go.”

  “Sir, what about the other one?” O’Malley motioned to the other private. But he knew the answer. The man—he thought his name was Fortuno—received too big of a dose, and they didn’t have enough of the antidote to go aro
und.

  Reynolds didn’t answer. O’Malley quietly followed him out of the clinic and to the next building to find survivors.

  They both hoped they’d use all of their remaining doses.

  Chapter 4

  Sunbay Cove, Florida

  Lexi

  The man was a boy really, maybe her age, though by the way he carried himself he looked even younger. He had a poor excuse of a goatee clinging to his chin, like a dirty string of saliva. Regardless, his holding her gun against her made him just as deadly as any other man.

  He gave her a gross smile as he ushered her out of the thicket, back onto the driveway.

  “Where you goin’ in such a hurry?”

  She didn’t say anything. Frank had already taught her to pay attention to an enemy and to everything around her, but to say little to reveal her situation. Besides her footsteps and his, she heard his heavy breathing—he seemed jumpier than she was.

  “Yah live here? We’re s’pose to stay away, but Jonah got a report of a car driving in here yesterday.”

  She stopped in the middle of the driveway and readied herself for his next move.

  He pressed the gun’s barrel into her side, and it was like he’d hit her “on button.” She reacted exactly like Frank had taught her.

  “You goina talk, or are ya—”

  She spun around to her left while hitting his gun hand away from her with her palm. With her right, she flicked out her knife and slashed at his forearms. Frank called the move “defanging the snake.”

  The man-boy was caught by complete surprise. He dropped the gun and fell on his ass, clutching his bleeding forearms.

  She quickly snatched the gun from the ground and turned it on him as he scurried backward, kicking away from her like a wounded animal.

  Her head was pounding so hard and she was breathing so heavily that when something exploded right in front of her, she thought for a moment that it was her head that had ruptured.

  She screeched and so did the man-boy. Both backed further away from each other and the object flopping before them.

  Their fear turned to shock, so for a moment, they could only gawk at the massive beast of an animal floundering in between them. It was as if some prehistoric monster had fallen from the skies.

  It was just a pelican. And it was dying.

  Its beak opened, extending unnaturally wide, gasping for one final breath before letting out a raspy squawk. It shuddered once more and then stopped moving.

  “What the fu—” Lexi’s head popped up, alerted by the man-boy’s movement. He was already stumbling down the road, hugging his reddened arms to his chest.

  Deciding the threats had passed, Lexi turned and jogged a couple of paces away from the dead bird. She’d tell Frank about both incidents.

  Her head still pounded, but her senses were on high alert. So even before she came to an abrupt halt, she reflexively leveled her pistol, pulled the hammer back, and readied herself to put a bullet into the newest threat before her.

  The thicket in front of her rustled, and then an elderly man released himself from the heavy growth only ten yards from her. Once free, his hands shot up. In one hand, he gripped an old lever-action rifle.

  “Don’t shoot, please,” he pleaded. “I’m Jasper, your neighbor.” His dark face was covered in a thick gray beard that framed a warm smile. He seemed much older than Frank, but had the same knowing eyes.

  He appeared unthreatening, but Lexi still kept her pistol carefully trained on the skinny man’s chest. “What are you doing sneaking around here with a rifle, spying on us?”

  “First tell me, what’s your name?” The smile was unflinching, but he tilted his brow, like he was chewing on a thought.

  “You answer my questions, and then I’ll answer yours.”

  “Fair enough; you’re holding the gun … I was asked by this property’s owner to watch the place.” Jasper noticed the change in Lexi’s face immediately. “Do you know him?”

  “Wait, you know my father?” she chirped.

  “That’d make you Lexi Broadmoor,” the man said, grinning at his deduction.

  She lowered her gun and returned the smile.

  “Leeexii!” a muffled voice hollered from down the driveway, in front of the house.

  Both Lexi and Jasper turned. Somebody was running toward them. He had a towel over his head and a gas mask over his face. It was Frank. “Come here!” he yelled again, his voice muffled and foreign from the mask.

  Another white form fluttered from the sky, crashing near them. It flopped violently, its beak slicing at the air.

  “It’s gas,” Frank screamed, again almost impossible to hear. “It’s gas,” Frank screamed again, pulling his mask up as he approached.

  “What kind of gas?” asked Jasper.

  Frank glared at the stranger and yanked Lexi away, toward the house.

  “I’m your neighbor. Stanley asked me to watch the place. What kind of gas?”

  Another bird dropped from the sky.

  “Sarin!” Frank blurted, thrusting the extra gas mask at Lexi.

  “My house is right here, quick. We might not make it all the way back to Stanley’s place.” Jasper was already through the trees, headed down a small path that led to a small house not more than forty feet away.

  “Come on,” Frank insisted to Lexi, now pulling her the other way, and they followed Jasper.

  ~~~

  Cain

  “Help,” the young man gasped, falling through the swinging door of Jonah’s office, the front of his shirt and his two arms covered in blood. Two hurried men with military rifles followed close behind him.

  Jonah leapt out of his chair. “Cain, what happened?” He reached out to him on the floor.

  “Some woman slashed my arms.” His voice was weak, his face pale and swimming in sweat.

  “Get some bandages,” Jonas growled at one of his men, who spun on his heels, and ran out the door.

  “Who did this?” Jonas asked as he whisked up the young man and lowered him onto his couch, grimacing at the amount of blood.

  His other man had calmly grabbed a couple of towels from a closet and started to wrap them around Cain’s arms.

  “It’s a woman at the Smith place. There’s someone living there and she stabbed me. And I was doing nuttin.”

  Jonas carefully peeked at the wounds, before tying off each towel so that it was tight. He couldn’t tell how bad the cuts were, but he felt sure Cain would live.

  A man appeared in Jonah’s doorway, “I can’t find any of the first aid supplies. What can we do?”

  “He’s been cut pretty badly on his arms,” Jonah said. “Help me.”

  “You want me to take him to the clinic?” asked another man, calm and reserved. The other men hovered, not sure what their boss would order.

  “Thanks, Peter, help me get him in the Vette. I’ll take him to the clinic. I know Em will be there.”

  Peter grabbed Cain’s legs and Jonah held the young man’s arms, and they carried him out of the warehouse, toward Jonah’s car.

  “What would you like me to do?” Peter asked, being careful not to let go.

  Jonah didn’t say anything as they loaded Cain into the seat, every jostle eliciting a groan.

  Jonah walked around the front of the car and opened up the driver’s side door and glanced up to Peter and his men. His face was full of violence.

  “You”—he pointed to one of his men—“get into the back and keep pressure on his wounds.” Then to Peter he snapped, “You take some men and go get that bitch who cut my boy.”

  “You want her alive, don’t you?”

  “Yes. If my boy dies, I want to kill her myself.”

  Chapter 5

  Sunbay Cove, Florida

  Travis

  Travis spun around in the chair, letting the inertia of each spin pull his head outward, like a whirly ride at an amusement park. Using the feet of the rolling desk chair to push off against, he spun himself around faster with
each successive spin, enjoying the momentary light-headedness each time. He counted each revolution, trying to beat the last one, which was slightly further than the one previous, getting almost up to five total revolutions with the last push.

  “The crowd was anxious to see if a world record, FIVE revolutions could be accomplished by the young Travis Broadmoor, the current record holder. The crowd has quieted down, holding its collective breath.”

  His right heel ratcheted into one roller leg, the back of his left heel hooked to a leg opposite this …

  “He looks ready …”

  His leg muscles tightened.

  “And he’s off—”

  Travis pushed-pulled so hard the chair tilted backward, and for a moment, he and the chair hung suspended before he flopped hard onto the floor with a large crash-thunk.

  Epic fail!

  He chuckled out loud once he realized he wasn’t hurt too badly.

  He had ended up on his back, staring at the underside of the worktable, right where his Uncle Frank had been seated just before the birds fell out of the sky. As he considered what he did wrong in his record-breaking attempt, the outline of something drew his eyes. Scrunching his brow, exaggerating a squint, he tried to make out what was mostly hidden underneath the table.

  Sloughing off the overturned chair, he pressed his face up to the underside of the table and knew what it was right away.

  It was a gun.

  A pistol, actually, held to the base of the table by Velcro straps. He freed it and held it in his hand, his fingers naturally wrapping around the handle. It felt good.

  His lips curled into a grin.

  He examined the barrel of the gun, careful not to look into it directly so he didn’t accidentally shoot himself. He’d read this before, and besides, what idiot would point a gun that might be loaded at himself? Frank was going to teach him today how to shoot a .22. And this looked like a .22, based on the size of the hole coming from the barrel. He held it close to his face, scrutinizing every line of the Ruger. Then he thrust it outward, pointing it at a big can of catsup on one of the many shelves of food maybe five feet away.