The Day After Never - Retribution (Post-Apocalyptic Dystopian Thriller - Book 4) (8 page)

Snake had dispatched hit squads of his most vicious killers to deal with the ringleaders, but it was like playing whack-a-mole – for each rebellious traitor he neutralized, a new one popped up. Houston might have been stabilized once the Salazars were eliminated, but even though there were no overt signs of resistance, Snake was convinced rebellious factions were plotting his downfall, waiting for an opportune time to strike.

He’d grown progressively more erratic in his behavior, and his meth consumption increased as his agitation grew. In the past few months he’d taken to closing himself off in his headquarters, surrounded by his loyal guards, refusing to leave unless absolutely necessary. Even the weekly executions in the mammoth parking lot had grown to be a source of distress for him, and it was all he could do to attend the ceremonies, sure that there were crosshairs targeting him whenever he was exposed.

Snake awoke and his nose wrinkled at the sour smell of perspiration, the air rank in spite of the air conditioning cranked to freezing in his quarters. He groaned and blinked away the stupor of sleep, momentarily unsure of what time it was – when had he passed out? And for how long?

He checked the time and saw that it was eight o’clock. But p.m. or a.m.? The last few days had been a nonstop blur of debasement and excess – nights of drugs and sex and booze, days of continuing the party while his lieutenants contended with the daily challenges. Part of him grasped that his misbehavior was a luxury he could ill afford, but another, larger part reasoned that there was no point in being top dog if he couldn’t enjoy the spoils of success.

Ultimately his baser instincts had won the internal struggle, and now here he was, unsure of whether it was day or night, trembling slightly, his head pounding and every muscle in his body transmitting pain.

He rose and stumbled to the table where his meth and stash of other drugs were scattered, and fumbled among the containers until he found a blue pill – diazepam, expired three years earlier but still sufficiently potent to blunt the worst of the hangover and leave him functional. He popped the tablet in his mouth and washed it down with a long pull from a mescal bottle, wincing as the harsh liquid seared its way down his throat, and then staggered to the bathroom, where the overhead lights sent needles of agony through his head when he switched them on.

A stream of water jetted down and he immersed himself, washing away the worst of the revelry while he considered his day – or night. He needed to figure out which it was, but baby steps. When he was done, he donned new clothes and marched to the entry door, the alcohol and CNS depressant stabilizing him enough so he could take care of business. He paused at the threshold and circled back to the table. A little hit of speed wouldn’t hurt anything, he reasoned – it would just keep him alert, sharpen his senses.

He smoked a small amount, and when he made his way back to the door, he bounced on the balls of his feet as the drug surged through his system, energizing him. Snake unlocked the deadbolts and pulled the slab wide. Only two guards on duty, he noted with a frown.

“Where are the others?” Snake growled.

“Probably still asleep,” one of the men answered.

Snake nodded. So it was morning. He normally didn’t emerge from his chambers until nine at the earliest, so his full retinue of men wasn’t there yet.

“I’m hungry,” Snake announced, and turned to lock his door with a key that hung around his neck on a leather lanyard. The top deadbolt snicked shut, and he was leaning forward to lock the second when he caught the movement of a shadow in the periphery of his vision.

Snake spun as the first guard lunged at him. A glint of steel flashed in the light and then Snake had his dagger free and was driving it into the surprised man’s chest, closing the distance between them in a blink – the exact opposite of how most would have reacted. He didn’t pause as a warm stream of blood splashed down his arm, but instead kneed the attacker in the groin and pushed him away, knife in hand. The guard slumped to the side and dropped his blade as the second guard whipped a pistol toward Snake, who was already moving in a crouch. He hurled himself at the man before the shooter could bring the gun to bear and slashed at his crotch while head-butting him in the stomach. The wickedly sharp blade slashed through fabric and flesh, and Snake was rewarded with the sound of the pistol striking the cement floor. A gush of blood sprayed from the wound – a femoral artery gash that would cause the man to lose consciousness in under a minute.

Snake continued the offensive, stabbing the man’s torso repeatedly at high speed, his arm a merciless piston powered by adrenaline and meth. When the man dropped with a groan, Snake went down with him and finished him with a thrust through his throat.

He rolled away from the guard and sat gasping for breath, staring at the man with murderous rage. After several moments he leaned forward, squinting.

He didn’t recognize the guard.

It wasn’t one of his regulars.

Snake pulled himself to his feet, mind working furiously as he collected the pistol.

Footsteps pounded down the hall, and Snake aimed along its gloomy length. Four guards materialized a moment later, and he recognized them as his regulars.

“What happened?” the shift leader exclaimed.

“They jumped me. Tried to kill me.” Snake grimaced. “Picked the wrong guy.”

The leader walked over to the first dead guard and kicked him to confirm he was dead. He moved to the second and knelt beside him.

Snake straightened and joined the leader. “Recognize him?”

“I think so…”

“Who is he?”

“I…I can’t be sure. But I think he’s from New Orleans.”

Snake leaned over and wiped his blade clean on the dead man’s shirt. “New Orleans? Are you positive?”

“No. But one of my men on the evening shift would know. He’s originally from Louisiana. Spent two years there before transferring to Houston.”

“Ask him to confirm.” Snake reached to the door and unlocked the top deadbolt. “I’m going to clean up. Call a meeting of my council in half an hour. And make sure the room’s clean and everyone is searched going in. I want no more mistakes.”

“I…I didn’t authorize this man to guard you. He must have killed the regular who was assigned and then taken his place.”

“How did he slip by you if you were doing your job vetting them?”

“I never vetted him. Again, he must have snuck into the building and targeted the original guard. He was obviously working with this piece of shit,” the leader said, indicating the man Snake had stabbed through the heart. “We’ll search the building. My bet is we find the body of the guard he replaced stuffed somewhere…unless they bribed him and he left town.”

“I’ll be back out in thirty minutes. I want answers by then. If not, you’ll be joining this pair. You understand?”

“Of course. I’m on it.”

“Don’t breathe a word of this to anyone, or it’s a death sentence. No exceptions.”

The leader nodded, his face pale.

Snake pushed his door open and slammed it behind him, his heart trip-hammering in his chest. If the leader was right, he had a problem in Louisiana, and that spelled real trouble. New Orleans was one of the main Crew strongholds outside of Texas, strategically important because of its sea access; if there was a revolt there, it would spread to other cities. He needed information and a strategy before word reached whoever had put the assassins up to it. If it was the Crew boss in New Orleans, Snake would have to move swiftly and do so completely unnoticed, or it could quickly escalate into a civil war within the Crew, and he couldn’t afford that.

His instinct was to hit them hard in the dead of night. Surgical strike, in and out before they knew what had happened. Install new leadership and put the whole city under lockdown until everyone whose loyalty to Snake was in question was hanging from a lamppost.

Blood would run in the streets, and the sky would rain fire upon those who challenged his rule. Snake would handle it just as Magnus would have: he would scorch the earth.

Chapter 12

The weather was changing in the San Juan Mountains; there was a snap in the air as the nights grew colder with the approach of winter. Eight weeks had gone by since the survivors from Shangri-La had taken over Pagosa Springs, and after some adjustment, things had grown into a normalcy Lucas was enjoying, though a part of him knew wouldn’t last.

Sierra had been forbearing as they’d repaired the house and outfitted it to withstand the harsh weather around the corner, but she’d become more impatient lately, reminding Lucas in a thousand ways of his promise to go in search for her son.

Following Michael’s successful exposure to the virus and subsequent survival, the group’s willingness to get inoculated had grown dramatically, especially once Michael was back among them, for all appearances now healthier than ever. A few more volunteers stepped forward at that point, motivated by everything from desperation to hope to altruism. And the results were the same as Michael’s.

“Of course, no vaccine is going to have hundred percent efficacy,” Elliott had warned when reporting the news in a community meeting. “But based on the animal and now human trials we’ve run, this protects the recipient against the virus as well as anything I’ve seen.”

“Then there’s a chance you could get the shot and still die?” Colt had asked.

“There’s always a chance. Medicine’s not an exact science, especially when dealing with a virus that mutates. But nobody we’ve inoculated has shown any symptoms after being exposed. So it’s benign in terms of causing any side effects and has successfully protected the volunteers we exposed to the virus over a week ago.”

When the next test group emerged from the clean room without incident, Elliot had inoculated everyone in the community, foregoing any need to isolate the remainder of the population. The vaccine worked as he’d hoped – protecting without making those inoculated contagious.

Having already resigned himself to helping search for her son, Lucas had steered Sierra’s name into the hat when, as part of Elliot’s advisory group, he had been asked his opinion on how to best distribute the vaccine.

Now, the final decisions on logistics had to be made; the time had finally arrived to venture forth from their enclave and take the cure to the world.

Lucas entered the community center and nodded to the others sitting in a circle like attendees at a twelve-step program meeting. He resisted the urge to hold up his hand and say, “My name’s Lucas, and I’m one of the last men on earth,” and instead took the open seat beside Arnold and leaned against the steel backrest.

Elliot cleared his throat and sat forward. “Ladies and gentlemen, thank you for coming. The purpose of today’s gathering is to decide on how exactly we’re going to distribute the vaccine. I’ve made sufficient doses and been in contact with enough of my former colleagues to be confident it’s ready for dissemination. But there are logistical issues I haven’t bored you all with up until now that need to be agreed upon.”

He scanned the faces around him and his voice softened. “There are three hubs where the vaccine can be replicated and manufactured. One’s in Nebraska. Another in Oklahoma. And another in Arizona.”

“What about the rest of the country?” Colt asked.

“Those three centers will distribute it to like-minded groups from there. But they’ll act as the central distribution points for the cultures necessary for the vaccine’s creation.”

“Then they won’t actually hand out the shots?” Arnold asked.

“No. It would subject them to too much risk – the Crew would target them as soon as it heard of the vaccine being available. What we’ve decided on is a decentralized approach, where several dozen distribution points appear around the country nearly simultaneously.”

Lucas nodded. The strategy was smart. The old man and Michael had come up with an ingenious way to shield themselves, and their surrogates, from becoming targets. Once the vaccine was in wide distribution, the location of the new sanctuary would be moot – the virus would have been counteracted, and thus the power held by anyone looking to have an exclusive on the vaccine negated by its widespread availability.

“So why are we here?” Arnold asked.

“We’ve discussed the various alternatives, and we’ve decided that it makes the most sense to send out three teams simultaneously rather than one at a time,” Michael said.

Arnold shook his head. “I warned against that. It would leave us too shorthanded here in the event of an attack.”

“Yes, and we considered your input carefully, Arnold,” said Elliot. “The problem is that with the weather changing, we might not be able to get teams out to the other locations if we wait to ensure the first is successful. The risk of the vaccine not getting distributed outweighs the risk of our being attacked.”

“It’s a mistake,” Arnold growled.

“I completely agree that it’s not an optimal solution, but given the choices, it’s the best one we have,” Elliot said.

“What if you’re wrong?”

“Then we’ll have to manage. But we’ve heard reports that the virus has taken a severe toll east of the Mississippi, and it’s virulent. It’s a small miracle that it hasn’t spread any further, but our luck won’t hold indefinitely.”

“What do you think has kept it from spreading?” Lucas asked, genuinely curious.

Elliot ran his fingers through his hair. “Near as I’ve been able to figure, it’s because it incapacitates its victims before they can make it very far. If there were still cars and planes, we’d all be dead, but because traveling is so difficult, carriers likely only make it a few miles before they fall by the wayside.”

Lucas nodded. “Makes sense.”

“The problem is that with all viruses, there will be an occasional host who’s asymptomatic and who will infect anyone they come across without being aware of it.”

“Like the little girl?” Arnold asked.

Elliot shook his head. “Eve is a rarity – she’s not a carrier, but she’s got antibodies in her blood that make her immune, just as we all do now, thanks to the vaccine. No, what I’m referring to is someone who doesn’t have any symptoms and is otherwise apparently healthy, yet is contagious. That person would be, quite literally, a messenger of death, wholly unaware they’re spreading the plague.” Elliot paused. “We’re going to send three six-man teams to each hub. That’s the most promising approach. Then weather won’t be a risk. We’ve worked far too hard to let snow stop us from saving the human race.”