Chapter 3

Junior shook his head and stretched, he had to stop thinking and start doin'. Course, Gunny always said a man that acted without thinking was dead. Gunny also said if you stop to think you get your fool head shot off. Full of contradictions Gunny was, but nobody in boot camp was dumb enough to point it out to him. Junior figured he'd done enough thinking and headed up the steep drive to the Whitman place. Pulling up in front of the house he saw Sarah's father coming from the barn. Seeing Junior the man turned and started toward his truck. Junior hopped down and held up his hand asking the older man to stop where he was.

"Any of you or your kin feeling poorly?" he asked. At George's bewildered look Junior explained about the illness going around and advised the man to keep his distance.

"I'm feeling fit as a fiddle," he told Whitman. "But I could be carrying this bug and don't want to expose any of you'all. Is Sarah here?"

"Naw, she went ta town t'other day, said she's gonna stay with that Melindy friend of her'n for a couple days. 'Sposed to be back t'morry or the next day." A look of worry slipped across the man's face like a cloud shadowing the sun. "D'ya reckon she's in danger?"

Junior was worried also, and told the man so. He advised the man to not allow any of his family to go into town, or to have any contact with anyone not currently on his farm. Junior figured being isolated from others had spared the Whitman's so far, and told George so.

"I'd advise you to keep everyone away, and maybe when this thing has run its' course you will still be ok. I know you got a lot of food stockpiled, and can hunt what meat you need. Just stay away from other people and you might not get exposed at all. I'm thinking about packing up and heading out to my place in the Rockies. I'll look Sarah up, and if she's still alright, I'll take her with me. Give it a month or so, and if none of you'all have gotten sick, you can pack up and join us if you want. I'll be back in touch to give you directions on how to get there, and let you know how Sarah is doing." Junior climbed back up in his truck and headed for his house.

Thirty minutes, and twenty miles of gravel roads later, Junior pulled up to the gate of what used to be a military installation. During the Cold War the property had been a military fallout shelter. Junior owned five hundred acres of timber that hid an extensive underground installation. When Junior had bought the place the tunnels were damp, and in some places, needing repair. In the five years he had lived here he had repaired the cracked walls, and gotten the pumps running to keep everything dry. What he was left with was an excellent place to store his toys. A hardened steel door, large enough to drive a tractor trailer through, led to a system of tunnels and rooms that he had remodeled. He had turned some of the rooms into living quarters, painting walls and putting in carpet. In several locations he had opened windows to the outside world, allowing sunlight into his personal redoubt. Secured rooms held his toys, of which he had plenty. Being a redneck, and a former marine at that, he could never have enough "toys". Junior's friends and family knew that he was in the Reserves, but what they didn't know was his status was actually a cover story. While in the Corps it was discovered that Junior had a natural ability with a rifle that was quite rare. The powers that be sent him to sniper training, only to have him show them a thing or two. Born and raised in the Smoky Mountains, Junior had been hunting since he was eight years old, and could shoot rings around his instructors, men who had made the business of the perfect long range shot their life's work. Junior soon was being singled out for special missions, shots that no one else could make. When he had expressed a desire to leave the Corps he was approached by his commanding officer. The long and short of it was that Junior was now "on call". When a situation came up that required his particular talents, he was called. His family and friends had no idea what he did for a living, but making a couple of "long distance personal calls" a year brought him a pretty good living. With the proceeds and because of his "profession" Junior had amassed a large number of toys. When it came to guns, Junior was one of those who believed you could never have too many. His collection ran from .22's for plinking and squirrel hunting, to .50 caliber sniper rifles. He had a few odd balls thrown in for good measure, his favorite an eight gauge over and under rifle. Yeah, I know, an 8 gauge should be a shotgun, but this gun was made during the hey day of the African safaris. It was designed to stop a charging elephant, and Junior reckoned from the kick it made when fired, it would do the trick. The barrels were rifled and it fired a huge brass cartridge that Junior had to reload himself. He had picked up the gun and two dozen cartridges at a farm auction near Nashville. A local blacksmith had made a mold for him to pour his own rounds, and by saving his brass he could reload his own rounds. He also had a large collection of antique, and replica guns, along with enough hand guns to make the James and Younger gangs jealous. As he moved around the kitchen getting something to eat he thought about what the sheriff had said. His place in Montana, a 2000 acre ranch nestled in a small valley backed up against the mountains, would be an ideal place to ride out the coming storm. But it was a long trip, and he had family and friends here. His home made an excellent place to defend, and Junior had no doubt if he stayed, he would have to defend it. As people fled the east coast, and food supplies began to run low, some would seek to prey on others. Once word got out that he had numerous weapons and lots of food stockpiled, he would be a target for anyone who thought they needed what he had more than he needed it. Another point in favor of heading west was that as more and more people came into the area, game animals would move out. While he had adequate food stores, Junior was not looking forward to a steady diet of MRE's. He knew if he stayed, and did not get some help, he would soon be bottled up in his home, with no way to safely leave and hunt, or anything else. After a simple meal of fried ham steak and potatoes, Junior closed the steel shutters he had installed on his windows and climbed into bed. Like most warriors he fell asleep immediately, a survival trick learned the hard way. One never knew when you would get a chance to sleep again, and took what opportunity you could.

Junior woke long before daylight, and watched the sun begin to lighten the mist that gave this range its name as he headed into Gatlinburg. Sticking to back roads, he hoped to avoid most of the potential heavy traffic on the interstates and highways in the area. Punching up the satellite radio, he chose southern rock and cruised into town. He snorted at the irony as Lynyrd Skynyrd sang "That Smell" but didn't change the channel. Pulling into the outskirts of Gatlinburg he pulled out his cell, muted the radio, and called Sarah. He had wanted to call last night, but was afraid of what he would, or wouldn't find out. Her father had given him the address where she was staying, but he didn't want to show up without knowing if anyone there was ill, and he was afraid to find out that Sarah was sick. Not being able to wait any longer he listened to the phone ring, praying she would answer. He counted the rings, knowing her voice mail would pick up after the fifth ring and had nearly given up when her breathless voice came on the phone.

"Junior, don't hang up!" she nearly shouted into his ear. "Oh God, Junior, I was afraid to call, and afraid for you because you hadn't called. Everyone here is sick, Melinda's mom is dying and the doctors and hospitals won't do anything, and I called 911 and they won't even send an ambulance, and then Melinda started getting sick, and her little sister Emily, and they are all getting weaker..."

She paused to take a breath, the panic evident in her voice when Junior cut in. "Silence slave!" He did not shout, yet his tone cut through her terror. "Calm down and listen to me. First, are you feeling sick at all?" At her negative response he heaved a sigh of relief. "How long have the other's been sick?"

"Mrs. Walker has been feeling bad for about two weeks, right after I got here, and the others started getting sick after that." Sarah's voice was shaky, and she seemed to be on the edge of falling apart. "After hearing about this on the news I was afraid to call and have you come here and get it, but I NEED you here. I don't know what to do, and I'm scared. Where are you Junior?" The plaintive whine in her voice was apparent as she fought to keep control.

"Listen closely slave." Junior said, putting iron in his voice. "If they are all sick, there is nothing you or anyone else can do. I made some calls to friends in the know this morning, and they tell me this thing appears to be a bio weapon that has gotten out of control. Once you are showing symptoms, you are dead. Fortunately about 10 percent of the population has a natural immunity. There will be others who are healthy enough to fight this off. Unfortunately, this virus combined with some other ailment, even a common cold, will be fatal to most people. Even stress can lower your immune system enough to make it fatal. Now I know you have friends there you are worried about, but they are not going to make it, sweetie." He softened the tone of his voice before continuing. "I am not asking you to leave them, I am telling you. You told me not long ago you wanted to be mine, totally. You pledged to do anything I told you to. I am giving you a direct order. Grab only what you have to have, any meds that are yours, and get out the door. Don't speak to the others, just do it." Junior heard Sarah draw a ragged breath, hold it for a second, then expel it in a soft sigh.