Plague Wars Trilogy, page 40
“Sure,” said Skull, pulling out a California driver’s license with his picture and the name Victor Erickson. He reached for the registration and proof of insurance that matched the false identification.
The policeman examined the documents so closely, Skull wondered if the man could read. Just sound it out, Skull thought with internal sarcasm. The big words can be tricky. With iron self control, he kept the thoughts from spilling past his lips.
“Where are you headed, Mister Erickson?” the policeman finally asked.
“Back to Sacramento. Got to be at work on Monday.”
“And what is it you do for work?” The policeman seemed skeptical.
“I’m the manager of Prince Lumber and Construction Supply.” Skull felt confident giving these details because he had already paid for the backstopping. If the cop decided to call the company, they would verify that Victor Erickson, a tall bald man, worked there and was expected back to work on Monday.
The cop peered at the growing line of traffic behind Skull’s vehicle. “And just what was your purpose in Arizona?”
Skull saw in the line next to him officers had pulled the family out of their station wagon and were searching the vehicle and making them turn out their pockets. If they did that to him, the game could be up given all the weapons in the vehicle. He mentally marked the positions of the policemen. Only the one he was speaking to was paying him any attention.
“Sir? Why were you in Arizona?”
“I’m sorry, officer,” Skull replied with an embarrassed smile. “I was visiting my sick aunt in Sonoma and realized I was supposed to call my wife before I left and didn’t. She gets so pissed when I do that.”
The man seemed to relax a little. “Yeah, mine too.”
“Officer, is there some sort of problem? Is this because of the terrorist attacks?”
“Yeah,” he answered, leaning back so he could see the full extent of the forming lines. Now both vehicles on either side of Skull’s were getting tossed. “Martial law, you know. Those damn terrorists. I had friends in Los Angeles.”
Skull forced his eyes to get soft and watery. “I had a brother there.” He rubbed his face and looked away. “Haven’t heard from him since...since...well, since then.”
The policeman handed back his identification and papers. “We’ll all get through this. Just stay tough and hang together. The President will give those sons of bitches what they deserve.”
“I sure hope so,” said Skull taking the papers. “You take care.”
“You too,” the policeman answered. “And stay to the north. They’re saying fallout is still drifting east from L.A. Shouldn’t be too dangerous, but even a little radiated rain is bad.”
Indeed it is, thought Skull. It wouldn’t just be radioactive rain; it would be ashes from millions of innocents killed to cover up a lie. Skull was under no illusions what the leaders of the government would do to contain the Eden Plague that threatened to disrupt their comfortable power blocs and politics. He’d seen dozens of examples in his time all over the world. The average Joe thought it couldn’t happen in America, but all it took was a big enough threat. 9/11 had made people so afraid they were begging the government to take their rights in exchange for security. Decades had to pass for the feds to back away from knee-jerk reactions to every imagined danger, and now all that normalcy had been wiped away again.
Skull passed through several more checkpoints, none as thorough or efficient as the first one. These policemen appeared to only be making a show of checking people’s identification and were nearly apologetic for stopping motorists. Fortunately, traffic was light. Most people likely stayed at home during this time of uncertainly and crisis, heeding the public service announcements.
Needing coffee and food, Skull pulled off at an exit for a large gas station. He noticed an agitated group of people near the pumps. Driving around them slowly, he examined the posted signs: ALL FUEL RATIONED BY ORDER OF THE GOVERNOR. SEE YOUR LOCAL COURTHOUSE FOR RATION CARD.
Skull looked down at his fuel gauge. That could be a problem, he thought. The large SUV still had over a quarter of a tank, but that wouldn’t take him too much farther. Maybe he could get into New Mexico. Hopefully the governor there hadn’t enacted similar measures.
Parking in a spot he could see from inside the large convenience store, he grabbed a basket from a stack near the door and started tossing in nuts, jerky, and any other food that would keep for several days. He also pitched in a few packages of flashlight batteries before getting himself an extra-large coffee with double cream and sugar to ward off what would be an inevitable burnt flavor. A couple of irradiated egg and meat sandwiches that had been under heat lamps for who knew how long would serve for breakfast.
Walking over to the checkout, he set his basket and coffee in front of a stick-thin woman with glasses.
“That be all for ya today?” she asked with a cheerfulness that seemed out of place.
“Sure,” he answered. “What’s up with the gas rationing?”
The cashier cackled loudly like a witch from one of the old movies Skull used to watch as a kid. “That just happened this morning. Pissed lots of people off. My manager ain’t too happy either because we have to give gas to police and state officials without charging them. We only get their receipt with a state IOU. Meanwhile, he says we still have to pay all our bills in cash.” She laughed and shook her head while placing his purchases in a bag, clearly enjoying herself.
“Total seems a little high, don’t you think?” Skull said as the numbers rang up.
“Got to charge more, otherwise the hoarders’d buy us out right off and we’d have nothing at all.” Reaching out to take his money, she lowered her voice. “Mark my words, this is all because of something those Jews in Israel did.” Then her smile faltered, as if noticing his bronzed skin for the first time and wondering at his background.
Actually, Apache in his ancestry had bequeathed him the skin color, much more noticeable when he’d gotten sun. “Mazel Tov,” Skull said with a straight face, taking his coffee and bag of food off the counter and walking to the door. He stopped at the sight of the newspaper stand near the exit. The headline read, MILLIONS KILLED IN TERRORIST CULT ATTACKS IN LOS ANGELES AND WEST VIRGINIA. TWELVE STATES DECLARE EMERGENCIES. He read a little further. The article stated that Federal authorities had placed Daniel Markis at the top of the FBI’s Most Wanted list as the leader of the terrorist group at fault. The article also told how his group was believed to be responsible for the sinking of the cruise ship Royal Neptune.
Skull knew he shouldn’t be surprised or disgusted, but felt both. So Markis is America’s most wanted man, he thought. Maybe that’ll keep the heat off me. Let self-righteous DJ be the face of his new movement and draw all the attention so I can do what I need to. Leafing through the paper, he didn’t see pictures of any others from the Sosthenes bunker group.
After loading his food and batteries into his pack, Skull sat in the SUV, ate his sandwiches and drank the sweet foul coffee. Watching the angry and growing crowd at the pumps, he decided things were getting a little too unpredictable right there. Better not to get caught up in a violent situation that was bound to attract a law enforcement response.
He hadn’t used the embedded vehicle GPS yet, but now he turned it on. The system wanted a destination, but he sure as hell wasn’t going to type in the INS Inc. facility in Maryland. Instead, he put in Amarillo, Texas, a good waypoint in the right direction. More importantly, he set the GPS to avoid traffic jams and freeways. That should help conserve gas and maybe even get him around most of the checkpoints, even if it did cost him time.
Skull drove the SUV back out onto the interstate and then, at the direction of the GPS, exited six miles north at Camp Verde onto State Route 260 running generally southeast before turning back to the northeast. The two-lane road was nearly deserted except for an occasional pickup truck with a dog in back. The noon sun illuminated orange rock, pale soil, and hardy, stunted plants – all that survived in this harsh and desolate land.
Skull remembered how much he enjoyed the desert and its pitiless nature, unforgiving of errors or weakness.
Of all the places where he served as a Marine, rugged Afghanistan was the most beautiful, despite all the raghead assholes living there. High mountains, wide-open vistas, and in the north, green fields and swift primordial rivers. Skull had enjoyed watching the landscape from his sniper positions in the downtime between servicing targets.
Afghanistan had been as close to sniper heaven as he’d ever found.
Much like northern Arizona, Skull thought. I would really like to kill someone here. Someone deserving. Someone on the wrong side.
Only problem was, he wasn’t yet sure of the sides. Still, he knew if he just stayed patient, evil would reveal itself.
It always did.
His thoughts were interrupted by the sight of a police car across the road ahead. Skull considered turning around, but they may have already seen him. Running now would be like fox scent to the hounds, an admission of guilt. Hoping this checkpoint would be no more difficult to get through than the others, he slowed as he approached the lone cruiser.
A policeman as tall as Skull, but much heavier, exited the driver’s side door, paced by his shorter, younger partner. Both cops rested their hands on their weapons, a sign of the times.
The bigger officer held his free hand up for the SUV to stop. When Skull complied, the cop walked over, followed by the other.
Skull calmly handed them his license and registration. “How you doing today?”
The big cop looked at the license plate on the SUV and the identification. “California? You’re way off the freeways, partner.”
“I was trying to get around all the traffic and maybe find a place to buy gas,” Skull improvised.
“Good luck with that,” said the smaller cop. “Everyone in the state is scrambling to buy gas now. Damn thing caught everyone by surprise. Not just gas but other stuff too.”
“Other stuff?” Skull asked.
The big cop gave his partner a stern look, shutting him up. “Where you headed to?”
“Amarillo,” Skull said, thinking of the destination he entered in the GPS. “I’ve got family there I’m going to visit.”
“Really?” asked the big cop. “Seems like a strange time to hit the road, if you don’t mind me saying so.”
“You mean with the crazy attacks and all?” asked Skull. “Well, my parents have been bugging me to come visit for a long time and with everything that has happened, it just seemed like maybe it wouldn’t be such a bad idea to get out of California.”
The cop nodded. “You carrying any contraband, Mister Erickson?”
“Contraband?” asked Skull with a confused look.
“Yeah, contraband,” said the smaller cop. “Drugs, explosives, guns.”
“Guns are contraband in Arizona?”
The big man frowned. “Ever since the State Security Measures were enacted, it is illegal to transport more than one weapon in a vehicle. Why? Are you carrying firearms?”
“Me?” Skull laughed. “Hell, no. I’m from California. If you even say the word ‘gun’ there, you get a ticket.”
“Then I guess you won’t have any problems with us searching your SUV, will you?”
Skull looked at both men and saw they had already made up their minds. They were likely just bored. Before martial law he might have been able to push back and assert his right to refuse, but things had changed.
“No problem at all,” he answered with a smile, getting out and stepping aside.
“Stand over there, please,” said the big cop, directing him near his partner.
Skull kept a sharp eye on both without seeming to. His weapons and gear were hidden, but a careful search would probably find them.
“Must get old sitting out here,” Skull said to the smaller cop, trying to distract him.
“You ain’t lying,” he answered. “All the action is up on the highways, but the chief thought someone might try and sneak through out here.”
“What exactly are you looking for?” asked Skull.
The cop shrugged. “You know. The usual suspicious types. The recent attacks have got everyone on edge; this is all mainly just a show of force. Calm everyone down and make them feel safe.”
Skull stiffened as he saw the older cop lift out a long black case. He laid it on the hood of the SUV and began to unzip it.
“Mind if I take a piss over here,” asked Skull slipping behind the smaller cop and on the same side of the police car. “I drank at least four cups of coffee this morning.”
“I hear ya,” answered the cop, his attention on his partner.
Skull slipped behind the second man and off the side of the road to a slightly elevated position. He noted both men were wearing body armor under their uniforms.
“What...the...hell?” said the big cop turning slowly. He was holding the detached heavy barrel of Skull’s Barrett sniper rifle in one hand, the stock in the other.
Skull had already pulled the Glock from the small of his back. At first he’d thought to simply threaten and disarm the two, but a sick rage rose up in him plastered with a picture of Zeke’s head blown open like a melon.
He shot the man in the face.
The other policeman was so shocked he screamed and slid down to the ground to rest on his butt. He never even tried to reach for his weapon.
Shaking like a puppy pooping a pine cone, Skull thought, remembering his old drill sergeant’s favorite expression. Skull couldn’t keep his lips from curling in an ugly sneer. Still, he felt a detachment different from servicing a target as a sniper. The rage, the fury coated everything he did, yet he didn’t feel it from the inside. Instead, it hazed his vision with crimson, as if a curtain hung between him and the world, insulating him from its pain.
The remaining cop’s startled expression never changed even after Skull put a bullet into his eye. At some later, saner time he might regret the necessity of killing these duped Americans, but that didn’t slow him down. Death came to everyone eventually.
Today, it had simply come a bit sooner to these men.
Skull’s childhood priest had once told him that all had sinned and deserved eternal damnation; that only one man had ever been truly innocent, and for that embarrassing fact a stained and filthy world had nailed Him to a cross. If the priest was right, Skull was only speeding things up a bit.
Maybe when he saw the cops in Hell, he’d apologize.
Maybe.
Looking around, it didn’t appear that anyone had witnessed the scene, but that didn’t mean someone couldn’t come by. Skull first went to the cop cruiser dash cam. He was pleased to see it was simply a camera that recorded and was later downloaded, as opposed to one of the newer cameras that broadcast real-time back to headquarters. Skull pulled out the drive card and tossed it on the passenger seat of his SUV. He then retrieved the vehicle registration, insurance, and driver’s license for Victor Erickson. That identity was all blown now. He also placed them on the passenger seat. Checking the cruiser, he saw that it had a full gas tank.
Resealing his sniper bag, Skull gathered his gear and carried it to the cop car, placing it in the back. He then dragged the smaller cop’s body to the trunk of the cruiser and lifted him in. Skull placed his pistol on the roof of the car along with everything in his pockets before stripping out of his clothes and putting them into one of his bags.
The other cop was much heavier than Skull, but the same height, so he would do. He manhandled the dead man out of his uniform and donned it himself after cutting an extra notch in the utility belt. The clothes were baggy, but would likely pass in a pinch, especially if he didn’t have to exit the vehicle. He pulled the man’s cell phone out of the pants pocket and placed it on the seat. Then he went to the trunk to retrieve the partner’s cell and do the same.
Dragging the big cop’s corpse over and levering him into the trunk was difficult, but Skull finally managed it and slammed the lid closed. He looked around again. Almost there, he thought.
Placing the Glock in the small of his back again, Skull returned all the items on the roof to his pockets. Pulling out the bigger man’s wallet, Skull saw he now wore the uniform of Police Officer Raymond Stark. He pulled out a family photo of the officer with a plump wife and three adorable girls, and then stamped down ruthlessly on a lingering twinge of guilt.
Skull replaced the photo, removed a thermite grenade from his pack and returned to his SUV. Cranking it, he slowly drove the vehicle off the road and into a nearby gully. Once there, he pulled the pin on the incendiary device and set it carefully on top of the false identification documents and the hard drive from the cop’s dash cam. He then walked back to the cop cruiser. The grenade would melt and incinerate everything in the cab, destroying the vehicle beyond anything but robust forensic examination. Even then it would be tough.
Skull had thought about putting the cops’ bodies in the burning SUV, but wanted to delay associating the killings with Victor Erickson as long as possible. The partner might have already called the SUV plate in as soon as they stopped him, but the vehicle was clean and not in any of the databases.
Focus on the things you can control, Skull told himself. Everything else will work out or it won’t.
The cop car had a GPS, but Skull took a moment to disable it, and double-checked that the cruiser had no other location device. Without his technological crutch, he consulted a map book and plotted a course using secondary roads headed east.
A squawk of the police radio interrupted his thoughts. “Dispatch, this is Desert 48, checking in. We’ve completed our circuit of Route 3. Headed back to station now.”
“Roger that, 48,” responded a female voice.
That’s going to be a problem, thought Skull, but maybe not for a little while. Might be good to make some miles down the road.
Once at highway speed, the day seemed just as beautiful as ever.
Chapter 2
