Chapter 15

At day break, Sergeant Fulton Chapman and Corporal Adrián Ibarra donned their CBRN suits and prepared to mount up and reconnoiter the surrounding areas. Their last order had been to deliver their sick men to a hospital, and that mission had met with only limited success. The pharmacist, Kali, proved herself to be a highly capable leader in a crisis situation, rallying all available resources to stabilize and treat thirty-six patients. Despite the woman’s Herculean efforts, however, it was clear even to Fulton that most of the worst afflicted were unlikely to survive.

By the time he roused that morning, the condition of his men, as well as several of the students, had further deteriorated. The color of their burns had deepened to an unnatural purple, and large blisters, filled with fluid, raised from their arms and faces. Tiny purpura speckled their skin, and the first signs of edema were beginning to manifest.

According to Kali, these symptoms would only continue to worsen over the coming hours and days. They’re melting from the inside out, she told him. Even with access to the most advanced treatments available, which they didn’t have, there was little she, or anyone else, could do to save them. The best she could offer was to make them as comfortable as possible.

Seeing the effects of radiation sickness firsthand galvanized Fulton’s certainty that the country had been nuked by a foreign power. Some of the other soldiers at the armory were convinced it was Russia or China, but Fulton couldn’t see either of them being responsible for a cheap shot air burst like that. Especially not with our ballistic missile submarine fleet patrolling the world’s oceans, ever vigilant and ready to enforce the first commandment of war versus the United States. Thou shalt not get away with it.

If it really was WWIII, the Russians would have rained down death from above in the form of tens of thousands of MIRVS, and glassed all of NATO. His money was on the North Koreans. They were the only ones batshit crazy enough to push the button. If there was any justice left in the world, Pyongyang was a smoking crater in the ground right about now.

The school’s principal, Linda, had pestered him for information about the attack, about the effects of an exploding nuclear bomb, and advice on what they all should do. He told her what he knew about nuclear detonations, which wasn’t much, but his responses to her other questions were as simple as they were unsatisfying. I don’t know who attacked us. Just shelter in place until you hear from the authorities.

The mission plan Fulton drew up had one simple goal: reestablish contact with military command. After assessing current conditions, and making contact with the local authorities, they would return to the 105th Military Police Battalion HHQ in Asheville to check in with the Non-Commissioned Officer-in-Charge, or NCOIC, First Sergeant Kurian, for a debrief and to provide a sitrep on the condition of their wounded troops. With any luck, the First Sergeant would have already made contact with the battalion commander and received orders.

If that proved unsuccessful, however, they would resupply at the armory and proceed to rally point one at the Norfolk Southern rail yard. If they still had no luck, they would make their way to nearby MP detachments in the surrounding counties and try to link up with other fragmented units. If all else failed, they would carry on to Fort Liberty and integrate with the Army units there.

To be fair, calling it a plan was a bit of a stretch. More a desperate search for leadership and intel. Just like the helpful civilian, Mike Messina, Fulton wanted answers. Was the country really under attack? If so, by who, so he’d know where to point his rifle. If not, then just what the hell happened yesterday?

He and Ibarra managed to catch a few z’s overnight in Mike’s lab while the mad scientist worked on something at his large assembly table. Some kind of power pack he could plug his laptop into. The school teacher had been preoccupied after witnessing the aurora. He didn’t talk much about what he was thinking, other than to say he needed to do some research and figure things out. Whatever that meant.

The other thing weighing heavily on Fulton was worry for the safety of his girlfriend, a young military widow, and her two sons. They’d only been dating for a couple months, but they’d already used the L-word with each other on more than one occasion. Although not part of his official plan, Fulton fully intended to look in on her and, if possible, deliver her and the boys to her parent’s house in Arden.

Ibarra tossed the last of their gear into the Beast and slapped the hood.

“Ready to rock and roll, Sergeant?”

Fulton briefly lifted his eyes, hidden behind a pair of Oakley Elites, to where the impossible aurora hung suspended from the heavens last night. It faded away as dawn broke over the valley, but Mike assured him it was still up there. It was just too light out to see it now. Fulton didn’t consider himself a superstitious man, but he wondered at its meaning nonetheless. Was it a sign of good fortune, or an ill omen portending their doom? He chose to believe it was the former.

“Hooah, Corporal. Let’s roll.”

Contact with local authorities happened less than ten minutes after leaving the school when they were stopped at a roadblock on their way into Morgan Creek. A sign, spray painted on a sheet of plywood and propped up against a pickup truck, read:

LOCAL RESIDENTS ONLY

PREPARE TO SHOW ID

A police cruiser and the aforementioned pickup truck were parked sideways across the road, each blocking one lane of traffic in a staggered formation that would permit a single vehicle at a time to pass through by weaving between them. A uniformed officer held up his hand, augmented by what appeared to be three deputized locals, all of them sporting tactical firearms.

“Damn, that was quick,” Ibarra said quietly.

“Where you boys headed?” the officer asked when he came to their window.

He was the quintessential small town cop. A little too gray up top, and a lot too thick around the waistline. His aggressive gum chewing could easily be interpreted as smug and contemptuous. Fulton noted that his name tag was conspicuously missing.

“Morning, officer. Sergeant Fulton Chapman, 105th Military Police Battalion, Army National Guard. We’re here to assess the situation in Morgan Creek and offer any assistance we can.”

The cop regarded him for a long moment, then peeked over Fulton’s shoulder to look into the back of the Humvee.

“Just the two of you?” he asked.

“Yes, sir.”

The cop nodded, then held out his hand. “IDs.” Fulton handed him their Common Access Cards, the military IDs all service members carried, but he handed them right back. “Driver’s licenses,” the cop clarified. “Access is restricted to local residents only.”

“We’re not from here,” Fulton said. “We’re both from Asheville.”

“In that case, I need you to turn your vehicle around and head back the way you came, Sergeant.”

Fulton turned to Torres, and the two men shared a look of disbelief. Was this guy for real?

“Officer, I’m not sure you understand,” Fulton said when he turned back. “We’re operating under a broad mandate to assist communities in the wake of this, uh ... well, disaster. We’ve got resources and training that we think you could benefit from. We’re not here to step on anyone’s toes, if that’s what you’re worried about.”

The cop glanced at his deputies, then turned back to Fulton. “Appreciate the offer, boys, but we’ve got things under control here. Now, I need you to back your rig up and turn it around.”

“Yeah, but officer-”

“You have yourself a good day, Sergeant.”

The girls of the Robotics Club, still on “house arrest” as Ms. Rosen put it, ate breakfast in their beds and at their study desks. Ms. Rosen brought them bowls of Raisin Bran. They needed to use up the milk before it went bad, she told them. Michelle lifted a spoonful of gloopy, cardboard-colored flakes and let the wet mass plop back into the bowl.

“Gross,” she muttered, and pushed it to the edge of her desk.

She didn’t have much of an appetite anyway. Try as she might, she hadn’t been able to engineer a solid plan for how to save themselves from jail that didn’t involve putting Mr. Messina at risk. The only idea she had with even a remote chance of working was a total longshot, and would require all the stars in the sky to perfectly align in order to pull off.

“I can’t believe that fucking bitch roofied me,” Sophia groused.

She chucked her spoon into her bowl with a splash. Apparently, she wasn’t hungry for old people mush either. They’d filled in her memory hole with details about the previous afternoon’s adventures, and she still hadn’t gotten over it.

“I still can’t believe she got to have actual sex with him,” Olivia said, shaking her head. “God, his dick looked so fucking amazing.”

There was much head nodding and general agreement on that point.

“How was it going down on him?” Chloe asked Mia.

“I’d rather not talk about it,” she said while chewing.

“You might as well,” said Madison. “We don’t have anything else to do.”

They’d run the batteries down on the phones overnight. Even without the internet, they were still able to play some of their mobile games. They could have recharged them from their laptops, but they wanted to conserve those batteries for as long as possible. Besides, without internet or cell service, their phones were pretty much useless anyway.

“So?” Olivia asked, lifting her hand.

“So what?” Mia asked back.

“So, spill it, bitch.”

Mia rolled her eyes but couldn’t stop herself from cracking a little smile. “So fucking good,” she said, then looked at Michelle and quickly added, “I mean, I know it was totally a bad thing to do and all, but still ... I mean, come on, right? He’s so fucking hot, it’s ridiculous!”

“So hot,” Madison agreed.

“Why do you think the Army was here?” Izzy wondered, changing the subject.

They’d all seen the Humvee pull up last night behind Mr. Messina’s cool old car, and then leave again in the morning.

“I don’t know, but I’m just glad it wasn’t the cops,” Olivia said.

There was general agreement on that point as well. A knock came at the door.

“Everyone decent?”

It was Mr. Bingham. Mia and Madison jumped down from their bunks and shimmied into pants. When they told him he could come in, he opened the door and leaned his upper body into the room.

“Ms. Linda wants to talk to all students at nine o’clock. That’s in thirty minutes.” He held up three fingers. “Three-zero. Leavitt Hall assembly room. Don’t be late.”

When he left, the girls looked among themselves.

“Do you think it’s about us?” Izzy asked.

“I doubt it,” Michelle said. “It’s probably about the blackout.”

“Do you think Mr. Bingham has a big dick?” Chloe wondered aloud.

“I don’t know,” Sophia said. “Why?”

“Who do you think has a bigger dick. Mr. Messina, or Mr. Bingham?”

“Pft, Mr. Messina for sure,” Mia said.

“Yeah,” Chloe said, “but aren’t black guys supposed to have big dicks?”

“That’s a myth,” Olivia said, “and racist.”

“It is?”

“Yeah,” Michelle said. “It’s a stereotype. It’s like saying all Asians are good at math and terrible drivers.”

“But you are good at math, Michelle, and you drive like shit,” Chloe pointed out. “So maybe Mr. Bingham has a big dick.”

Michelle paused, then shrugged her shoulders. “Good point.”

Assembling the power pack had been child’s play for Mike. A stack of rechargeable lithium-ion batteries from his enormous stockpile, and a DC to DC converter, tuned to the right output current, and he was up and running.