Honor Road Jason Ross (any book recommendations .TXT) 📖

a gentle heating process that required a two-hour ramp up to temperature. The sulfur came from the lumber yard, and her stepfather had the ethylene in barrels from his days pretending to cook meth.

As the solution warmed, the reddish-amber sulfur dichloride climbed up a spiral glass condenser and dripped into a bulbous flask of ethylene. Heated slowly enough, the two chemicals didn’t react. They combined gently into the yellow slurry that they poured onto cookie sheets in a plastic-sealed room Jensen had divided off from the rest of the basement. Several times a day, the pair suited up and scraped the dry mustard dust into glass jars.

They were both so exhausted, after the two day marathon of lab work, that Jensen didn’t even take time to put his hands down her pants. When the HAZMAT suits came off, they both went directly to sleep. For Candice, the terrifying, sweaty work inside the rubber suit was almost worth the reprieve.

It was a little before midnight and Mat stood in the front yard of his house speaking with Carlos Cabrera and a member of the perimeter team, Mary Tribble.

Before the collapse, Mary had shared mechanic duties with her husband at the town auto repair shop. Two days before the nuclear attack on Los Angeles, Mr. Tribble had taken their son to Atlanta on a father-son trip, with the intent of visiting parts suppliers to make the trip tax-deductible. When the bomb hit, they cut the trip short, but never arrived home. Her last contact had been a selfie of her husband and son, via text message at a service station outside of Murfreesboro, Tennessee. She ended her story looking at the southeastern sky.

“Google said they’d be home in three hours. Just a little traffic, it said.”

Crack! Crack! Two gunshots echoed, almost on top of one another.

Mary started to say “Did you hear that?” But Mat had already keyed his radio.

"All checkpoints report in. Where did those shots come from?"

Eight checkpoints reported. The gunshots didn’t come from their locations. Each checkpoint offered a guess as to the direction of the gunshots. The consensus clarified. The shots came from the south end of town. Reedy Grove again.

Mat called up the QRF then ran inside for his kit.

“Where are you going?” William asked from the gloom of the living room. The boy always asked, as though by asking he could prevent Mat from leaving someday.

“Um. We’re headed to check out a couple gunshots on the south end of town. Did you hang out with Candice today?” Mat made conversation while kitting up.

“Nope,” William replied tersely. “She says she’s working on a lab project with her stepdad. She’s bailing on me too.”

Mat hated it when the boy played the victim card. He had every right to paint himself as a victim, but it wouldn’t serve him well as a man. Not in this brave, new world.

“Hmpf.” Mat knew what Candice must be doing. She and Jensen were making poison gas. The days when teenagers were spared hard, dangerous work had vanished in the rearview mirror like the blank side of a sign. “It’s true—what she told you. She and her dad are working on something important for the town. Give her a couple days. She’ll come up for air soon.”

The poison gas drew Mat’s thoughts back to town security and the gunshots.

Mat rattled his plate carrier vest in the dark. “Gotta run.”

“Okay,” William muttered.

Six minutes later, Mat jogged into the parking lot of the Walgreens. Eight men from the QRF arrived a minute later on foot, and a minute after that, two deputies on horseback. Sheriff Morgan had converted the empty lot next to the sheriff’s department into stables.

“Why only two horses?” Mat asked one of the deputies.

“Only these two have been re-shoed for paved roads.”

“Alright,” said Mat, while motioning the mounted deputies over. “There’ve been no additional shots. It might’ve been a negligent discharge or someone killing a possum.” People weren’t supposed to discharge firearms in town, not because of gun safety concerns, but because it forced town security to mount a “where’d it come from” poodle circus every time someone torched off a round.

Even with the outer town consolidating inside the HESCO line, a lot of homes in McKenzie were vacant. People had combined households with kin or friends for mutual protection; they preferred to share resources, security and heat. Having your “own place” wasn’t the advantage it’d once been. Privacy was a luxury nobody could afford.

In their downtime, the QRF went around town and tied yellow ribbons outside occupied homes, but they hadn’t been particularly systematic about the process. This side of town hadn’t yet been marked. They’d have to check every house’s front and rear yard, knock, then enter if there was no response.

After clearing just three homes, Mat decided to wake up the rest of the QRF. It was going to be a long night.

Before he could call it in, his team radio barked. “Sarge, we found ‘em. 421 Whittle Lane.”

Found them he’d said. That wasn’t good. “Do we need the medics?” asked Mat.

“No survivors.”

“Fuck,” Mat swore. “On our way.” Mat’s team of four broke into a jog toward Whittle Lane.

421 Whittle Lane was at the end a cul de sac. One of the QRF and two deputies stood outside with the horses.

“How many dead? Do we know who lives here?” Mat asked Deputy Wiggin who stood outside holding the reins of his horse.

“Five dead. Monroe and Davis families were here together, but…” The deputy went silent as Juan Cabrera’s QRF team exited the house. They stormed down the porch, gripping their ARs like pitchforks.

“Raiders,” Juan Cabrera seethed.

“Have you cleared the neighborhood?” Mat asked, business before fury.

“Yes. Only one other family—at the far end of the street.” Cabrera pointed.

“Who’s inside? Five dead?”

“Seven dead, actually. Kids too.” Cabrera agitated in the spare light of the overcast night. The “battle rattle” of his plate carrier jostled with pent-up ferocity. The heat of vengeance radiated off him like a pulsar. He had