First Wave (The Travis Combs Post-Apocalypse Thrillers) (7 page)

He scratched his beard and squinted at the horizon. He
picked up a handful of pebbles and began tossing them one at a time on the
ground beside his boots. “All we know right now is the little picture around us
from the small town we came from. We need to get some intel on what’s going in
the world to figure out our next course of action. My thought is we stay here
for the next day and rest. Then, if it’s safe, we can head out to Prescott.
That’s the largest city in these parts and there should be some form of
makeshift agency in charge. After that, we can find out about getting folks
back home and I can get back to my son in Denver.”

Katy dined on some pine nuts and looked out over the
canyon. “Yeah, we probably shouldn’t stay here too long gathering nuts as the
poor squirrels will go hungry having Becka to compete with,” she said, nudging the
girl.

The three rose and gathered up their hat-baskets of
nuts and headed back to the group. The rest of the morning was spent building
up the thick nest of bark in the alcove, drying out footwear, and gathering
small diameter firewood. Pete showed everyone how to use yucca root for soap and
this quickly provided the prompting for washing clothes and bathing. They made
fire at dusk to blend in with the ambient orange light of the setting sun like
the Apaches used to do, using a tipi fire of non-resinous wood to reduce any
smoke signature. They filled up on pine nuts and baked the bulbous yucca fruits
and cattail roots in the coals of the fire until they were charred black.

Travis had everyone sleep in their footwear, with
packs nearby and water bottles full, to expedite a speedy departure if needed.
Each person took a two hour shift on guard duty. Otherwise, they all slept on a
thick layer of bark atop the sandy floor of the alcove, relying on the
aboriginal method of staying warm by sleeping nearly on top of one another, to
maximize the sheer body mass of the group heat. From a distance, the
intertwined bundle of arms and legs resembled the gnarled root system of a
large tree. As Travis fell asleep, he heard the singular hoot of a long-eared
howl and looked out beyond the lip of the alcove at the crescent moon which
hung in the sky like a tiny, white fang.

***

In the morning, Travis began carving widget-style
deadfalls for trapping rock squirrels. Twenty deadfalls, consisting of three
support sticks each, were carved assembly line fashion in under an hour. With Becka’s
help, they began setting these around the boulders near the alcove. Each
deadfall was baited with a succulent piece of baked cattail suspended on the
bait stick, which was held under tension by an upright slab of sandstone.

As they moved along a swath of boulders, he
explained the mechanics to Becka. “In a forested region, with its many
chokepoints on the game trails, snares would usually be the trap of choice. Out
here in the desert, deadfalls rule. Each outcropping of boulders and rock piles
should be viewed as a stocked refrigerator of small rodents such as squirrels,
chipmunks, rabbits, and packrats. Trapping is far more efficient than making a
bow and arrow and burning up precious calories searching for an animal,” he
said, fixing a rock slab over a deadfall. “A minimum of a dozen traps set out
here and you’ll be eating by morning, depending on the time of year and region.
One time, I had up to sixty five deadfalls set around my camp and I ate better
than a hog in an apple orchard.”

Her slender fingers struggled at first to arrange
the different pieces but she was a quick learner and by the third deadfall was
getting more adept. “You’re pretty comfortable in the outdoors. No surpsise I
guess. Did you always grow up doing ranch work and being outdoors with your
family?”

“Unfortunately, we only came out to my grandpa’s
ranch during the summers. My dad hated cows and ranching so we lived in
California where he owned a landscaping business. We were always out somewhere
around Malibu or up the coast, putting in stone walkways or pruning trees. The
kids at school used to make fun of me because their parents all had high-paying
computer jobs, while I came to class with dirt under my fingernails from
helping my dad rake some rich lady’s backyard.”

This was the most he had heard her talk since they
met. “Well, there’s nothing like working out on the land with your hands and
yours show the signs of someone who’s no stranger to hard work. My father used
to say that ‘Nature is a mighty fine teacher. She will always let you know
where you stand as she doesn’t grade--everything is pass or fail.’”

“Is your dad still…was he alive before…” she fumbled
for the words.

“No, my mom died when I was a youngster and my
father passed on a few years ago. But they’re still here in my hands and my
memories. Those are the things that never die, sweetie.”

Tom Crawford surveyed the open desert below the
weathered porch on the roof of the historic Grand Hotel, the highest vantage
point in the former mining town of Jerome. The five-thousand foot elevation above
the Verde Valley, provided an eagle’s view of the towns and wilderness areas to
the north as well as the lush Verde River below.

A fourth-generation rancher, he had grown up in the
high-desert hunting dove and whitetail deer and poking around Anasazi ruins in
younger days. His parched hands rested on the binoculars as he studied the
chokepoints in the streets in the small town of Clarkdale, two miles below them.
Crawford
was how the locals referred to him. He was a retired Lt.
Colonel who had spent twenty years in Marine Recon during and after Vietnam. It
had left him a bent man but he still strode with the presence of someone who
was used to being in command. Now he was the newly appointed leader of the
Verde Valley Alliance comprised mostly of ranchers and homesteaders who carved
out a life in the rugged landscape surrounding the fertile valley below.

He recalled the insanity of the last three weeks:
chaos engulfing the world; the National Guard being crippled in Phoenix and
surrounding areas; surges of desperate survivors fleeing the large cities, inundating
the small towns around Jerome. People showing up on foot, horseback, and in
ragtag convoys bringing hopes of survival but also bringing the infected with
them, reigniting the whole craze of madness and killing they had tried to leave
behind.

The locals had blown several bridges along the
interstate in an effort to stem the flow of infected refugees coming north out
of Phoenix. Mountainside embattlements of razor wire and observation posts were
placed above the steep hillsides above Jerome, making this the last refuge in
the area with outposts in Sedona and Winslow, along with a few small
settlements on nearby mountaintops. By the end of the third week, stragglers
from the large cities ceased arriving, having succumbed to the virus or holing
up in remote wilderness hideouts elsewhere. Military action had come and gone
as the armed forces were crippled from within and the Joint Chiefs and
Presidential cabinet went silent, the halls of those bureaucracies screeching
to a halt and the airwaves shuddering with static. Ham radio was now the main
method for obtaining intel along with the numerous ground patrols that were
sent out each week. The former, Forest Service fire watchtowers were manned by
Crawford’s people, who used radios to relay any movement in the region.

Crawford realized that the smaller, fortified towns
were the key to maintaining some semblance of authority and having a chance of
defending against both unwelcome thugs and the lurking hordes of undead. Most
small towns in the Southwest were islands surrounded by miles of wilderness
that could provide a buffer, compared with the larger cities like Tucson and
Phoenix. With a relatively small population in the Verde Valley from the onset and
with most people pursuing a self-reliant rural lifestyle there, he knew they had
a chance if they banded together atop Jerome.

Situated on their mountainside retreat were numerous
freshwater springs, miles of old mining tunnels, and a decent arsenal of
weapons brought in by the scores of locals who joined him, which numbered
around three hundred individuals. The biggest problem was keeping enough food
laid in. With winter on the way and most gardens depleted, they would have to
rely on the numerous cattle still roaming the countryside along with elk and
deer.

As Crawford was glassing the area to the north, he
heard the familiar footsteps of his second in command enter the room. The
oldest of Crawford’s three sons, Brian was a former Marine who had recently
returned from Afghanistan to find his country in even greater turmoil than the
region he left. “We have one patrol to the northwest of Paulden that radioed in
about two bikers that were captured. They want to know how hard to push with
interrogations about their location and activities.”

Crawford continued scanning unflinched. “Regrettably
such times call for actions that leave one…well… with regrets,” he paused,
lowering the binoculars and taking a deep breath. “Tell them to proceed with
whatever means they need to use. We have to know movement patterns, numbers,
and intel on locations,” he said, placing his deeply tanned hands on the splintering
wooden railing of the balcony.

“Yes sir.”

“One more thing- I need to go up to Paulden myself
and see what’s going on there, and get some boots on the ground near Chino
Valley to see if that area is still contained. Last thing we need is a huge
army of thugs or RAMs coming up over the western flank.” He preferred to call
them undead, but the early news reports had coined the term for the
blood-drinking zombies,
Reanimated Mutants
or
RAMs,
and the term
had stuck with his people.

“I can go instead sir. No need for you to…”

“No, you stay here and take the reins while I’m
gone. I need to see firsthand what the situation is like and check on a few
ranchers that decided to stay put. I’ll leave in the morning with a small group
and infil via the helos, southwest of Paulden in the backcountry.” A small
luxury they had were access to two helicopters from an air-ambulance crew that
retreated after the collapse of Phoenix. The helos were Bell 206s that could
carry six people and fly as far as three-hundred twenty miles on a tank of
fuel. With fuel being rationed, Crawford only used them for maintaining contact
with the remote outposts. Otherwise, they relied on footpower or horses. They
had lost too many horses and riders to RAMs in nearby towns, and he reserved
them only for trips into remote wilderness areas where the threat of the
creatures was almost non-existent.

“Get Alpha Team ready and have the other teams meet
tonight in the main lobby at 1800. I want to go over plans for the coming weeks
and discuss the growing threat that our scouts to the north have indicated
about Flagstaff.”

A few weeks back he thought the RAMs were the main
enemy to contend with, then the massive wave of thugs coming from survivors out
of L.A., Phoenix, and Vegas arrived, adding a whole new element to their warfare
efforts. Along with the collapse of the already porous border along Mexico, the
arrival of fleeing cartels, who were striving to get to higher elevations towns
like Flagstaff and Santa Fe, were becoming a growing menace he couldn’t afford to
ignore. The main chokepoint, that kept the Flagstaff gang in check, was found
at the outpost in Sedona where a contingent of close to one hundred sixty
people guarded the narrow passage down from the rim country. The serpentine
route that wound down from Flagstaff through Oak Creek Canyon was the key
artery that provided access to the Verde Valley. Numerous attempts by the
Flagstaff thugs had already been thwarted in part by the guerrilla warfare
tactics employed by Crawford’s fighters but also by the geography.

Crawford’s wife, Clara, entered the room and stood
beside him. She was a tall brunette with rough hands and deep squint lines
around her eyes. “And what is my husband planning now?”

“We’re living in a fishbowl up here. I need to know
what’s happening to the north. I’m concerned that our greatest threat right now
isn’t the virus or the RAMs. It’s the wave of cartels from Mexico. The Sedona
outpost has already reported numerous encounters with them.”

“What about the coming of winter? The harsh weather
and lack of power in that town should cause some attrition from hypothermia.
Most of those folks are from the city and lower deserts and not used to livin’
in the elements. That might give us the advantage, come spring time.”

“Maybe, but once they work out their internal
rivalries and become more organized, they will be a force to be reckoned with.
Especially if they possess knowledge of military tactics and have greater
firepower than us. With the cartels involved- most of whom were former military
and have years of experience running raids- they are going to be a serious
threat.”

He looked out over the landscape that he knew so
well and thought of the Apache Campaign against Geronimo that been waged in the
Southwest, along with his years of running counter-insurgency operations in
other parts of the world. “This type of war has been fought here and in other
places before. The tools may have changed but the strategies haven’t. The big
difference is that we have a whole lot of people to train in a short period of
time. If there’s one thing I’ve learned through my years of combat, it’s that
in order to conquer, you must destroy your enemies and do so devastatingly. The
faster and more efficiently you kill, the longer you live. I fear that the time
will come when we must undertake such actions to the north or suffer that fate
ourselves. ”

She placed her hand on her husband’s shoulder and
thought back to their former ranch house which was gone. “All of those
generations that both our families worked to hack a life out of the wilderness
and now, here we are again, at the mercy of forces beyond our control.”

“For now, maybe. We will overcome this as we have
with everything else hurtled at us, my dear. This time, we just have a little
bit bigger spread of ranch land to subdue.” He smiled. “Besides, it’s like you
always used to tell the kids, ‘If life were fair snakes would have legs.’”

Down below the six members that made up Crawford’s Alpha
Team of top shooters, were walking in through the front door of the hotel
entrance. “Time to get to work on being pioneers again, I reckon,” she said as
they strode off the balcony into the former living room.