Crawford Kilian - Tsunami - A Post-Apocalyptic Survival Thriller

“Oh — that’s all? Well, hell, we can manage that. Sure.” He yelled for an aide, who popped through the door instantly. “We got a company of trainees that’s up to strength and not assigned to anything too serious?”

“Uh, two or three, sir. A-one-one is probably the best. Lieutenant Mercer’s the OIC.”

“Okay, fine. They’re goin’ out on police duty tomorrow. These guys here will give you the details.”

His handshake was hard and too long; his breath reeked. Allison met his eyes and saw blankness.

Company A, First Battalion, First Brigade arrived at the ranch at dawn the next day, in a big cattle truck with a canvas canopy. Shauna watched them from the bedroom window; they stopped where the driveway met the road. The sky was clear for once, and the first shafts of sunlight struck down the valley from the Salinas Range, across the brown-and-yellow hills. A young officer and an older sergeant, both blacks, left the truck. Halfway up the drive they were met by Allison, Bert and Dave Marston, all carrying side arms. The five men talked for a few minutes; then the whites walked up to the garage and came back down in the Range Rover. The two blacks got in beside Allison. The trucks moved on.

Shauna rubbed her neck. The bump under her left ear felt bigger: a mole or a wart, or even a cyst. Maybe she should get an army doctor to burn it off. It didn’t show or hurt, but it bothered her sense of herself.

Wrapped in her shapeless old bathrobe, she went downstairs. The Wives — she always capitalized them — were chattering away in the kitchen. Sarah was helping to feed the D’Annunzio twins. The excitement in the air only made Shauna nervous.

“This ought to shut those guys up for good,” Aline D’Annunzio was saying.

“I just wish our brave husbands had stayed put,” said Diana Marston. “If that Burk character decides to start shooting—”

“Will he?” asked Sarah. “Hi, Shauna! Shauna, will he shoot anybody?”

“No. Don’t be silly.” She poured herself a cup of coffee. “Good morning,” she mumbled, and took her cup back upstairs. God, how could they all mob together like that? She wished they would all go away. Okay, folks, disaster’s over. Thanks a lot for everything It’s been real. A month of this was enough. Another month would drive her crazy.

The lieutenant’s name was Odell Mercer; he came from Los Angeles and, like Allison, had graduated from Hollywood High. His senior SCO was a master sergeant, Calvin Hoops, who was from Texas and said very little. Allison drove slowly up the road; the cattle truck stayed close behind.

“There’s Brotherhood House,” he said as they drove past. Two women were hanging out laundry, seizing the sunny morning; others, men and women and children, came out of the big house and the barn when they heard the trucks.

“You religious yourself?” Mercer asked. His voice was deep, soft and sibilant.

“No.”

“Me neither. Something like this happens, everybody gets religion or gives it up. I gave it up.”

Allison glanced at Mercer with wary interest. He was a handsome kid, athletic and graceful, a sharp contrast to his burly but potbellied sergeant. But where Sergeant Hoops was cheerful and relaxed, Lieutenant Mercer looked dangerous. Allison decided to do nothing to annoy him.

Near the little meadow half a mile before the gate, Allison braked to a halt. Burk’s settlement could not be seen, but the lay of the land was clear. “Okay, the main buildings are about a mile from here on the left. Four or five other cabins are scattered around on the right side of the road, up in the trees.”

“Any problems with the road?” asked Mercer.

“The gate is padlocked, and they keep at least one sentry on it, with a CB radio.”

“Well, well. All the latest technology. Okay, we’ll just go on up and tell ‘em to open the gate.”

Two men carrying rifles stepped into the road from the trees. They wore dirty beige jackets and pants, and crash helmets with tinted visors that covered their faces. Allison stopped the truck without turning off the engine. Mercer and Hoops got out, followed by the whites.

“We’re here to see Frank Burk,” Allison announced.

“You seen him already. You’re trespassing. Turn around, and don’t come back.”

Mercer shook his head almost pityingly and stepped forward.

“You are in the Martial Law Zone,” he said, “and you are attempting to interfere with a military officer in the performance of his duties. The least you could get for that would be deportation out of the Zone, with confiscation of all your property. Now, open that gate and stand aside.”

The two men stood silently for a moment; then one of them slowly walked back to the gate, unlocked it, and swung it open. The other walked to the side of the road and leaned against a tree.

Mercer walked back to the Range Rover, his face impassive. Everyone climbed back inside; the cattle truck, a few yards behind, started up. Allison put the Range Rover in gear.

“That was really well done, lieu—”

The windshield flared into thousands of branching cracks, and disintegrated in a spray of fragments.

“Drive on! Get going!” Mercer barked. Allison jammed his foot on the gas pedal and the Range Rover barrelled towards the gate. The man who had opened it was trying to swing it shut, but was too slow: the Range Rover’s right front fender struck the half-open gate, knocking the man down.

Allison hadn’t heard the first shot, but he heard several more. In the rear view mirror he saw the cattle truck, almost on his bumper. Another burst of rifle fire chattered behind: the soldiers, returning fire.

“Go straight to the main building,” Mercer commanded. “We gotta take it over before they get organized.”

The gate at the end of the farmhouse drive was closed, and Allison smashed through it with glee. The Range Rover and the cattle truck roared into the farmyard, and Mercer catapulted from his seat with Hoops right behind him.

“First Squad — secure the barn and outbuildings,” Mercer yelled. “Second Squad — secure the farmhouse. Get everyone out on the porch. Search ‘em. Seize any weapons you find.”

Allison watched as the soldiers spilled out in all directions. A third squad took up positions surrounding the compound and facing outward.

“Bob Tony—” Bert’s hand was on his shoulder. “We got a problem. Dave’s been hit.”

Allison turned and saw Dave Marston sitting in the rear of the Range Rover, next to the back window; it too, Allison noticed, had been shot out. Dave was bent over, elbows on his knees with one hand holding up his head and the other clutching his middle. “I feel kind of funny,” he said breathlessly.

Bert and Allison helped Dave to lie down in the rear of the truck. Bert delicately unbuttoned Dave’s jacket and shirt.

“Oh yeah,” he murmured casually. “No big deal, Dave. It’s just a graze. You can show it off to Diana.” A first-aid kit was in his hand; he pressed a bandage to Dave’s belly. “Feel anything when I press?”

“I don’t know. It’s all kind of… numb and… tingly, you know? Hey, am I bleeding?” Dave’s face was strangely pale despite his tan, and his lips had turned blue.

Bert glanced up at Allison, then at the bench where Dave had been sitting. The black vinyl seat was splashed red. Bert pulled another bandage from the kit and gently drew Dave over onto his right side.

Allison felt himself go dizzy. Blood and excrement pumped from the fist-sized wound at the top of Dave’s buttocks. Bert put the dressing over it; it turned a sodden red almost instantly.

“What’s that, Bert?” Dave mumbled. “What you doing?”