Fail State, page 20
part #2 of End of Days Series
This wasn’t like previous raids or showdowns at the Gate. The raids had been small, and most often at night, and the immediate response had fallen to the sheriff’s deputies, or Joe Wolfenden’s militia guys, or even to a patrol of the Town Watch, bolstered by at least few veterans like Dale Juntii or Paul Tisevich. That old fart hadn’t picked up a rifle since getting home from Vietnam in 1967, but there was no denying he had a cast iron pair of danglers. Tisevich had legitimately clubbed some dude half-dead the previous week. Just some hungry fucker he found trying to sneak into the old bakery, when there wasn’t even a stale crust to be had there anymore.
"Jonas, how many fingers am I holding up?" Dr Cornwell asked.
"Two, Doc,” he said. "V for victory, yo.”
He started to chuckle at his own wit.
She folded one away, leaving only her index finger in the air. Jonas stared the latex glove she wore. It was stained with blood.
"Please follow the movement of my finger with your eyes," she said.
He grinned.
"Be a hell of a lot easier to do that if both of you stopped moving around, Doc.”
“Try not to be a jerk, okay?”
He couldn’t promise to do that, but he had no trouble tracking her finger. It wasn't like he'd been hit in the head or anything. Not like her friend Wetsman. Jonas could see she was barely holding it together. Her eyes were red with tears, but she had a job to do. Tough bitch, then. He’d give her that.
"Can you stand up?” Cornwell asked. “Don't rush it if you can't. Wouldn't be any point surviving this mess to break your neck falling off the damn platform."
Oh yeah. That’s right. He was on the firing platform. Way up high.
"I'll be okay, Doc, but thanks,” Jonas said, pulling his legs underneath him. "Best you go see to someone who needs it, I reckon. I'm just lazy. Any chance to sit on my ass, I'll take it."
She didn't smile at all. Stripping off rubber gloves and quickly putting on another pair, she moved on to Dale Juntii, who had also sat his ass down. He was enjoying a smoke. He put it out before Cornwell checked him over. Jonas was not a smoker, and he wondered whether the town’s supply had been rationed.
"I'm fine," the ex-marine said. "Just pissed my pants is all, Doc. Perfectly natural. I’ll take a beer on prescription if you got one. Otherwise I'm good to go.”
Doctor Cornwell played no more heed to his macho bullshit than she had to Jonas’s.
"I want you to come and see me, both of you, immediately, if you suffer any symptoms like cold clammy skin, rapid, fluttery heart rate, nausea, vomiting, fatigue…”
"Doc,” Jonas grinned, “it must be a while since you've read your Camus. Nausea, vomiting, fatigue, that’s just the human condition, man.”
She shook her head, and maybe she was trying to grin, but it came out as a grimace.
"It's not the time for jokes, Jonas. Not even smart ones."
She had been crouched down next to Dale and she struggled to get back to her feet. Jonas rolled to his knees, stood up, took a deep breath to ward off the dizziness, and helped her up by the elbow. There wasn’t much to her. She didn’t weigh nearly as much as a flatscreen TV back at the old fulfilment centre. Dale came to his feet with ease. He smelled bad, like an old wino, but he didn't seem to care. Cornwell moved on down the line of defenders, pointedly ignoring Leo Vaulk who was standing, smoking near the guard tower at the far end of the platform.
"You did okay, man," Dale said.
"Thanks," Jonas replied. His eyes swept the scene below. "Don't know you could say that about everyone.”
"Nope," Dale agreed. “Not everybody’s meant for this shit.”
It looked as though the whole town had been drawn to the Seattle Gate. To secure the defences, or to see to the wounded. But not in any organised way. Most of these assholes were just fapping around. Some were running to and fro like they had important shit to do. Some women wailed over bodies on the ground. Some guys sat with their legs splayed out in front of them, crying like a grown-ass babies. It was a mess. You couldn't tell who was in charge, most likely because nobody was.
Jonas spied Dave Muller down at ground level conferring with Joe Wolfenden and some of his guys. They had stripped weapons and ammo from the corpses of the bikers outside, and salvaged what they could from the packs and panniers on the motorcycles themselves.
He saw Tomi Yates moving through the crowd, looking lost. But hot. She was wearing cut-off jeans and a T-shirt and even though it was only a couple of hours since he’d banged her that morning, Jonas felt his cock growing hard again. Dale saw him looking at her, and grinned.
"Yeah, it comes on like that sometimes. And this is a hell of a lot better than the fucking sandbox. I know for sure I'm gonna get laid today. You should go put it to her, man. You got the scent on you right now."
"Huh?” Jonas said.
Dale smiled. "Blood and battle, man. Just a little dab. Nothing hotter to a bitch. You should go for it."
Jonas nodded, and he’d never wanted to stick himself into anything more than he wanted to fuck Tomi Yates right then, but he shook it off like a dog coming out of a cold lake and said, “Maybe later. Yeah, later. But I wanna know what Wolfenden’s telling Muller. Those guys we killed, they were just the scouts. Like the advance team or some shit. You remember? There was more riders away down the hill, or something."
The question seemed to bring Dale Juntii back to earth.
"Yeah," he said. "I remember that. They weren't the main force. Just reconnaissance. Let's find out."
They both climbed down from the platform using the same ladder they’d gone up earlier. It felt like something that had happened years ago, somewhere else. Jonas was surprised to find it easier going down than he had climbing up. The strange, contrary heaviness and floaty feeling was gone. Instead he felt completely, totally both in and of the world. As though he was the world, every fucking rock and tree and all of that shit raised to fucking consciousness. Again, he didn’t smoke, didn’t do drugs, but this was a trip. Tomi came running over as he headed toward Muller and Wolfenden. She had been crying. She ran at him so fast and hit him so hard, throwing her arms around him, that she almost knocked him over.
"Oh baby, I thought I lost you. They told me you were shot, everyone was shot, and there were like gangsters and shit and…” she said it all so quickly it was like a crazy word salad she just tossed into his face, “and… and… they said you got shot and…”
“Whoa, now. It's cool, T," Jonas said. “I just got a scratch is all." He pulled her in tighter and nuzzled her ear as he squeezed the small, tight mound of her ass through the cut-offs. "Nothing like the scratches you put on my back this morning so let's do that again. But I got some shit to get done first, baby.”
She tried to argue with him, tried to drag him back to the cabin right there and then, but Jonas patted her on the rump and pushed her away.
"I'll be there soon, honeybunch,” he promised. "And I'll need to clean up. Go fill the tub for me,” he grinned. “You can scrub me down."
“Oh god.” she said, her lips brushing his ear. “I’m gonna fuck you like you were meant to be fucked.”
She turned and hurried away. They both watched her go.
"Man, you are one lucky son of a bitch," Dale Juntii said. "That fine piece of ass belonged to Todd Jozniac."
“Yeah I heard all about him," Jonas said. “And his trial with the Longhorns. Don’t reckon he’s coming back from that.”
"Nope,” said Dale. “Likely not.”
They moved aside for a couple of guys who were going up onto the platform to recover Howard Wetsman’s body. That was gonna be a hell of a job. Jonas would’ve just rolled the dude off the platform, but it looked like they were going to try and bundle him into a sheet and carry him down with dignity or something. That promised almost as many lulz as a really decent Hold My Beer video, but Jonas turned away from the entertainment, heading instead for Muller and Wolfenden.
The self-styled militia captain stood in front of the Sheriff, his combat boots shoulder width apart, thumbs hooked into a webbing belt from which hung a small arsenal of reloads, handguns, fighting knives and even one hand grenade. That had been a hell of a surprise. Jonas hadn't realised the Wolfpack had loaded out like a fully operational Death Star. The town had supplied a lot of the firepower the four surviving militiamen carried now, adding to their own armoury after they agreed to stay on and help with the defence – in exchange, naturally, for food and shelter. Turned out those were in much shorter supply than assholes with guns.
Wolfenden, like Jonas an outsider, had, also like Jonas, proved himself remarkably adept at negotiating the sometimes treacherous channels that ran between the town’s contending factions. But as far as Jonas could tell, he hadn't played any games. Wolfenden was more your straight-arrow sort. "I think like a bullet," he would say, but he wasn't much of a talker. Not many incels were, when you pulled the plug on their modems. But when he did run his mouth he tended to talk in bullshit euphemisms such as “I think like a bullet.”
Still, the Wolfpack had proven themselves. They were the ones who regularly patrolled way out into the forests, pushing miles down the mountain back towards Seattle, reconnoitering the road up from the city to provide early intelligence of any big groups of refugees who’d need to be turned back or, more likely, redirected along the Skagit Dam access road. And of course, warning of smaller more dangerous groups of potential attackers or marauders.
"… they pulled back all the way to the turn off,” Wolfenden was saying when he saw Jonas and Dale approaching. “Hey. You get some?”
“Yeah,” Dale smiled. “It was a good day.”
Wolfenden looked at the urine stain on Juntii’s pants, but said nothing.
“What’s this about the other bikers?” Jonas asked.
Wolfenden checked with Muller, who shrugged.
“Hell, they’d be coming over the wall if it weren’t for these two.”
Wolfenden chewed on it for a moment, nodded and spat onto the ground.
“Tony, one of my guys, he cut around the northwest ridges, got a good lay-up point where he could see the Seattle Gate and the main force unit.”
“The bikers you mean?” Jonas said. He wasn’t being sarcastic. He wanted to be sure.
“Yeah. Tony worked in a chemical supply joint down in Algona. Had the feds in all the time wanting to know if any biker types came through looking to buy equipment or precursors for cooking up meth. Gave them a handy little chart of club colours and patches and stuff. These guys do love to play dress up.”
Jonas had to force the smile off his face at Wolfenden standing there cupping his balls through those camo-pattern man-panties dissing on someone like Renken for playing ‘dress ups’.
“So, anyway," the militia captain said, rocking back and forth in his spanky fucking combat boots, "Tony reckons he eyeballed chapters from the Bandidos, the Outlaws, the Vagos, the Mongols and the Hells Angels."
“Oh man that’s a helluva tea party," Sheriff Muller sighed. "The Vagos aren't even from in-state. They must've ridden up from Oregon.”
“A lot of people come in from even further," Jonas said. "Chad Moffat, guy we got helping Brad with the heavy lifting on the Wall, he got out of San Francisco. Came up the back roads looking for his kid."
He looked around to see if Chad was nearby, but could see no sign of him in the milling crowds.
"That guy had a kid? "Wolfenden said. "I thought the steroids woulda shrivelled his nuts."
“He has a little boy," Jonas said. "Reckons his wife turned lesbian and took off for Canada with some New York dyke. Kid sent him a text when that was still working. And there's that dentist who’s working for Doc Cornwell now. He fetched up here from Santa Monica or somewhere. Didn't ride a chopper to get here, either."
"No," Wolfenden conceded, "folks are on the move all over, I guess."
Jonas wondered if perhaps he should be on the move. Shit was getting real in Silverton and it might be time to pull out. He’d always figured that was gonna happen at some point. Aloud he asked, "So how many of these pricks?".
Out of the corner of one eye he saw Howard Wetsman’s body lowered from the platform. Six men and Doc Cornwell had joined in the effort.
"Tony counted about two hundred and change,” Wolfenden said. “But that's give or take a dozen. Plus the ones we just killed.”
"Jesus," Jonas breathed. "That's like a couple of infantry companies isn’t it?”
Dale nodded. “Call it a deuce. Maybe they brought the admin platoon as well.”
Muller grunted and shook his head, turning the gesture into a slow scan of the chaos still roiling around them. Jonas didn’t need to ask what he was thinking. He could see it all on the lawman’s face. They weren’t ready for this.
“How are they armed,” Jonas asked. “Some of those shitheads with that Renken guy looked like they raided a military base or something.”
Muller was interested in the answer too. He turned sharply back toward Wolfenden. Likely, they hadn’t got to that part of his briefing when Jonas and Dale rolled up on them.
“He didn't see any rocket launchers or crew-served machine guns or anything like that,” Wolfenden said. "But they’re comin’ heavy. Lot of the gear we stripped off them wasn’t street legal.”
The sheriff took off his hat and wiped the sweat from his brow with a handkerchief that was already sodden and dark. The sun was high overhead now and Jonas could feel sweat running freely under his shirt. He was really gonna have to soak in that tub. He hoped Tomi put enough hot water in there. They had solar at Al’s so she had no excuse.
“Outlaw gangs wouldn't need to go looking for weapons,” Muller said. “They got their own caches. Mostly to protect themselves from other gangs. But the way things are going out there, I figure they probably loaded up along the way too.”
"I don't suppose we have any idea where they're actually headed?" Jonas asked. “Or if they’re even headed anywhere?”
Like Muller he turned around and took in the aftermath while spoke. There seemed to be nobody organising anything here. Everything was in flux.
“Sorry. Can't do human intelligence and signals intercepts," Wolfenden said with an apologetic grin.
"They're probably foraging for now," Dale suggested. “Like old-time cavalry. Living off the land.”
"More like raping and pillaging everywhere they go," Muller said. "But yeah, I think you’re right, Dale. They have mobility. They have firepower. They are a coherent force. They can move around and take what they need while it's still there for the taking. Probably got out of the city as soon the army moved onto the streets. Maybe they'll head back there now that Fort Lewis has pulled back inside the wire."
“Doubt it," Jonas said. “They need to eat, like everyone else. And there's nothing left in the city.”
He almost let slip that he’d heard the soldiers on the radio at Brad Rausch's place discussing the pullback to barracks and their orders to clean out the last of the food warehouses on the edge of Seattle. He swallowed his words. A small slip like that might not bring him undone, but it could make for some uncomfortable questions. Sheriff Muller, however, offered up pretty much the same information.
"Dan Treacy was on the radio when Fort Lewis warned us they were withdrawing. He kept scanning for chatter. You can learn a hell of a lot more from just listening in on the guys out in the field than from taking the word of the higher-ups."
"Amen to that brother," Dale Juntii grinned. The piss stain on his pants had spread so far now you couldn’t really tell they were stained. He still didn’t seem bothered by it.
Jonas was grossed out by the smell.
Muller nodded before continuing. “Dan reckons the city’s been picked bare. Panic buying emptied the shelves on the first day or so. Rationing didn't even have a chance to take hold. People probably ran down whatever stores they had in the pantry at home within four or five days. It must be hell down there now. The army isn't just shooting looters or rioters. They're firing on civilians who are coming directly at them. Armed and dangerous. God bless the Second Amendment."
"It saved our asses today!”
Oh no. Jonas almost winced.
It was Leo Vaulk. And Darren O'Shannassy was with him, cleared by Doctor Cornwell and ready for his next go-round of the octagon with Muller.
"I warned you this would happen," O’Shannassy seethed, jabbing one thick finger at the sheriff. "I told you we had to push out and meet these threats as far away from the town as possible. But no. You had to have your way. You had to build your little kingdom. And now Wetsman is dead. You killed your friend, Muller. You good with that? How does that make you feel?"
O’Shannassy had been careful not to actually lay a hand on Muller. But the sheriff stepped right up into his space, taking the next finger jab in the chest. His voice, when he spoke was low and threatening.
"It makes me feel like you and this moron should be in chains,” he growled, jerking a thumb at Vaulk. “You started that clusterfuck. We were just lucky more people weren't hurt or killed on account of your stupidity.”
He pushed O’Shannassy’s hand aside and leaned in so close to him that he could have kissed the man on the tip of his nose. A drinkers nose, Jonas noted. Heavily bloodshot.
"And if you dare speak the name of my friend again,” Muller said quietly, “other than to offer up a prayer for his immortal soul, I will shoot you in the mouth before whatever steaming horseshit you were about to cough up comes out and soils his memory."
Naturally, Darren O’Shannassy wasn’t one for backing down.
"The hell you will, you fat slob,” he hissed. “I’ll have that tin star off you before this day is done. And then this town is gonna organise its defences in a sound and rational manner."
