Bunker (A Post-Apocalyptic Techno Thriller Book 4) Read online

  Jack bent down and slid his arms under Megan before picking her up. Her bad knee was sore, but he was being gentle.

  Megan wrapped her arms around his neck, avoiding the scars on each side. They looked like they still hurt, the skin rough and ugly. She wanted to ask about them, but didn’t want him to get mad or be embarrassed.

  Like her papa always told her, it wasn’t really any of her business. “Some people are just different, that’s all,” he’d say. “Don’t stare. It’s impolite.”

  Sheriff Apollo came forward and stepped in front of Jack, his hands adjusting the waistband of his pants. “Do you need some help?”

  “Nah, I got this, Sheriff.”

  “Are you sure?”

  “Yeah. A little privacy is probably a good thing.”

  Sheriff Apollo nodded, his eyes looking away as if he was thinking about something else. “You’re probably right.”

  “Though you might want to get some ice on your forehead. Looking pretty swollen, Sheriff.”

  Apollo rubbed his hand across the raised area above his eye. “Yeah, they got me good, that’s for sure.”

  “Let me take a look at it,” Martha Rainey said without hesitation.

  Jack flashed a strange look at Apollo. Megan thought he looked confused. Probably wondering why the old woman would get involved like that.

  “She’s a trauma nurse,” Apollo said, sounding like he was proud of her.

  Martha put her hand on the side of the Sheriff’s face, not letting him move. “Former trauma nurse, though nowadays they’d call what we did back then a Physician’s Assistant, just without all the extra pay. I was born a generation too early, I’m afraid.”

  Apollo pulled away from her as if her hand was bothering him. “I appreciate the help, but the gash on Dicky’s cheek takes priority. Gonna need a lot of stitches.”

  Martha swung her head and glanced at Dicky, craning her neck in the process. She was going to need a stepladder to reach the big man’s face, his head way above everyone else, including Jack’s.

  Megan’s mind filled with a flash of memories, each one showing Martha stopping by the supply store on her father’s ranch for a can of saddle soap. The last time she came by, her grandson Victor was with her, but he didn’t look happy about it.

  Megan didn’t think the Raineys had horses, so they wouldn’t have saddles, but every month the old lady would buy some, regardless. Always on a Wednesday for some reason. And always the same brand: Kiwi. Martha would step up to the counter with her purchase, while whistling a pretty, soft tune. She’d stop the melody long enough to smile before taking out a bag of homemade taffy and offering a piece to Megan. It was sticky and gooey, but yummy.

  Jack tapped the Sheriff on the shoulder. “You guys might also want to think about setting up a perimeter. We need to start focusing on a defensible position with access to town cut off. This is about the only choice to make camp.”

  “Or make a stand,” Apollo agreed with sharpness to his words.

  “Exactly. We both know this is going to get a lot worse before it gets better, so it’s up to us to provide a safe place for these kids.”

  “I agree. Tuttle was well prepared,” the Sheriff said, stepping aside. “Let us know if you need anything.”

  “Will do.”

  “Jack?” Megan asked, after the Sheriff disappeared.

  “What’s up?” he answered on the way to the front door of Tuttle’s house.

  Megan wasn’t sure if she should ask, but decided to anyway. It was important. “What about Misty? She lost somebody, too. Doesn’t she need to come inside with us? You know, to say goodbye.”

  “I don’t think she wants to, honey.”

  “But she needs to, like you said. We all have to be strong and face stuff like this.”

  “Deep down she probably does want to say goodbye, but sometimes people just can’t bring themselves to do it. That’s her choice, Megan, and we have to respect it. Everyone’s different when it comes to bad things that happen. Some people are extra brave like you and want to go inside, while others need to stay outside. Not everyone is the same and we have to let her deal with this in her own way. Does that make sense?”

  “Yeah, well, sort of. I just hope she’s okay. It’s not good to be alone when you’re sad.”

  “She’s not. Daisy is with her. They’re BFFs from a long time ago.”

  “I wish I had a best friend, but there aren’t many kids out where we live.”

  He grinned. It was a little smile, but she liked it. She thought he should do it more often so he wouldn’t look so scary to people who just met him.

  Jack’s smile grew bigger when he said, “Isn’t your horse your best friend? What’s his name again?”

  “Star. Yes, he is. I just hope he’s okay.”

  “Maybe when this is over, you and I can take Tango for a ride and go find Star. Would you like that?”

  She couldn’t hold back a grin, though her heart was still hurting. “You’d do that for me?”

  “Of course I would. We just have to make sure it’s safe first.”

  “You promise?”

  “Yes, I promise.”

  She hugged him as they continued through the front door and went inside.

  The house had a strange smell to it. It was gross, but she’d smelled worse. Usually in the stables when she was cleaning out the stalls.

  She figured most people didn’t know that horses are super messy and they poop a lot. Tons of it and it really stinks. There was so much when she did her chores that it would fill the wheelbarrow all the way to the top. It was really heavy, but she was able to take it out back and dump it all by herself.

  It was hard work, but her father said she had to do it. Even when she was tired. He wanted her to grow up big and strong and be able to handle stuff on her own. Sort of like now. She didn’t want to go inside, but she needed to. It’s what big girls do.

  At least Jack was here, so she didn’t have to go alone. He was strong and would protect her, like her papa would have done.

  CHAPTER 3

  Bunker turned his body at an angle to make room for the cargo he was carrying down the hallway of Tuttle’s place. The girl in his arms was dead quiet, lying on her back with her head to the right, keeping an eye on where they were going.

  For some reason, his heartbeat was out of control, thumping as if he’d just run a thousand-meter dash. But not just any dash. A dash through the hostile streets of Afghanistan with a loaded rucksack on his back.

  Normally he was in control of both his pulse and his breathing, but right now, right here, he was struggling, even though he’d been in far more precarious situations than this.

  Before his next breath, a scene from his past rose up and landed in his thoughts. When his eyes blinked, the entire incident played out in an instant, filling his mind’s eye with a rush of vivid imagery.

  White trails of smoke following a fresh salvo of RPGs.

  Explosive impacts shaking the air as the rocket-propelled grenades destroyed the foundation of a building not far from his squad.

  The bitter smell of propulsion that followed, hanging above the combat zone like some kind of pestilence.

  The horrendous claps of .50 caliber machine guns sending round after round downrange, each bullet creating pressure waves that traveled faster than sound.

  Headset squawking in his ears.

  Commands arriving across the airwaves and men responding.

  The clatter of equipment and boots scrambling for cover.

  Flashbangs going off in the distance as another entrenched terrorist got what was coming to him.

  The rattle of M16s.

  Pops of pistol fire.

  The stench of burning tires and rotting garbage in the street. Strong enough to make a billy goat gag.

  Bloodcurdling screams coming at him from every direction. Some in English. Others not.

  All of it intense.

  For some men, the sensory overload during comba
t was more than they could bear. A few froze in the heat of a battle. Others would break down. Some got tunnel vision, focusing only on their primary target and forgetting to listen to commands or pay attention to changes in their surroundings.

  Falling victim to any one of those symptoms meant you were probably going home in a body bag, or hauled to medical on a stretcher covered in blood.

  If someone asked, Bunker would tell them he didn’t believe in Fog of War, as most would call it. To him and his fire team, it was more along the lines of Mutually Assured Chaos. Or Big MAC Attack for short. Sure, it was a private term his team tossed around, but it fit.

  Despite the intensity, Bunker never had an issue staying focused and advancing to do what was needed, regardless of the indescribable bedlam surrounding him.

  He assumed his battle hardness was due to his father’s relentless preaching, training, and of course, pop inspections. He’d come to learn over the years that everything his father had put him through was done for a reason—to prepare him for what would come next, in all walks of life.

  Bunker was born to fight.

  He knew it.

  His old man knew it.

  Yet here he was, in a singlewide trailer with a fragile girl in his arms, carrying her to a rendezvous with the body of her dead father. A man Bunker knew and respected. A man who’d just been executed without a second thought by a band of thugs in the mountains of Colorado.

  Bunker had seen his share of corpses, most riddled with holes and body parts askew. But this face-off with death was different. Something inside him had set his adrenaline on fire. He wasn’t sure he could keep it under control.

  When he looked down at the injured girl, his eyes met hers. He wondered if she was staring back at him in order to draw strength in some fashion, like some kind of emotional conduit.

  “You okay?” he asked her, faking a steady voice. Her tears were gone, but the wetness down her cheeks remained.

  She nodded with her upper lip tucked under, but said nothing. He understood what she was feeling. She didn’t have to say it.

  “It’ll be okay. I promise,” Bunker told her as they arrived at the open door to Tuttle’s master bedroom. He didn’t enter. Not yet. He wanted to take a quick survey while she couldn’t see inside.

  Like Megan, this room had seen its share of turmoil in the past few days, first with Tuttle’s ambush by the man in black, and now Franklin Atwater’s murder. So much blood and violence in close proximity to kids. Innocent kids who were forced to grow up all at once with an invasion looming and countless other threats waiting in the shadows beyond Tuttle’s property.

  Sure, there were other actionable items and several friends needing his attention, but none of them were more critical than this mission.

  It’s the little things that count, he told himself quietly. Important things. Things that keep your sanity in check, and your humanity. Not just Megan’s, but his. The others would have to wait a few minutes, especially the adults.

  Two bodies lay lifelessly in the bed. The closest was Franklin. He was in the prone position and shirtless, with his muscular shoulder covered in a wide bandage.

  The wrap was bloody, but not nearly as red as the discards stuffed in a wastebasket sitting a foot from the bed. The wire-mesh receptacle was half-full of red and white cloths. Martha must have been busy trying to stop the bleeding before the hillbillies showed up, tossing the old rags away like unwanted bills.

  He smirked. Some good it did for the proud Army vet lying dead in the room occupied by a former recluse—a country hermit who was obsessed with all things conspiracy related. If the swatch of newspapers on the walls could talk, they’d tell a tale few would believe.

  The other body was on the far side of the bed, twisted over in an awkward position with its right side facing up. Bunker had never met the man known as Angus Cowie, but given what he’d learned, the corpse belonged to Misty Tuttle’s boyfriend from overseas.

  The blood splatter on the wall behind Cowie indicated he’d been shot sitting up. It meant the man must have regained consciousness and probably saw the gunman coming for him. The hole in his right palm supported that theory, most likely caught in the bullet’s damage path while trying to protect his face.

  It was a gruesome scene to be sure, but what he worried most about was the gaping hole in Franklin’s head. It was visible from the doorway. So was the blood on the cowboy’s face, his head propped up by a pillow. His eyes were still open, but looking in two different directions after his ocular control had let go upon his death.

  Stephanie was right. The girl shouldn’t see this.

  “Megan, I don’t know about this. It’s pretty awful, honey. I think we should go back outside.”

  “No, Jack. I need to do this. Take me in, please. I have to say goodbye.”

  Bunker held back a response. He didn’t have the words, her voice cutting through his armor and squeezing his vocal cords.

  “Please, Jack. Please,” she said, tears taking over her eyes once again. She continued her appeals, her voice like acid, eating away at the petals of his heart.

  He wanted to deny her request, but couldn’t find the strength, his insides a swampy mush. “Okay. But if we do this, I need you to close your eyes for a minute. There are a couple of things I need to do before you open them. Can you do that for me?”

  “Uh-huh,” she said, her eyelids slamming shut.

  “All right, keep them closed until I tell you to open them.”

  “I will. I promise.”

  He walked through the door and put her on the floor at the foot of the bed. Her eyes were still closed, so Bunker went to Franklin’s body as planned.

  First up, he needed to cover the hole in the man’s forehead. After a quick scan of the room, he realized the items he could use were limited.

  Martha had left a pair of scissors on the headboard and some used bandages in the waste bin, but little else. He had hoped to find medical tape—the preferred item—but he didn’t see any rolls.

  A pile of pushpins, a magnifying glass, and a yellow marker were in the room, sitting on a stack of unread newspapers by the broken window on the far wall. They’d been moved since his initial visit with Daisy. However, unless he was going to complete Tuttle’s article review, they weren’t going to be of much help.

  The blood around the entry wound was still fresh and glistening, giving him an idea. He tore off a six-inch strip of newspaper from one of the nearby articles on the wall and folded it over several times, until it was slightly larger than the wound.

  He tucked the edges under so they locked together in a fold, then put the wad of paper on the wound. The blood worked like glue, adhering the makeshift bandage to the man’s skin.

  Not bad, he decided. It reminded him of the mornings when he decided to shave. Inevitably, he’d have to use tissue to cover the cuts from the perpetually dull razor. Otherwise, the bleeding would run down his chin.

  Unfortunately, the cover-up wasn’t perfect, blood seeping into the newsprint along the edges. Yet it was better than letting Megan catch a visual of the gunshot hole in her old man’s face.

  A traumatic image like that would stick with her until the end of time. This was going to be hard enough as it was. Bunker didn’t want the memories of her father jaded any more than they had to be. Not if he could lessen her pain in some way.

  He ran his finger over Franklin’s eyes to close the lids, then grabbed a handful of used bandages from the trashcan. He lifted Franklin’s head and wiped up most of the blood and tissue, then tossed the rags back where he’d found them. He turned the pillow over to the cleaner side, then repositioned the dead man’s head so it looked natural.

  Bunker had done all he could for his Army pal. Now it was time to fix the deadly scene on the other side of the mattress. He walked past Megan and headed to the far side of the bed.

  “Can I open my eyes now?” Megan asked.

  Bunker figured the sound of his footsteps and the rush of air
past her cued her question. “Not yet. Hang on. Almost done.”

  “What’s taking so long?”

  “Just another minute or so, sweetheart. Don’t open your eyes yet.” Bunker rolled Angus onto his back, then positioned the man’s hands across his chest, like a mortician would do. Then, as he did for Franklin, Bunker covered the forehead wound with folded newspaper.

  Next up, he needed to devise a quick solution for the blood splatter on the wall. Some of it had landed on the nearby paper, but the rest had stuck to the naked drywall.

  He tore down the newsprint that had red on it, then turned his attention to the area of drywall covered in blood and tissue. The gruesome mess covered about six square feet and had spread out in all directions.

  If he had a sponge and a mop bucket, this would have been an easy fix. Cleaning supplies were probably stored in the mobile home somewhere, but Bunker didn’t think he had the time, nor did he want to leave Megan in here alone. She was already running out of patience. If he left the room now, she’d almost certainly open her eyes too soon.

  He had a better idea. One involving the eleven pushpins remaining in the clear plastic tray that sat on top of the stack of papers behind him.

  Bunker grabbed eight of the pins, along with three full-sized sheets of newspaper, then put them on the wall to cover the splatter in large, overlapping squares. The sheets were from a section of the paper that featured dark-colored ads, obscuring the red splotches behind them. The pins slipped into the drywall without much pressure, making quick work of the evidence.

  After a final survey of the room, he believed he’d done all he could in the time allotted. He returned to Megan’s side of the bed and took a knee next to her, his heart still running in overdrive. “Okay, I’m finished. You ready?”

  Her eyes remained closed when she said, “Uh-huh.”

  When Megan’s hands came up for him, he obliged, slipping his arms under hers to pick her up.

  Bunker wondered if she was actually going to see this through. It wasn’t going to be easy, but not just for her. In truth, a big part of him hoped she’d ask him to turn around and haul her outside before she opened her eyes. “Last chance to change your mind.”