Free First Wave (The Travis Combs Post-Apocalypse Thrillers) by JT Sawyer Page B

holes out pretty good. I’ve drank from such sources for years. Now, if
these had been sitting a few days and were filled with animal shit and bugs,
then I’d rethink that,” he said sitting back. “We oughta save our remaining
iodine tablets for less than desirable waterholes. Besides, there’s no cure for
death from dehydration that I know of, so find a water pocket and start
gulping—just remember to grit your teeth to strain out the big stuff,” Travis
said with a half-smile as he resumed drinking.
    “Whatever you say boss,” said LB.
    ‘Boss’, that was a term I hadn’t heard
in a while and had hoped to not have in my next job title.
    The rest of the group began stirring from their tree-bound
cocoons. Travis went back and sat down by his gear to do a quick inventory. The
food was gone, water bottles empty, and everything else was caked with sand. He
sat down and pulled out his pistol and began field-stripping it to remove any
grit wedged inside. Afterwards, he cleaned the mags as best he could with a
bandanna and then commenced cleaning the filthy lever action rifle. Unlike the
Glock, it was a fickle weapon when it came to maintenance. His mind ran back to
a mission he had done in northern Afghanistan with a small contingent of
Uzbekis, his unit had trained. He recalled an old Uzbeki man, after one battle,
field-stripping his Glock and cleaning it with the powdery, grey dirt at his
feet. Some weapons and some people are just made to keep on going no matter
what the day throws at ‘em.
    LB sat down next to him and began dismantling his 1911
pistol. In a series of flowing actions, the man detached the magazine, emptied
the chamber and removed the slide. Travis handed him the bandanna and then
began reassembling his own weapons.
    Pete came up and stood beside the two men letting
out an overdue yawn and wiggling the sand out of his right ear.
    “Doesn’t that look like Picacho Butte over there?”
said Travis pointing to a large conical rock jutting out of the ground.
    “Sure does. That would put us about twenty-five
miles southwest of the town of Ashfork,” replied Pete, as he sauntered over to
a waterhole and swigged down some water. He stood up and wiped the droplets
from his scruffy blonde chin and paused for a minute, squinting into the
distance. “Do you see that reflection out there? There’s something moving a few
miles away.”
    Travis and LB put their weapons aside and began
scanning the area two miles up. They noticed what looked like a long, metallic
ribbon coasting towards the east on what appeared to be the interstate. Travis
reached back and grabbed the binoculars from his pack. After quickly dusting
them off, he glassed the horizon. “Looks like a convoy of trucks and choppers,”
he said. Travis scanned towards the direction from where the riders had just
come and saw a single plume of black smoke in what looked like a house near the
highway.
    “Do you think these guys are connected with the
people at the hotel?” said LB.
    “Maybe. Who knows? This looks like a well-organized
gang who’ve been surviving on the road quite nicely. Question is- where are
they based?”
    The convoy continued east until they were out of Travis’s
range. “I imagine the world is now divided up into those who simply want to live
and those who live to kill,” he said, placing the binos atop his pack.
    Jim was curled in a fetal position under a nearby
juniper still sleeping. Becka, who had slept in between Katy and Evelyn, was
sitting up while Evelyn was gently brushing her fingers through the girl’s hair
trying to untangle the bunched up strands.
    “LB, can you rouse everyone and have them gather
around,” said Travis.
    “Sure thing,” said LB who walked over to the three
ladies first.
    Travis stood next to Pete. “It looks like there’s a
pretty good-sized canyon about three miles south of here. My thought is, we
head there and set up camp for a few days to rest, hydrate, and do some
trapping, as