At Any Cost Box Set: Books 1 - 3 Page 6

  Chapter 10

  Garrett held the candle up at eye level, making a mental list of the things he needed to take with him. The things he could afford to take—and the things that wouldn’t be too heavy. He was going to be on foot for the time being, and he didn’t want to weigh himself down with unnecessary items. He already had his sleeping bag rolled up and ready to go, and his backpack stuffed with several water bottles and all the beef jerky he’d brought with him. It wasn’t going to be a varied diet, but it would do, and he hoped that he’d be able to find more food before long.

  He didn’t like the idea of going into any houses, but if he could find one that looked like it had been deserted for some time, he didn’t think he’d be above foraging for food. He needed enough to last him from here to the border.

  Besides, he didn’t think there could be too many people left at this point. The last true news broadcast had been clear on that point, in terms of how many people were left up there, and it hadn’t sounded good. With any luck, the areas around here would have been cleared out weeks ago, and any houses would be unoccupied.

  He cringed, hating that he’d even had the thought. Cleared out weeks ago? He was talking about human lives here, not old furniture! But that didn’t change the fact that he was in survival mode now and had to think about himself first and foremost.

  Another look around the room convinced him that he already had everything he was going to take. The electronic equipment was no good, and even if he’d wanted to take it there would be no place to plug it in on the road. All of his clothes could stay—they wouldn’t be much use, either, and the lighter he packed, the better. He reached onto the shelf of the bookcase next to him and grabbed two of the books, thinking that they might just keep him sane out there, and stuffed them into the backpack as well. Then he grabbed one last box of granola bars and stuffed them in his pocket.

  As he strapped his backpack and the sleeping bag onto his back, he took one last look around the bunker he’d built for a rich man. The candle didn’t do much to illuminate the room, and he couldn’t see much, but it didn’t matter. He knew this place like the back of his hand.

  And he wouldn’t be sorry to leave it behind. This room held nothing but bad memories for him. It might be more dangerous out there in the world, but at least he’d be moving toward something. He couldn’t spend the rest of his days alone.

  Turning, he left the bunker behind, making his way to the ladder and toward his escape.

  Garrett ducked out of the door of the silo to find the sun just coming up over the horizon, the sky still purple and pink with the remnants of nighttime, and the day just a whisper of potential. The desert had a clean, sharp smell to it, and he inhaled deeply, happy to be out of the fetid air of the bunker and into the open.

  When he grew still and listened, he sighed. Knowing that so many people were dead made him feel as if this world, which had always felt sort of friendly and open to him, was now empty and haunted with the souls of the dead. If he stood still, he thought he could actually hear the lack of sound. The lack of laughter and shouting and cars that had followed human society for as long as he could remember.

  Then, putting the thought away, he put one foot forward and started walking. It was going to be at least fifteen miles before he got to the main highway, and a lot further than that before he got to any houses. He had a long, long walk ahead of him. But he also didn’t have a choice. He couldn’t stay here. And going forward was the only other option.

  He wondered again what that bomb had been, and what it had done to the world. Whether it had truly fried all the electronics underneath it…and whether that had included the nanobots that had brought death to humanity.

  If the bombs had been meant to fry the electronics, and therefore the bots, he hoped it had worked. Because if it hadn’t, there was a very good chance that he was walking toward his death right now.

  By the time he made it to the main highway, the sun had risen and was high in the sky, already making Garrett wish he’d brought more water with him. Yes, he was already at the highway, and yes, the town of Timmons would be less than ten miles up the road—where he would, theoretically, find plenty of water—but the last time he’d reached into his bag he’d already been down three bottles. And it made him nervous.

  His feet hurt, and he wasn’t happy, but he’d also spent his entire high school career learning how to deal with things like this—and how to think ahead to potential problems. He’d spent far too much time in high school walking mile upon mile…and spending the entire time planning ways to keep himself out of trouble in the future, and off his feet.

  Unfortunately, that had only worked when he’d known what sort of problems he was trying to solve. Today, the thoughts that had accompanied him had been nothing more than revolving questions. What had that bomb been? What exactly had it done? And if it had done what he thought it had—killed all electronic machines—could it be that it had taken care of the nanobots? Was that why it had been used in the first place?

  Had the American government actually been the one to shoot those bombs out over the night sky? Because if it had, that meant the government still existed, somehow. And in the end, it was that thought that started to bring him hope. If the government was still out there, and they were still making decisions, then there was hope for them all. Granted that decision had been about detonating bombs over the heads of American citizens, and that didn’t look very good.

  But maybe it was to protect them.

  Could it be that the country he’d grown up in was still fighting for its soul? That its leaders were still hard at work, trying to solve the problem?

  He could only hope that was true.

  Then, two hours after he hit the main highway, he reached Timmons, and all the hope he’d been currying for himself suddenly died.

  The last time he’d been in this town, he’d been here to pick up last-minute provisions for the silo. It wasn’t a big town, and they hadn’t had any worthwhile restaurants. Only one movie theatre and a pool hall for entertainment. But it had been a charming place, the epitome of small-town America, and had boasted a decent supermarket, which he’d used for stocking up on things he didn’t want to go all the way to a bigger city for.

  His favorite aspect of the town had always been that there was one main street, with about ten other streets branching off from it. He’d always thought that it would have been amazing during Christmastime. He’d been positive that the inhabitants had gone crazy during the holidays.

  Now it seemed that the town would never celebrate the holidays again.

  He’d been able to smell it before he came around the turn and saw it, but he’d been putting it down to the random scents of the desert. The moment he turned the corner, though, he saw that the scent was indeed coming from Timmons.

  Or what was left of it.

  The entire town looked like it had been bombed. Many of the buildings on the Main Street were burned to the ground, while others sported frames still, but no roofs or walls. Burned-out cars sat on the street, the trees that had lined the street were devoid of any leaves, and he came to a stop at the head of the street, completely speechless at what he saw before him.

  Then he started to spot the bodies.

  Men, women and children littered the sidewalks and the street, and it looked as though some of them had actually died inside the burned-out buildings. He didn’t stop to wonder whether they’d been in there before or after the buildings burned. It didn’t matter. Death was still death, and no matter how these people had gone, it had been unpleasant.

  He took a stuttering step forward, and then another. Before long he was walking more quickly, trying desperately to keep his eyes pointed forward instead of turned toward the bodies on the sidewalks. He’d glanced at one long enough to see a spray of blood across the sidewalk in front of it—sure sign of how that boy had died—and had then stopped looking. He didn’t need to see it. He already knew.

  And it was startin
g to look like someone had decided that the best way to keep the disease from spreading outward after it hit this town was to burn it to the ground. Garrett wondered who had made that decision, and how many other towns they’d burned. How many people they’d sentenced to that sort of death. Was it the military? Was this some other aspect of the scheme he’d guessed at? Set off EMP weapons to kill the bots, and then burn any towns affected by the disease?

  Had they even bothered to see whether there were any survivors before they set fire to the buildings?

  He shook his head sharply and kept walking. He needed to do two things while he was here: see whether there was any water to be had, and see whether he could find a functioning vehicle and the keys that belonged to it. After that he would leave. And he’d never think of this place—or the people who had died here—again.

  Chapter 11

  Garrett had just walked out of what was left of the market, his backpack heavy with bottles of water and a pair of keys jingling in his pocket, when he heard the sound of an engine.

  He came to a sudden stop, his brain trying to make sense of that sound in a town that looked like it had been completely stripped of life. An engine? Here? Where the inhabitants seemed to all be lying dead on the street?

  Then he started running. He had keys, and he knew from the look of them that they belonged to an older Toyota. He needed to find that car, and fast, so he could get the hell out of here. Because if his guesswork was correct, then the military was responsible for a whole lot of bad things, and it would be just like them to come strolling back around, checking on their handiwork.

  And they would most certainly have vehicles that had been able to withstand the EMP.

  No, it wasn’t a sure bet. There were older, gas-powered vehicles that should have been running still, given their limited reliance on electronics, but there didn’t look like there were many people left in this town to be driving around. And he wasn’t willing to take that chance.

  He darted into the parking lot, his gaze rushing through the cars as he desperately held onto the key he’d stolen from the cash register in the market. He ran down one row, then another, praying to whoever might be listening that the car was here. When he tried the key unsuccessfully in two vehicles, he sprinted forward, toward the alley on the other side of the lot. Maybe whoever drove the car had come into the lot, found it full, and decided to park somewhere else.

  Maybe the car was just around the corner. Maybe it was on another street. Maybe they hadn’t driven to work at all today, bringing their keys only because they also had the house key attached to them.

  Each thought was getting more and more outlandish, and he forced himself to stop jumping to conclusions as his legs pumped harder and harder, carrying him flying over the asphalt and toward the alley. He went skidding out of the driveway, slipped on some gravel on the road, and barely righted himself. Then he was dashing forward, his eyes anxiously scanning the narrow street.

  Nothing. Where the hell was that car?

  He was just getting ready to turn and rush the other way when a military vehicle came screeching into the street and flew right toward him. He came skidding to a halt and spun, ready to fly the other way, but stopped when he heard a voice behind him.

  “Freeze or we shoot!” a man hollered.

  Garrett froze. He knew he didn’t have a choice. Not really.

  He spun slowly, hands in the air, to see that the vehicle had come to a stop and emitted two men, who were now standing on the street with rifles pointed at him.

  “Identify yourself,” the taller of the two men snapped, his gun steady.

  Garrett felt the weight of the Glock at his belt and remembered the box of hunting rifles he’d left in the bunker, but he knew it wouldn’t have mattered. Even if he’d had that gun in his hand, he couldn’t have taken on two men with guns. Not if he expected to survive.

  “Garrett Floyd,” he said clearly. “I’m an architect, been working on a bunker for a private client right outside of town. I just came in to restock on water.”

  “That why you have a sleeping bag strapped to your back?” the guy asked, his voice clearly indicating that he doubted Garrett’s very right to live.

  Garrett shrugged and tried to smile. “Always be prepared, right? Isn’t that one of the core ideas in military life?”

  The man’s gun dipped, as did his partner’s, and Garrett breathed out in relief. When the men walked toward him, demanded his gun, and put him in handcuffs, he cooperated, his mind flying through his options. No, it wasn’t ideal. Yes, he thought the military might be guilty of attacking civilians. Yes, he’d just lost his one and only weapon.

  But he’d come out of his military training with one enduring idea: if you were going to fight back, choose a time when you had a good chance of success. This wasn’t that time. But he was sure that if he watched carefully, he’d figure out how to get away.

  And if he could do that, and steal one of their vehicles, then he’d have a head start on getting to Mexico.

  Chapter 12

  The guys who had handcuffed him shoved him into the back of their truck and up onto one of the benches lining the sides, then returned to the cab. As he listened to the engine starting up, accompanied by the murmurs of their voices, Garrett scanned the compartment. Army green, completely stripped of any decoration, with racks lining the walls for guns and bazookas. Definitely military issue, and he could confirm that based on what he’d seen of the outside of the truck. Army green and camouflaged, with their standard license plates.

  This was a military vehicle. But the men who had arrested him hadn’t been in uniform, and they certainly hadn’t spoken like soldiers.

  He scooted toward the front of the bench and found the window he’d expected there—the one that should open right into the cab. His hands were still cuffed behind his back, which was inconvenient, but he used his teeth to grab the edge of the window and slide it sideways. Then he stuck his head right through the opening.

  “So, are you guys going to tell me who you are and what you’re doing?” he asked, his head appearing between the two men in the cab of the truck.

  Both men jumped and whirled toward him, their faces wearing identical expressions of surprise crossed with frustration and anger, and Garrett almost smiled. That had been totally worth it, regardless of how dangerous it was.

  Then the men turned away from him, neither of them bothering to answer.

  “Are you with the military?” he asked, eyes narrowing. “Army? Marines?”

  Still no answer, and he was starting to get annoyed now. He hated when people ignored him. Particularly when those people had just handcuffed him like they had the right to arrest him.

  “What base are you with?” His voice was colder now, more serious, and though he wouldn’t have admitted it to anyone else, he was starting to get worried. No, military guys didn’t like answering questions—especially when they came from civilians. No, they didn’t like to be told that they’d done something wrong.

  But they also didn’t act like you didn’t exist. And there had always been a code of honor among them about giving people adequate reason for their arrest. True, not all soldiers adhered to that code. But if you had two soldiers in one place, one or the other of them should have been following the rules.

  “Army,” one of them said suddenly. “Small base, you wouldn’t have heard of it.”

  Garrett pressed his lips together. Right. Small base, he wouldn’t have heard of it. Well, it was possible. New Mexico and Nevada were both chock-full of bases that the public had never known about. That didn’t explain why these guys were patrolling a burned-out town.

  “And what were you doing in Timmons?” Garrett asked, his eyes on the road ahead of him.

  “Patrolling” was the only answer he got.

  He leaned back, finished with his questions. He wasn’t going to get anything good out of these guys, and he had a feeling they’d end up getting tired of his questions sooner rather than l
ater. But he already knew things they didn’t know. Like that he’d been in military school and knew more about how the military operated than they realized.

  He’d also taught himself a few tricks while he was in school, thanks to his less honorable friends, and he had a feeling they were going to come in handy pretty soon.

  Taking a deep breath, Garrett focused on his hands, trying to figure out how tight the handcuffs actually were. Not tight enough, he thought, as he folded his thumb up into his palm and using his other hand to compress the knuckles on his folded hand. He gritted his teeth, ready for the pain, and started to pull the folded hand up through the handcuffs.

  It slid out even more easily than he remembered. He’d evidently lost some weight. In his hands, of all places.

  Breathing out in some relief, he slipped his hand back into the loop. Right, ability to escape, confirmed. That would definitely be useful.

  And now that he knew that, he started paying attention to where they were going. He knew the streets around here like the back of the hand he’d just slipped out of the cuffs, and had spent months driving back and forth as he worked on the silo. He knew the highway they were on right now, and he knew the street they turned down half an hour later. From there it was a straight shot to what he assumed was their destination, and when they rolled to a stop in front of an immense cast-iron gate, he knew that they were still in New Mexico and probably seventy-five miles, at most, from the silo where he’d been holed up.

  It would have taken him days to get back to the silo, but that wasn’t his target. He also knew exactly which direction he’d have to take to get to Mexico. And now he thought he might have access to the vehicle to get him there.

  A moment later one of the guys was throwing open the door behind him and motioning for him to get out of the truck. Garrett went without fighting, jumping out and landing gracefully on his feet. It was getting dark out now, and though that made him feel nervous—the dark had always made him slightly edgy—he was already planning his move. Easier to escape in the dark. Harder for them to follow. Simpler to hide.