The Day After Never (Book 7): Havoc Read online

  Chapter 2

  One month earlier

  Hamilton, Montana

  Ulysses Granger and two of his trusted men crept toward a collection of dwellings that had been set up on the grounds of the Rocky Mountain Laboratories. The residents had obviously felt safer behind the high-security barrier fence that encircled the area while they scavenged for anything of value in the sprawling complex. Old trailers and campers were scattered haphazardly near the main building, a monstrous black hulk in the moonlight. Ulysses’s nose wrinkled at the noxious aroma from a sewage trench on the far side of the squatter camp, and he grimaced at his subordinates, his eyes hard.

  They’d been watching the camp for two days and were confident that they wouldn’t be disturbed on their foray into the main building if they did so at night. All of the activity they’d noted had been during the day, and the camp’s security consisted of a pair of bored guards armed with shotguns at the gated entrance. Ulysses had scaled the twenty-foot-high wall an hour earlier, halfway to the barricaded rear exit, which the squatters left unguarded, no doubt because the wall and tall gate were impassible.

  Which they would have been for most.

  But Ulysses and his men weren’t most. They’d come prepared with homemade grappling hooks and rappelling cord and were now making their way to the building, their boots soundless in the tall grass. All three gripped AR-15s and wore plate carriers and looked far more like commandos than the top echelon of a popular religious cult whose doomsday orientation had attracted a regional following among survivors seeking an explanation for the ongoing misery of their post-apocalypse existence.

  Ulysses slowed as he approached the camp and signaled to his men, who spread out. They didn’t expect to meet any resistance at the late hour, but were taking no chances. The squatters had followed the same routine both nights – sit around a central fire for the evening meal and then head off to bed as the flames burned out. Now, five hours after nightfall, nothing was stirring among the trailers, and with the guards’ attention focused outward, the men drifted through the camp like phantoms.

  The laboratory entrance had once been fortified with bulletproof glass and massive steel plates, but since being abandoned, the entry had been breached, and the main door yawned open like a dark mouth. Ulysses guided his men inside, stepping around piles of debris. He strode with obvious purpose, his lips moving as he counted his measured steps. Once through the lobby, he turned left after twenty-nine paces and led them into a long hallway, where he paused and cranked the charging handle of a small LED flashlight.

  They continued down the corridor until they reached the end, where Ulysses pointed to a set of double steel doors. “That’s it,” he whispered, and his men nodded in unison. They approached the doors and could make out scarring from where the scavengers had hacked at it with axes and pry bars, to no avail – the doors remained shut, solid as the side of a mountain.

  Ulysses handed the nearest man his rifle and shrugged off the straps of his backpack. He set it down at the side of the doorway and withdrew a plastic tub as his companions stood guard. He next removed several small ceramic vessels that looked like flowerpots cut in half, and painstakingly affixed them to the union of the doors, directly over where he knew from studying the blueprints that the locking bolts were located. He then opened a coffee can, filled the vessels to the brim with dark powder, and inserted a sparkler into each.

  “Get back,” he instructed in a low voice, and his men hastened away as he fished a disposable lighter from his pocket. He flicked it to life and lit the three sparklers in rapid succession, and then hurried away as they flared.

  The homemade thermite ignited moments later, and all three men winced at the blinding white flame that hissed from the door. The adhesive melted in a nanosecond, and the pots fell to the floor, but the heat from the chemical reaction had done its job, and molten metal streamed in rivers down the steel plates.

  The men were deep enough in the building that the sound of the clay cracking on the linoleum floor wouldn’t be heard in the camp, but they still waited, frozen in the darkness, as their eyes adjusted, weapons pointed down the long corridor as they listened for any hint of movement from outside. After half a minute, Ulysses cranked the flashlight again and moved to the doors, which were still steaming, the metal pooled on the floor glowing orange. He pushed against the one on his right with his boot, and the door groaned and opened several inches. He tried again, and it moved another foot and then swung wider as its hinges creaked in protest.

  “We’re in,” he said. “Stay here. If anyone comes to investigate, you know what to do.”

  The men followed him into another corridor and stood like bookends on either side, guns at the ready. Ulysses continued along the hallway until he reached a junction, where he turned left. He cranked his flashlight again and spotted three more metal doors, the farthest one to a stairwell that led down two stories into the class 4 bio-lab area that was his final destination.

  He made his way down the steps and used the thermite to cut through another security door. Once in the basement, he hurried to a vault with hazmat suits hanging on racks on one end and a series of airlocks on the other. Ulysses eyed the suits with satisfaction – all was exactly as described by one of his acolytes as he’d lain on his deathbed.

  Ulysses continued past the chamber to another security door emblazoned with a biohazard decal, and after melting its bolts, pushed past the steel slab and entered another vault – this one filled with miniature green metal canisters. Another crank of the flashlight, and he read the series of letters and numbers on each, whispering the syllables reverently until he found the one he had come for.

  The government had officially ceased the development of chemical and biological weapons decades before, but, in spite of treaties committing to destroying stockpiles of the agents, had kept samples, ostensibly for research – the reasoning being that it was impossible to design effective antidotes and countermeasures without access to the agents in question.

  The lab was home to a host of nightmare pathogens so virulent that they could only be safely studied in a handful of class 4 facilities like this one. But the designers of the lab had never factored in the long-term failure of the power grid, and after a year of continuous operation, the generators had run dry, and the lights – and safeguards – had gone dark.

  As with many of the fail-safe systems designed to act as redundant backups, nobody had envisioned the world reverting to medieval conditions for a sustained period, which had left the lab a cemetery for the most horrific agents the world had ever known.

  Ulysses wasn’t interested in the Marberg or Ebola or smallpox secreted behind yet even more impenetrable doors – steel so thick it would require a plasma torch to cut through. His interest lay in the more mundane agent his dying worshipper had described: one of a number of highly toxic nerve agents that had been weaponized as an aerosol that killed within moments of release.

  He removed the canister and hefted it, the metal surface cool to the touch. Heavy for its size, it contained enough neurotoxin to kill thousands nearly instantly, yet was small enough to fit in his backpack. Ulysses studied the top of the canister’s innocuous threaded lip, to which a dispersal nozzle could be fitted – he’d already secured several from a hospital, where oxygen bottles of similar design had lain abandoned among the skeletons.

  It was hard to believe such a small, seemingly innocent container could kill a stadium’s occupants, but the dying man had been clear that it could do that and more. After so much senseless death, the man had wanted to unburden his mind in his final moments and had willingly violated his oath to take his secrets to his grave.

  Which had provided Ulysses with both an idea and a purpose.

  He adjusted the backpack and, when he was sure the canister was safely ensconced and protected from an inadvertent blow, slid the straps over his arms and retraced his steps to where his men were waiting, unaware of his reasons for wanting to enter the lab
and unquestioning of his motive. Ulysses was a prophet, a messiah figure for those in his flock, and his actions were those of a divine messenger.

  A smile crept across his face and a giddy light danced in his eyes. Anyone who’d seen it would have gazed into the soul of madness, but there was nobody around to witness the eerie transformation from his usual placid expression. He allowed himself the moment of triumph, muttering as he walked along the hall, his voice a guttural growl as he mouthed nonsense words in a language of his own invention. Speaking in tongues – a sign of divine inspiration, he’d told his followers, who had believed, just as they believed everything else he’d fed them, fueled by a fever that burned as bright as a solar flare. What he hadn’t shared with them was that before the end times, he’d been diagnosed as having schizophrenia and had been on a steady diet of medication to control his hallucinations, a fact he’d never shared with anyone, not even his son Elijah, who was the closest person to him on the planet.

  Ulysses laughed out loud and then stifled the sound with his hand. It wouldn’t do to be talking to himself and laughing like a maniac in the dark. His men, loyal as they were, might begin to question his decisions, which he couldn’t afford.

  He had far too much work to do.

  Important work nobody else had the courage or stamina for. Work that he’d been saved by God to see completed, just as that same God had sent the dying man to him, seeking absolution and understanding, and in so doing had delivered unto Ulysses the tool he required to fulfill his destiny.

  He would be the rider of the pale horse prophesied in the Good Book, the angel of death who would be the instrument of the final reckoning.

  Ulysses took several deep breaths and, when the giddiness he felt was under control, began walking toward the stairwell again with the determined steps of a prizefighter approaching the ring for a title bout.

  Chapter 3

  Amber Hot Springs, Colorado

  Duke walked his horse to where Elliot and Sierra were standing by the thermal plant, Luis and John trailing behind him with a column of overloaded horses in tow. Sierra held Eve’s tiny hand and smiled as they approached. Elliot shielded his eyes from the sun with his hand and nodded to Duke.

  “Be careful not to leave a trail,” Elliot said.

  “Of course.”

  Elliot looked the pack animals over. “You have enough to make a decent start?”

  “Should be plenty. With enough ammo and spare guns, I can own the world. And there’s always gold to prime the pump, right?”

  Both men smiled at Duke’s confidence.

  “You figure two days’ ride?” Elliot asked.

  “’Bout that. I may be back for a reload once we’ve set up camp.” Duke shook his head. “Too bad we couldn’t have stayed in the old place. It had a lot going for it.”

  They’d discussed staying put in Duke’s last trading post, but now that Shangri-La had moved another hundred miles north, it was too far from that location to make sense as a trading hub for the enclave. They’d pored over maps to identify promising sites and had narrowed it down to several highway rest stops on the main road between Pueblo and Colorado Springs, which was now an enclave run by neo-Nazi fundamentalists. Duke had selected the most desirable weapons and barter items he could get his hands on to kick-start the business, and he and Luis as partners had agreed to set up another trading post at a more practical distance from the new Shangri-La.

  Luis frowned, and his facial tattoos creased with the expression. “Hope the transmitter makes it. It looked kind of iffy.”

  Duke patted his shoulder. “Elliot’s wirehead gave it the once-over. Good as new.” He walked to Sierra and hugged her. “Tell Lucas to come by whenever he gets back from his little vacation.”

  She smiled. “I will.”

  Duke knelt in front of Eve. “You take care of yourself, princess. Keep that brother of yours out of trouble.”

  She held his gaze with unblinking eyes so blue they seemed to glow in the sunlight. “I’ll do the best I can. He doesn’t always listen.”

  “Where is he?”

  “Off with some kids.”

  “Do your best, and help your mother.”

  Eve nodded solemnly. “I will.”

  He straightened and shook hands with Elliot. “We’ll check in once we’re settled. Good luck with all this.”

  “Thanks. We have our hands full, but we’ll manage. No real choice before winter hits, is there?”

  “You should think about places that don’t get buried in snow half the year.”

  Elliot smiled. “I’ll make a note of it. But this isn’t so bad. Plenty of fishable lakes within a day’s ride. There’s river water just down the hill and hot springs for power generation. We could have done worse.”

  “No question. Talk to you in a few days.”

  “Good luck.”

  Duke saddled up, and Luis and John followed suit. “Thanks.”

  Elliot watched the riders disappear down the trail and looked around the hot springs, where homes were being built and life was going on. They’d managed to survive in spite of the best efforts of some of the most dangerous groups in the country, and had thwarted the virus with their vaccine against all odds. Deep snow and the challenges of rebuilding their community in a new place might have seemed daunting to many, but to the residents of Shangri-La they were par for the course. Their vision of a peaceful outpost of civilization, where everyone worked for the greater good and respected the rights of others, was a powerful one, and they’d proven they were willing to do whatever it took to protect and nurture it.

  Elliot sighed and turned to Sierra. “How’s your place coming?”

  “It’s coming. We’ve had a lot of help, for which we’ve got you to thank.”

  “Lucas made a hell of a sacrifice taking the vaccine west. It was the least we could do to repay that.”

  She looked away. “I hope he comes home soon. I need him here.”

  “That makes two of us. He will. He’s one of the toughest and most resourceful men I’ve ever laid eyes on.”

  “I hope that’s enough.”

  “Me too.”

  Chapter 4

  Newport, Oregon

  Lucas slowed Tango with a squeeze of the reins, and the big horse came to a stop. Jeb, Mary, and Rosemary did the same, and Ruby called out from the back of the procession.

  “Are we there? Is that Newport?”

  Jeb nodded. “Yep. You can smell the cooking fires. Just over that rise.”

  Lucas glanced back over his shoulder at them and adjusted his hat to better shade his eyes from the morning sun. “I’ll take a look. Stay here.”

  He goaded Tango forward, and the stallion trotted up the incline until Lucas had a good view of the town below. Plumes of smoke rose from the chimneys of many of the small homes, and he could pick out people making their way along the streets with bundles in hand. Lucas was about to turn to tell the others it was safe to follow when the distinctive snick of a lever-action rifle being cocked greeted him from behind a rock outcropping, and a voice called out.

  “Got no room for strangers. Keep movin’.”

  Lucas didn’t budge. “We’re here with some of your folks. And to pick up a mule.”

  “What do you mean, our folks?”

  Lucas twisted and called to the others. “Jeb? Mary? Come on up here.”

  They urged their horses forward, and as they pulled even with Lucas, two men stepped from behind the rocks, rifles in hand. “Jeb? That you?”

  Jeb nodded. “It is.”

  “Thought you was gone for good.”

  “We rescued my family, and now we want to see if there’s anything to come back to.”

  “What happened with the Chinese?”

  “We took it to ’em. There’s a bunch still in Astoria, but we blew up their boat.”

  “You blew it up?”

  Jeb looked to Lucas. “Well, Lucas here did.”

  “I had help,” Lucas said.

&
nbsp; “We’ve been on the trail for two days. Is there a problem with us coming into town?” Mary asked.

  “Oh, um, of course not,” the gunman said. “Things is different since you took off, is all. Mayor and the council are out. Hayden’s still sheriff, but other than that, we’re still trying to figure out how to set things up.” He spit to the side. “You’re the first we’ve seen since we settled here. Bill ever make it up your way?”

  Lucas nodded. “He did. A good man.”

  “That he is. Well, come on, then. Don’t let me stop you. Everyone’s gonna have a million questions.”

  Lucas guided Tango down the trail to where the remains of Newport sat by the water’s edge, Yaquina Bay nearly flat as huge ocean waves crashed against the protecting breakwater. Rust from the salt air bled down the steel bridge that spanned the bay. Pilings jutted from the surface where the commercial harbor had been, the docks and boats destroyed by winter storms and the effects of time. The tops of industrial fishing boat masts poked from the water as reminders of the fleet that had called the bay home only a few short years before, near where a handful of sailboats bobbed by the shore, moored to the pilings, with a half dozen skiffs beached nearby.

  “Looks pretty rough,” Ruby commented.

  “At least it isn’t radioactive,” Rosemary said in a quiet voice.

  A familiar figure waved at them from one of the little houses near the water. They slowed as they approached, and Lucas tipped his hat to Hayden.

  “Never thought we’d see you again,” Hayden said. “No hard feelings about that other stuff. I was out of line.”

  “Likewise,” Jeb agreed. “Thought we’d check out what you have going here.”

  Hayden motioned to the other dwellings. “There’re a lot of habitable places if a guy’s handy. The weather’s no worse than Astoria, and the fishing’s about the same. All in all, it’s a pretty decent new home. People are settling in, although it’s too soon to tell how many will stay.”