White Wasteland Jeff Kirkham (book series for 12 year olds TXT) 📖

boss from the titty bar hissed, “Turn ‘em off…I said TURN ‘EM OFF!” His orders were followed. The flashlights winked out.

“I want everyone on the ground and every weapon out of reach,” Evan yelled. “Anyone, anywhere near a gun gets shot. I’ve got guys on the roofs.”

“Do what he says,” the man from the bar shouted.

Jake radioed in Evan’s earpiece, “Everyone I can see is down on the ground and disarmed.”

“Are you the boss?” Evan yelled across the bazaar.

The man chuckled. “I wish. The boss is inside. I’m his second-in-command.”

“Then tell him to get his ass out here,” Evan ordered.

“Sorry, Hoss. No can do. If he comes out, you and your boys can gun us down and take our stuff. We’d rather take our chances inside against your machine gun.”

Evan considered calling the full assault. He felt pretty sure his guys would waste this entire camp without taking more than a couple casualties. The biggest risk would probably be blue-on-blue shootings, since his squad had penetrated the courtyard from three sides of the compass. They called that a Polish Ambush, back when you could get away with playing fast-and-loose with racial epithets. But even if the assault went flawlessly, he’d have to explain the decision to the civilians and maybe to Tanya.

“So what do you propose, Lieutenant?” Evan suspected the guy might be a police officer or a sheriff’s deputy; which gave Evan another reason to hold the assault.

“Come inside and sit down. Grab a drink. I’m sure we can work this out.”

“You’re sure?” Evan laughed. He didn’t like going into an unknown building, but he had an overwhelming force outside, and he thought it might be worth the risk. Again, this wasn’t Hajitown. This was still America, and the guy was probably a cop. To complete Evan’s mission, working something out might be best—like sitting down to tea with a Peshmerga Kurdish commander. These zombies were children compared to the Peshmerga, but cops might be the new tribal elders around these parts.

“Okay,” Evan conceded. “I’ll come in with six men and if I see another gun in there besides ours, we’ll kill everyone. Fair enough?”

“I can make that happen, but I’ll need a few minutes,” the man said.

“I’m walking through that door in thirty seconds, so you best hurry.” Evan called two of his men out of his fire team and three from Fire Team Bravo and started across the bazaar. They joined him, rifles at the ready. The 2IC had run back through the door and was likely hard at work hiding weapons and stoking up lanterns.

Evan’s team burst through the heavy, steel door of the strip club, guns up. Evan came through last and flipped up his NVGs. The guy from before was cranking up Coleman lanterns on the bar. The titty bar was jam-packed with piles of boxes, floor-to-ceiling. Evan crouched behind a stack and swept the bar with his rifle. His men fanned out across the back wall and worked their way around the room.

“Clear.”

“Clear.”

“Clear!”

Evan made his way through the booths and the stacks of stuff toward a bar at the side of the room. Out of the corner of his eye, he saw floor-to-ceiling stacks of Top Ramen, kids’ cereal, solar panel kits, Jim Beam and socket wrench sets. The place looked like a hoarder had won the lottery and bought out an auto parts store, a corner grocery and six liquor stores.

His men scuffled with someone and Evan cleared the final stack—this one of tampons and maxi-pads—and found his men patting down a guy he hadn’t met yet wearing Levis, a plaid shirt and a leather shoulder holster. The gun was nowhere in sight.

“Good thing I sleep in my clothes, or you would’ve caught me with my dick out, right?” the man laughed as the guys flipped him around to face Evan.

“Evan Hafer, Nineteenth Group Special Forces.” He didn’t offer his hand.

“Good to meetcha. Who I am is none-of-your-damn business.” The man’s dark eyes drilled into Evan’s face. He had the look of a mean dog—the kind of mutt that couldn’t stand having anyone hold him down for any reason. His plaid shirt was half unbuttoned and a gold chain draped across his dark chest hair. Even though he’d been sleeping, his hair was frozen in a brown wave. This was the kind of guy who combed in some kind of snake oil.

Evan poked the flash suppressor at the man’s hairdo.

“Who are you? The Fonz?” Evan chuckled.

“Get your gun out of my face,” the man smacked Evan’s muzzle aside. Evan brought it right back to chest-level.

The lieutenant stepped between them and held out his hands. “Hey, hey. We’re all friends here. Take it easy, Kay,” he said to the boss with the hairdo. “These gentlemen are doing us the kindness of not shooting the shit out of us with their assault rifles and their tank. The least we can do is offer them a drink.”

“Whiskey,” Evan said. The end of his AR wandered lowered down to between the boss’ feet and his nut sack. “I don’t care what your name is. To me, you’re just another warlord. I’ve known plenty. I’ve killed a couple too. Only the ones I killed have more class than you.”

Two rail thin women wandered into the bar.

“Wass going on, Kay?” The brunette slurred and rubbed her eyes.

“Get your skank ass back to the office,” the boss shouted.

“Jeez. You don’t gotta be such a dick.” The blond shot him the middle finger.

The lieutenant handed Evan a tumbler of whiskey. “I’m Larry and that’s Kay,” he offered.

Evan took a drink and sucked through his teeth. “Larry the Lieutenant, huh? Cops?” he asked.

“There are no cops anymore,” the warlord answered.

“Yes,” Lieutenant Larry added. “We were cops.”

“You contradict me one more time and you and I are going to have personal issues.” The boss scowled at his subordinate.

Larry held up his hands in apology.

“What’s all this shit in here?” Evan waved his whiskey tumbler around the room.

The boss poured himself a