Zero day code, p.33
Zero Day Code, page 33
part #1 of End of Days Series
“Not if the chinks did it.”
“No, that’s right,” Jonas said. “But it’s happening in Europe too. In Asia. It’s everywhere. Why would they do that?”
“What?” Rausch said, looked unsure of his meaning.
“You got any deliveries scheduled this week?” Jonas asked, playing a hunch.
“Supposed to be gas on Thursday.”
“Is it coming?”
“Don’t see why not.”
“You should check.”
“Why do that? What do you know, Murdoch?”
“I know the National Guard’s been called out and federalised. Saw that on the news back at Big Al’s. I know that even though they’re blaming China for this attack, China’s denying it and our military is being pulled back into the country. Not sent out to give the slants the ass kicking they got coming.”
Rausch’s expression was changing from confused to concerned.
“I don’t… why would they do that?”
Jonas made like he didn’t want to say it, but he had to.
“To defend themselves against an uprising. China ain’t the threat. One sub full of nukes can deal with them. But three hundred million pissed off citizens with the right to bear arms? That’s a threat you can’t nuke. That’s fucking medieval, man. That’s a real fucking peasant uprising. And you deal with that shit like a fucking medieval overlord. You send in your army and starve out the peasants. That’s what I think this shit is, Brad. And that’s why I want that Jeep. I’m out of here. Those refugees coming up the hill? They’re the first of a million or so just from the city. A week from now, they’re gonna be killing each other for dog food. And I don’t think your Sheriff Dave has one fucking clue what’s coming.”
Rausch glowered at him.
“He ain’t my sheriff. I voted O'Shannassy.”
Jonas smiled sardonically, “Shoulda voted harder.”
The mechanic barked a short, hard laugh in reply.
“Yeah. Too late for that. How many of them are coming, you say?”
“A couple of thousand right now,” Jonas said. “First of them will be in town soon. Like, next half hour, if Muller lets them in.”
“He will.”
“He shouldn’t. Food’s gonna run out. Food, stores, fuel. Everything.”
Rausch’s frown grew cavernous.
“Gimme a second,” he said before disappearing back inside. The radio cut out. Jonas inspected the Jeep again without having a salesman hovering over him. It was a woeful piece of shit as a repair job, but he didn’t doubt it would run. Redneck repairs were guaranteed by God himself. It was good to know he could get to some wheels if he had to. Rausch returned after a minute, looking even darker of mood than before.
“No delivery this week. Some shit about a computer glitch. Messed up the ordering.”
Inside his head, a small cartoon version of Jonas jumped up and punched the air.
“Figures,” he said, simply. “They’re cutting us off. They’re cutting everyone off.”
“Let’s get into town,” Rausch said. “I wanna talk to Darren O'Shannassy.”
“Can we take the jeep?” Jonas asked. “Call it a test drive.”
Rausch brightened at the suggestion.
“Sure. You can admire my handiwork. Come on, I’ll get the key and shut up my shop.”
Jonas followed him back into the shop and noted the location of the keys, hanging from a hook with half a dozen others on a cork board behind the counter.
Good to know.
32
Rally In Silverton
Rausch’s phone kept buzzing at him on the short drive back into Silverton. It was some ancient piece of Samsung crap with a broken screen and the third time it buzzed, he plucked it out of the cup holder in the Jeep’s centre console and tossed it Jonas.
“If that’s my ex-wife, delete the bitch,” he said. “She just wants money I don’t have for fucking kids that ain’t mine.”
“You cool with me reading your message?” Jonas asked, before taking the phone.
“Hell yes. Phones in the car are fucking dangerous, man. I get more work off of assholes texting other assholes behind the wheel than I do from drunks. It’ll be Sheila for sure. Or fucking spam. That’s all I got coming these days,” Rausch grumbled as he rounded the last curve before Doctor Cornwell’s cottage on the edge of town.
Jonas read the text.
“Spam,” he confirmed. “But not like you’re thinking.”
“What then” Rausch asked.
“Fucking Homeland Security, man. Telling you that you’re on a budget now. Hundred bucks of consumables until, and I quote, ‘the current crisis is over’.”
“The fuck is this?” Rausch said.
“Gimme a second,” Jonas said. It was difficult to read the text under the cracked screen with the Jeep in motion, but after a moment he returned the phone to the cup holder.
“Yeah, it’s like I heard on the TV this morning. Federal government’s imposed food rationing. If you can fucking believe it.”
Brad Rausch could not. He pulled over to the kerb and took up the phone again. While he was reading and cursing, Jonas scoped out Main Street. A crowd, maybe a few hundred strong had gathered in the park while he was out at the auto shop. He thought most of them were townspeople. They weren’t hauling backpacks or tents or any sort of camping gear. Not like the small, scattered groups coming into Silverton from the other end of town.
“Goddamnit how’d these clowns get my number?” Rausch asked, and Jonas almost smiled at his naivety.
“They got everyone’s number,” he said. He thought he could see the first of those militia yahoos marching in from the climb. “You still want to find this O’Shannassy or you want to get to the store before it’s cleaned out?”
Rausch checked his mirrors, flicked the indicator to signal he was pulling back onto the road, and leaned gently into the gas. Jonas had never seen a more cautious redneck behind the wheel, but he had to allow that this guy’s line of work would make anyone a cautious driver. He’d no doubt had to hose a slaughterhouse worth of bad drivers from out of their wrecks over the years.
“I’ll lay money on the barrel that Mister O’Shannassy’s already here,” Rausch said, pulling over and parking half a block down from the main body of the crowd. They had gathered around the statue in the town common, which stood directly between Silverton’s two grocers. A family-run general store and a much larger Red Apple on the other side of the park. The little store, more of a deli and bakery now that he looked, was occupied. He could see people inside, but the doors were closed and a couple of dudes stood out front with their arms folded, as if to bar the way in.
“Come on,” Rausch said, climbing out and slamming the door. “I know where he’ll be.”
Jonas followed.
He couldn’t be sure where this was headed or how he should play it. It was not yet late in the morning, but the sun hammered down from clear blue skies and the mercury was already climbing toward the hundred mark. He followed Rausch into the gathering which was growing larger by the minute. A town as small as Silverton, that made sense. Everybody could look out of their windows and see what was happening.
And what was happening?
Jonas thought it felt like the ground was moving under all of their feet. But miles down below. Like some deep tectonic shift had already shunted everything sideways, but the first tremors were only just arriving now. He vaguely recognised a few faces, possibly from the bar and diner, or maybe from the street yesterday afternoon. He did remember the two YouTube kids, who’d now climbed on the statue and were filming the crowd from above. One of them waved at him and he waved back, smiling. The townsfolk were abuzz with the news of the rationing. Half of them appeared to be reading the same text Rausch had just received. Some argued in favour of the order. Most did not. Moving through the crowd, keeping close to Rausch, following his thick neck and massive shoulders, he heard snatches of conversation, but it was obvious the message from Homeland Security had cranked up everyone’s stress levels. Nobody was talking about collapsing banks or drone attacks now. They just wanted their damn Pop Tarts and pizza pockets, and they didn’t want some bureaucrat in Washington telling them otherwise.
He saw no sign of Sheriff Dave or his troops. The lawman was probably downslope trying to get a grip on the horde marching on his town. Jonas knew he’d be back soon enough, though. He could see the first of the organised arrivals heading up Main Street. They were an obvious militia crew, tricked out in desert tan choc chip camo and tactical rigs fresh from a cardboard box he’d probably humped around Amazon’s warehouse before Travis shit-canned him.
Jesus. Was that only yesterday?
It felt like a thousand years ago.
The crowd was packed a little denser on the far side of the town common, out in front of the Red Apple. It seemed hotter here and people’s patience was already frayed to the point of rupture. Jonas could see why.
There were at least six men toting weapons—four axe handles and two shotguns—barring entry to the small supermarket. Dale Juntii held one of the pump-action shotties. He was scowling at the crowd, but when he saw Jonas approaching with Rausch, Juntii grinned and winked at them. As if he was secretly letting them know about a great deal on cheap beer they could get over this way. Even if Rausch hadn’t made a beeline for the stocky, square-jawed all-American psycho standing next to Juntii, Jonas would have happily doubled down on any size bet that this enormous asshole was the failed candidate for Sheriff of Silverton, Darren O’Shannassy.
His silvery hair was buzzcut down to the skull and unlike the cosplay pocket Nazis marching into town at that very moment, his freshly pressed battle dress jacket was appropriately camouflaged for local operations. He had the other Remington shotgun.
“Mister O’Shannassy,” Brad Rausch said, raising his voice to be heard over the crowd noise, but stopping short of joining the cadre of local heavies on the steps.
“Good to see you, Brad,” the man said, “You come to lend a hand?”
Rausch seemed to falter. He was confused.
“You heard about this rationing thing, sir? Is this for real? The government can’t do this, can it? Not to us?”
O’Shannassy glowered at him.
“Government can’t, but we can. And we will, son. Has to be done if this town is gonna get through the next few days.”
“Oh,” Rausch said, so quietly it was possible only Jonas heard. “Okay then.”
Jonas hung back, not wanting to draw attention to himself, but there was no escaping the radar sweep of Darren O’Shannassy’s hard, calculating eyes.
“You’re that fella stepped in and saved Albert yesterday, are you?” he said.
“Yeah,” Jonas said. “I was just out at Brad’s place. Seeing about buying some wheels.”
O’Shannassy’s stare was cold, but not hostile. Jonas sensed himself being measured and judged.
“Fair enough then. You did some good yesterday, son. Better than that useless sack of shit Muller.”
Rausch, Jonas noted, had quietly joined the end of the guard line securing the entrance to the supermarket. It had taken him only a few moments to go from outraged protester to compliant enforcer. The mechanic leaned forward and raised his voice to be heard.
“Murdoch’s a good guy, Mister O’Shannassy.”
“Didn’t say otherwise, Brad,” O’Shannassy growled.
He didn’t invite Jonas to join the palace guard either.
Not that he was fussed about that. Shit was getting real in Silverton. There had to be twice the town’s population of four hundred and some crammed into the common now, with more trailing in from the eastern end of town every minute and locals pouring out of the side streets. The tenor of the crowd was changing too. The milder, congenial buzz of a neighbourly forum, even one called to deal with a pressing difficulty, was giving way to something heavier.
Jonas had done his share of street level activism. He’d marched by torchlight in Charlottesville. Run with the Proud Boys in the rolling brawls at UCLA, where they’d finally given those Antifa fags the asskicking they’d been begging for.
But this was different.
This was like the normies had all swallowed the red pill at once. He wasn’t an outlier here. The anger he’d carried around for years had suddenly boiled up everywhere.
It was a fucking rush, is what it was. But he’d seen how explosive this shit could be too. And he could see the fuse burning quickly towards the exact place where he stood, with the approach of half a dozen out of town militia, all of them carrying heavier weapons than anything O’Shannassy’s crew could bring to bear.
And still there was no sign of Sheriff Muller and his deputies.
The militia appeared to come on, surfing a wave of crowd noise. He knew these guys, even if he didn’t know these exact assholes. The fact that they made it into town ahead of the main group, the fact they weren’t wheezing and gassing out and sweating like a fucking human wheel of cheese meant they weren’t the sort of fat, beta fantasists he’d spoken to Muller to about. No doubt there’d be plenty of them on the way up. If they didn’t all keel over from heart attacks and heat stroke in the foothills.
But not these assholes.
These ones looked lean, mean and hungry as fucking weasels. Jonas faded back into the front ranks of the crowd around the Red Apple. He watched O’Shannassy set himself to receive whatever challenge was coming and shuffled back along with everyone around him as the militia strode up and arrayed themselves behind a wiry, middle aged man carrying an AR-15. He was clean shaven, save for a neatly trimmed salt and pepper moustache, and his face was flushed with the exertion of the march.
He and his men had definitely marched up here. Not strolled.
They were all red faced and sweating – but a respectable level of sweat – and Jonas fancied he could smell the stink of their hard trek over the rank stench of the crowd.
“You Darren O’Shannassy?” the man said.
There were no name tags on his uniform.
“Yep. I own this store,” O’Shannassy said, surprising Jonas. He hadn’t thought of that angle. Figured O’Shannassy was just trying out his amateur warlord mojo, not barring the door to his own pantry.
“Name’s Wolfenden,” the man said. “Joe Wolfenden. Your Sheriff Muller said you’d be here. Said to tell you we’re just re-supping and rolling through.”
“Well, you’ll be rolling through. He got that right.”
Wolfenden said nothing.
His men shifted slightly in their parade ground rest posture. Nobody raised any weapons or made any challenges, but Jonas felt his balls trying to crawl up inside his body.
Wolfenden spoke again.
“Sheriff Muller said…”
Darren O’Shannassy cut him off.
“Sheriff Muller says a lot of stupid things. And this ain’t his store. It’s mine.”
A few people in the crowd oohed-and-aahed at that but the militiaman just laughed softly.
“Uhuh. You plan on opening today? Looks like you got plenty of custom.”
O’Shannassy nodded. He held the long-barrelled Remington across his chest. Relaxed, but ready to turn on anybody who crossed him.
“I will open in my own time,” he said. “And there will be no disorder or anarchy or panic of any sort.”
“Sounds like a plan,” Wolfenden said, shrugging.
“But you ain’t part of it,” O’Shannassy volleyed back, raising his voice. “Local customers only today.”
Wolfenden’s men did react to that. Nothing dramatic. Nobody started throwing down fire. But they all turned together, placing O’Shannassy within their firing arcs, should they choose to snap up those AR-15s and get to work. The machined harmony of their movement was impressive, Jonas thought. But the people of Silverton weren’t as appreciative. Another ‘ooh’ ran through the crowd and he was carried back few more steps as the crush of people around him began to back out of the contested space.
Darren O’Shannassy’s shoulders twitched, but he kept the shotgun held low and pointed harmlessly away from any warm-blooded target. He smiled. A cold smile.
“You boys ain’t done no real service, have you?” he said. His voice had a natural growl to it, but he seemed to have lowered it a little, too. Jonas also doubted whether he talked like such a shitkicker in polite conversation. He was acting out his role, just as much as Wolfenden. Who said nothing.
“You come in here, tooled up, but you didn’t do your recon,” O’Shannassy went on. “You don’t have the high ground.”
He grinned. A wolfish expression.
Wolfenden didn’t flinch, but a couple of his guys did, their eyes flitting nervously over the crowd, up and down Main Street.
“Captain,” one of them said. “DMR high, times two. Roofline, two and four o’clock. Zeroed on you, sir.”
Wolfenden grinned now. Not quite as carnivorously, but a solid effort at looking like he didn’t give a shit.
“Just came into town to buy some camping supplies and refill our canteens,” he said softly. His trigger finger was still outside the guard of the rifle. “Sheriff Muller said there wouldn’t be a problem if we moved on.”
“For once he was right, then. There won’t be. You can fill your canteens in the Common. And then you can move on.”
Jonas realised the low but strident clamour of the crowd had died away completely. He thought he could hear the breathing of a thousand people around him. As fascinating as it was watching these two bull goose loonies dance with each other he was starting to think it might be an idea to get the hell out of the free fire zone.
“I think you should open the store,” Wolfenden said. “Now.”
“And I think you should get the hell gone.”
“That’s not gonna happen. You are gonna open up, and we will pay you a fair price for our needs.”
O’Shannassy slowly, very slowly, turned the muzzle of the shotgun on Wolfenden.
“No,” he said.
The militiaman smiled again.
