club’s base camp for help.
The eleven fully patched members of the club waited with their president in the cool high desert air, smoking cigarettes and drinking lukewarm beer from the saddlebags on their motorcycles while they waited for Stinky to show up. They had nothing else to do while they waited for the prospects to kill all the remaining people in the Basin without risking any more full members.
To Russell and the rest of the men drinking beer by their motorcycles, the morning passed slowly. Sporadic gunfire echoed off the mountains above them. Seven beers into his waiting, Russell finally heard a car horn honk four times. That was the sign, so the men threw their empty bottles on the side of the road, started their motorcycles, and road into the Basin side by side in a column of two.
“Where the fuck are the rest of you?” Russell growled after shutting off his motorcycle.
“Jake and Fungus got bit so we put them down. They’re over there with the rest of our brothers.” Tiny pointed to a row of bodies with motorcycle vests laid over each one.
“Fine, where’s the dickhead who started all of this?”
“We found him, his woman and a kid. All dead.”
“Were they walkers?”
“No, just dead, shot in the head.”
Russell walked to where the prospect pointed and looked at the body. “You dumbass, he was already dead when he was shot in the head! Find the guy who shot him! Find the other guy!”
Russell looked across the pile of bodies and around to the motels and the Ranger Station nervously before walking over to the bullet-riddled motel. He ducked under the walkway, trying to hide from an enemy sniper he believed was hiding in the trees on the hillside.
Another prospect ran up to Russell. “Prez, you’re going to want to see this. We just found a bunch of good shit in one of the cabins!”
Russell followed the prospect up the hill towards Bexar and Jack’s cabins.
“The water works, the toilets flush, there’s two vehicles and there’s a bunch of other shit.”
“Great. Go get me Buzzer.”
Russell stood near Bexar’s cabin, looking at all they had found, when Buzzer walked up.
“Buzzer, you’re the new VP. Get someone to go find Stinky. Send some prospects to get the others, the women, and the rest of the gear. We’re moving Church here. Also, get me a couple of scouts. We’ve got to find the asshole who did all this.”
Buzzer nodded and walked off, yelling for prospects.
CHAPTER 11
Groom Lake, NV
February 14, Year 1
Cliff walked into the radio hut. Major Wright and the airman on duty sat with their backs to the door, both wearing headphones plugged into the radio console. The airman made notes on his yellow notepad while speaking to someone on the other side of the microphone, while Wright zoomed in the satellite’s latest photo over a location that Cliff didn’t recognize.
On the wall to their left hung an old large paper map of the United States. Where the airman had found the old paper map was anyone’s guess. Colored push pins were placed sporadically across the map, each pin representing a group of survivors that the radio operators at Groom Lake had contacted since their arrival on the C-130 from Peterson AFB in Colorado. That aircraft sat disabled in the middle of the dry lake bed above them after being damaged on landing.
Quickly counting, Cliff found more than sixty pins spread across the U.S., mostly in the middle of the country between the Rocky and Appalachian Mountains. The different colored pins represented the approximate number of survivors in each group. If Cliff remembered what Wright told him correctly, that would mean that there were currently a little over two hundred survivors that the airmen had contacted and accounted for. That was good news for Cliff. If there were survivors, then there was a country to save, and that was his mission.
Wright sneezed loudly, breaking his concentration from the computer screen, and he noticed Cliff
The eleven fully patched members of the club waited with their president in the cool high desert air, smoking cigarettes and drinking lukewarm beer from the saddlebags on their motorcycles while they waited for Stinky to show up. They had nothing else to do while they waited for the prospects to kill all the remaining people in the Basin without risking any more full members.
To Russell and the rest of the men drinking beer by their motorcycles, the morning passed slowly. Sporadic gunfire echoed off the mountains above them. Seven beers into his waiting, Russell finally heard a car horn honk four times. That was the sign, so the men threw their empty bottles on the side of the road, started their motorcycles, and road into the Basin side by side in a column of two.
“Where the fuck are the rest of you?” Russell growled after shutting off his motorcycle.
“Jake and Fungus got bit so we put them down. They’re over there with the rest of our brothers.” Tiny pointed to a row of bodies with motorcycle vests laid over each one.
“Fine, where’s the dickhead who started all of this?”
“We found him, his woman and a kid. All dead.”
“Were they walkers?”
“No, just dead, shot in the head.”
Russell walked to where the prospect pointed and looked at the body. “You dumbass, he was already dead when he was shot in the head! Find the guy who shot him! Find the other guy!”
Russell looked across the pile of bodies and around to the motels and the Ranger Station nervously before walking over to the bullet-riddled motel. He ducked under the walkway, trying to hide from an enemy sniper he believed was hiding in the trees on the hillside.
Another prospect ran up to Russell. “Prez, you’re going to want to see this. We just found a bunch of good shit in one of the cabins!”
Russell followed the prospect up the hill towards Bexar and Jack’s cabins.
“The water works, the toilets flush, there’s two vehicles and there’s a bunch of other shit.”
“Great. Go get me Buzzer.”
Russell stood near Bexar’s cabin, looking at all they had found, when Buzzer walked up.
“Buzzer, you’re the new VP. Get someone to go find Stinky. Send some prospects to get the others, the women, and the rest of the gear. We’re moving Church here. Also, get me a couple of scouts. We’ve got to find the asshole who did all this.”
Buzzer nodded and walked off, yelling for prospects.
CHAPTER 11
Groom Lake, NV
February 14, Year 1
Cliff walked into the radio hut. Major Wright and the airman on duty sat with their backs to the door, both wearing headphones plugged into the radio console. The airman made notes on his yellow notepad while speaking to someone on the other side of the microphone, while Wright zoomed in the satellite’s latest photo over a location that Cliff didn’t recognize.
On the wall to their left hung an old large paper map of the United States. Where the airman had found the old paper map was anyone’s guess. Colored push pins were placed sporadically across the map, each pin representing a group of survivors that the radio operators at Groom Lake had contacted since their arrival on the C-130 from Peterson AFB in Colorado. That aircraft sat disabled in the middle of the dry lake bed above them after being damaged on landing.
Quickly counting, Cliff found more than sixty pins spread across the U.S., mostly in the middle of the country between the Rocky and Appalachian Mountains. The different colored pins represented the approximate number of survivors in each group. If Cliff remembered what Wright told him correctly, that would mean that there were currently a little over two hundred survivors that the airmen had contacted and accounted for. That was good news for Cliff. If there were survivors, then there was a country to save, and that was his mission.
Wright sneezed loudly, breaking his concentration from the computer screen, and he noticed Cliff
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