The Day After Never - Insurrection (Book 5) Read online

  Loomis had been a waiter at a chain seafood restaurant when the collapse had hit and his brother in his last year of high school. They’d been fortunate that some aspect of their genetic makeup had rendered them immune to the virus that ravaged so many of their fellows. Loomis’s stint in the army, which had terminated with a dishonorable discharge, had come in handy as society broke down, and the brothers’ naturally amoral tendencies had blossomed as the world became one in which it was kill or be killed. It didn’t hurt that both had been gun enthusiasts before the collapse; their father had possessed a half dozen illegally modified assault rifles, and when the lights went out, they’d been a fearsome trio of raiders until their dad succumbed to the bug, leaving them on their own.

  Short on skills but long on viciousness, they’d defended themselves when necessary, occasionally ambushed groups of unwary travelers, and mostly survived by fishing, hunting, and scrounging. One of the positives to so many of their neighbors having died was that there was no shortage of canned goods and clothing, although over the years those had dried up as they’d been pilfered by others, forcing the boys into their new line of work and creating a windfall for them, if also a monkey on their backs.

  Richie squinted at the slate gray sky, exacerbated by the clouds of ash from the recent eruption, and sneezed loudly as he trotted by Loomis’s side. Both carried AK-47s with the easy familiarity of guerilla fighters, the weapons their constant companions even on the infrequent occasions they bathed. Loomis was the taller of the two, powerfully muscled, his arms inked with caricatures of bulldogs and tribal tattoos. Richie was smaller, a wiry, fast fighter who’d become as good with a knife as anyone they knew. The duo made a potent team, and they feared nothing except the marauders from Seattle who occasionally swept through, leaving destruction in their wake.

  The power plant, a nuclear facility of the same design and vintage as the one in continual meltdown in Fukushima, Japan, had been shuttered after the collapse, the reactors closed down and the radioactive rods stored in cooling ponds by a staff that had barely completed their task before succumbing to the virus. Only a skeleton crew of guards had remained, and those had expired after the first winter, leaving the plant a desolate ghost town, which the locals gave a wide berth.

  “Place still gives me the creeps, even after this many trips,” Richie muttered as they neared the side entrance to the administrative building.

  “Pussy.”

  Richie’s grip on his weapon tightened, and he frowned at his brother. “I’m serious.”

  “Let’s just find what we need and get out of here. Nobody’s asking you to live here.”

  Richie slowed as they neared the huge structure and cocked his head. “You hear that?”

  “Dude, there’s nobody here. What are you talking about?”

  “It’s like a hiss. Like a hole in a pressure hose or something.”

  Loomis shrugged. “Whatever. We got business to deal with.”

  Richie hesitated when he reached the door, and Loomis growled a curse. “Get out of the way,” he snapped, and brushed past his brother to pull open the metal slab.

  “I don’t know about this, Loomis,” Richie said, his eyes darting around as though he expected to be attacked. “I’m getting a really bad vibe.”

  “Cut it out, Richie. Seriously,” Loomis said, an edge to his voice. He retrieved a camping lantern from his bag and lit it with a disposable lighter, and then twisted the lever and heaved on the door.

  Richie followed his brother in, past a room with a skeleton clad in a frayed uniform sprawled on the floor they knew from prior trips, and tromped into the bowels of the building. Loomis paused at a corridor and pointed to his left. “Wasn’t it that way?” he asked.

  “I think so,” Richie said, his tone uncertain. “Does it feel kind of warm to you?”

  Loomis didn’t answer, instead following his instinct, vaguely remembering the route from their last expedition, when they’d located the second cache of solvent in a maintenance room. They made their way down the hall, eyes adjusting to a pervasive gloom barely dented by the lantern, and then Loomis stopped and listened intently. “I hear it now too. Weird.”

  “What do you think it is? Someone else?” Richie whispered. “Maybe we should get out of here.”

  Loomis shook his head with a frown. “No, it’s too regular. Like…steam or something.”

  “That’s what I thought.”

  They continued, and the sound grew louder. Loomis drew up short and motioned with his rifle barrel at a steel door with a radiation sign, signaling access to the reactor and the cooling ponds. On the first trip they’d spent hours exploring, so they knew the rough layout of the plant, including which sections were filled with the bodies of the dead.

  “Sounds like it’s coming from in there, doesn’t it?”

  Richie nodded. “It wasn’t making that noise last time.”

  “Maybe somebody’s been working on it? Could be they finally got their shit together?”

  Rumors of a return of the government were common among the travelers they encountered, but as far as the brothers could tell, it was only wishful thinking for a time long since past. Still, even the most lawless hoped for a return of order or at least basic infrastructure, and stories of teams of engineers returning the grid to life were the most common wish-fulfillment tales among the survivors.

  “We should bail, Loomis…”

  Loomis shook his head. “Only one way to know for sure. Let’s take a peek.”

  “I…I really don’t think this is a good idea, dude. Let’s just grab the stuff and get out of here.”

  Loomis ignored his brother and moved to the door. When he touched the handle, he jerked his hand back like he’d touched a stove.

  “Crap. It’s sizzling,” he said.

  “It was cold last time,” Richie said, his voice barely a whisper.

  Loomis fidgeted nervously. “Maybe you’re right. We should grab as much stuff as we can, and split.”

  They reversed direction and made a right at a junction. Loomis’s eyes narrowed at the sight that greeted him: dozens of rats, bloated and obviously dead, littered the polished concrete floor of the hallway. Richie gasped behind him when he caught sight of the rodents.

  “What the hell…?” Richie hissed from between clenched teeth.

  “Probably got into some of the chemicals,” Loomis said.

  “Or someone poisoned them.”

  “Why would they?” Loomis asked. “No, they probably ate something they shouldn’t have, and it was hasta la vista, Mickey Mouse.”

  “Doesn’t look like they died that long ago,” Richie observed, his nose wrinkling at the stench of death.

  Loomis gestured at a door down the hallway. “That’s it.”

  The room was exactly as they’d left it, with the solvents in plastic containers along the floor. At the sight of the trove, Loomis grinned at his brother, and Richie hesitantly returned the expression.

  “Good as gold. You were right,” he acceded.

  “Pays to have a set of balls. You almost had me spooked back there.”

  Richie wiped perspiration from his brow and slung his rifle’s strap over his shoulder. “Let’s get this over with. Place is still giving me the creeps.”

  They loaded their duffels, sweating from the unexpected warmth that now seemed to permeate the building. Richie frowned at the walls, where the gray paint was bubbling from around the base, and nudged his brother.

  “Wasn’t like that last time.”

  “What?”

  “The paint.”

  Loomis shrugged. “It’s a lot more humid now.”

  They continued their work, picking between the canisters, their nerves still on edge from the rats. When they had packed as much as they could carry, they did a final sweep of the room, and Loomis shook his head.

  “Looks like there’s only one more trip’s worth, and then we gotta find a new mother lode.”

  “Probably more storage a
reas deeper in.”

  “We’ll save that for next time. Let’s get out of here.”

  The brothers hurriedly retraced their steps to the exit, skirting the dead rats while holding their breath. For all of Loomis’s bravado, they were both uneasy and anxious to be rid of the plant.

  Had they opened the door with the firebrand handle and continued toward the reactor, they would have learned the source of the sound and heat. The main cooling pond, jury-rigged by the surviving engineering crew to refill with water from a nearby spring without requiring anything but Mother Nature’s pressure, had cracked from the earthquake that had accompanied the eruption of Mount St. Helens. The massive inlet duct had collapsed, so only a little cool water was making it through – and what did had been boiling off in a steady cloud of toxic steam for two days, leaving the rods mostly exposed and melting down, destroying everything in their vicinity and superheating the area with lethal radiation, which in turn was contaminating the river and the water table. As with its Japanese cousin, the plant was now destined to irradiate the waterway in perpetuity, extinguishing all life in the fishery and inexorably poisoning the Pacific Ocean, the cumulative effect destined to get more severe with time.

  Not that the environmental catastrophe would matter to Richie and Loomis, who within forty-eight hours would die as the rats had, in agony from severe radiation poisoning. In fact, the damage had been invisibly done before they’d entered the building – had they been paying attention, they would have noticed several dead birds in the field outside the reactor, victims of the silent killer brooding behind the fence.

  Unaware of their imminent demise, the brothers beat a hasty path for the fence, lugging the containers of solvent as though they were filled with gold, their footfalls muffled by the layer of fine ash on the hard-packed ground, expending the final hours of their lives in a pursuit as pointless as their existences.

  Chapter 3

  Pagosa Springs, Colorado

  Lucas held Sierra close, her face pressed hard against his chest, their embrace both passionate and tender. When she raised her eyes to him, they were moist, and she blinked away tears as she pulled away. The living room of their adopted home was warm and cozy after months of work, the woodstove in the corner emitting a pleasant smell and occasional crackle.

  “Only for a few weeks, Sierra,” he said.

  She looked away at the rustic log walls of the house. “More than a few. At least a couple of months, you said. Maybe more, depending on conditions in the pass.”

  “Shouldn’t be too bad. Snow’s thawing early.”

  “It’s not the snow I’m worried about.”

  Lucas nodded and released her. Eve came running into the room, followed by Sierra’s son, Tim, and it was the little girl’s turn to hug Lucas when he knelt down to her level. Tim stood a few feet away, shifting from foot to foot, unsure how to react, and his mother saved him any embarrassment by joining him and tousling his hair.

  “Don’t worry, Eve. I’ll be back,” Lucas said.

  “Promise?”

  “Don’t I always?”

  She stood back at arm’s length, her face serious. “Say it.”

  “You should be a lawyer when you grow up.” He paused. “I promise. And you promise to take good care of your mom and Tim while I’m gone…and behave.”

  The little girl considered him gravely. “I promise. Although he can be a snot.”

  The trace of a smile tugged at the corner of Lucas’s mouth. “I expect he can. Do your best. For me.”

  “Okay.”

  It had been four months since Lucas and Sierra had returned to the new Shangri-La with Tim. He’d been distant for the first weeks and had awakened most nights, screaming and thrashing. But over time he’d settled down, the demons of his past slowly fading, and they were now a functioning family unit, each with their chores and place in the household. Lucas had taken to teaching the boy everything he could about weapons and horses, and had found him to be withdrawn but whip-smart, absorbing information like a sponge. He attended classes in the town church five days a week and had slowly made a few friends with the other children.

  Lucas straightened and stepped over to where Sierra waited with Tim, and offered his hand to shake. “Take care of yourself, pardner,” Lucas said.

  Tim took his hand with the stern gaze of a prosecutor and nodded once but remained silent. Lucas offered Sierra a farewell glance and then moved to the door, where his beaver-felt hat hung on a wooden peg beside the M4 and his holstered Kimber. He donned his flak vest and strapped on the pistol, and then pulled on a heavy jacket and fit the hat in place.

  Rifle in hand, he took another long look at his new family and tipped his head to Sierra, whose lower lip was quivering slightly, and then turned and opened the door. They followed him outside as he strode to where Tango was waiting, tied to a tree in front of the house. Lucas checked the saddlebags and harness, untethered the horse as he slipped the M4 sling over his shoulder, and climbed into the saddle. The big stallion stood motionless until the familiar ritual was complete and gave a snort, as though bidding his own farewell to the others. Lucas offered a wave with a gloved hand and then urged Tango down the street, his freshly shod hooves clomping against the crumbling asphalt.

  Elliot was waiting at his offices with the three men Lucas would be riding with, who eyed him as he approached. Two of the security men were familiar to Lucas, the third only in passing. Lucas dismounted, tied Tango to a hitching post, and called out a greeting.

  “Gentlemen.”

  Elliot beamed at him with typically good humor, his cheeks ruddy from the snap in the air. “Ah, Lucas, good morning to you. I trust you’re ready for the trail?”

  Lucas shrugged. “Ride’s a ride.”

  “Lucas, you already know Red and Axel, and this young man is Joel. He’ll be handling the vaccine and showing his counterpart how to produce it from the cultures. I’ve already told him all about you. You’re somewhat of a legend here, so he’d already heard most of it.”

  Lucas inclined his head at Joel by way of greeting. Joel returned the gesture, aware that Lucas was taking his measure with his steel gray eyes. Lucas saw an unremarkable man in his late twenties, taller than most, his gaze quick and obviously intelligent. Lucas looked at his sidearm, an H&K 9mm, without expression, although he preferred his bigger-caliber .45 in a firefight.

  Elliot cleared his throat. “I’ve prepared maps with the recommended route. Red here has ridden several days along the pass to confirm it’s negotiable, and it looks good.” He paused. “I appreciate everyone’s help on this. The reports of the new virus spreading into the northwest are most alarming, and it’s one of the areas we’ve neglected until now.”

  Lucas had been conscripted into riding to Oregon with the small party by Ruby, who’d agreed to help with the vaccine distribution as part of her contribution to the enclave’s efforts – with their numbers at alarming lows, they needed as many of the able-bodied to remain and rebuild their defenses, and Ruby was game for adventure in spite of her advanced years. He’d refused at first, pointing out that he’d done more than enough, but after numerous contentious discussions with Sierra, he had reluctantly agreed to go with her on the trip. Sierra’s trump card had been that Ruby had saved their lives, so he couldn’t let her ride a thousand miles by herself.

  “Wouldn’t be by herself,” Lucas had said.

  Sierra had graced him with a withering look. “Anyone else here who’s as good with a gun, much less on the trail?”

  “She volunteered. I didn’t.”

  “I know. And I don’t like the thought of you putting yourself in harm’s way again. But, Lucas…it’s Ruby. She’s not a teenager anymore.”

  “She’ll have security.”

  Sierra had sighed. “If you don’t want to go, that’s fine. I don’t want you to, either. But you’ll never forgive yourself if she doesn’t make it. I know you well enough by now, Lucas. Let’s not kid each other – you wouldn’t have bro
ught it up if you weren’t thinking about it.”

  Sierra had been right, of course, but a part of Lucas had been hoping she’d talk him out of it. The thought of three to four weeks in the saddle in each direction was as unappealing as anything he could imagine now that he’d spent months in their comfortable home, even through a snowy Colorado winter. He’d fixed the roof so it didn’t leak, and they’d created a cocoon where they’d weathered the worst the Rockies could throw at them without issue. Leaving to ride into the unknown hadn’t ranked high on his bucket list – but as Sierra had underscored, without Ruby they wouldn’t have been there in the first place.

  Lucas twisted to see her familiar figure atop Sidney approaching down the main street with Jax, her mule, in tow, the hapless beast loaded down with provisions and boasting its usual long-suffering expression. The corners of Lucas’s eyes crinkled at the sight, and then he returned his attention to Elliot, who was offering parting instructions to Joel.

  “Astoria has a radio, and they’ve reported that the route there is largely safe until you enter Oregon – with the proviso that you’re best to avoid Boise,” Elliot said. “If you follow the road north, you’ll avoid the Utah desert, and it should be relatively clear sailing, I’d think.”

  “Relatively,” Lucas muttered, and waited as Ruby rode up and swung down from the saddle.

  “Morning, handsome,” she said with a smile for him, and then greeted each of the men in turn.

  Elliot finished his monologue with a few more words of caution and handed them the maps filched from one of the town filling stations.

  “Problem with this plan is it has us following the road. Anyone looking to ambush travelers would be watching it,” complained Axel, a rangy fighter with yellowing teeth and a permanent squint.

  “True,” Elliot conceded. “But there’s little chance of that in the more rural areas, after the winter we just had. I agree it’s a concern, and you should use the road only as a guideline to get you over the mountains. Beyond that, use your best judgment, as always. Better to take longer and make it than to cut a corner and not.”