Black Autumn: A Post Apocalyptic Saga

by Jeff Kirkham

  But a defensive perimeter was tougher to maintain than people thought. After about ninety minutes of guard duty, most men became combat-ineffective. Maybe the ADHD generation was to blame, but one couldn’t expect a military trained guard to remain combat-effective past an hour and a half. Without two men on guard at each post, there would be no way to ensure one guy wasn’t sleeping. With civilian guards, it would be even harder.

  Maybe the cops had already tried to maintain a perimeter and they had given up. More likely, they had pulled back to some central location in the warehouse and were sitting around playing cards, not expecting an armed incursion.

  Even at low levels of readiness, sixty armed men weren’t going down without a fight. Chad would have to come up with something clever.

  Armed with an M4 they had purloined, Chad peeked in one of the doors. A steel door, way out on the end of the fat “L,” had been left unlocked. The industrial door didn’t actually have a manual lock. It appeared to lock automatically by magnetic solenoid. Since the grid power was out, the doors must have defaulted to locking open. Chad couldn’t imagine why. Maybe Walmart’s legal department was more worried about not locking people inside in an emergency than they were worried about locking thieves out.

  Chad slipped inside, closing the door softly. Inside, everything was dead dark, and it took a minute for his eyes to adjust.

  As he began to make out shapes, nothing made sense. He had expected to find big racks stacked with pallets, like a Costco on steroids. Instead, all he saw was level after level of rolling conveyor belt, winding through the warehouse like ribbon pasta, intersecting here and there with junctions under robot arms as tall as backhoes. The place smelled like putrid fruit mixed with rotting meat.

  The layout reminded Chad of illustrations of the “Cities of Tomorrow” that he saw in his Grandpa’s old Popular Science magazines, as though some ambitious city planner had stacked a dozen miniature gleaming California freeways on top of one another in mid-air.

  The more he saw, the more he deduced that he had walked into an ultra-modern sorting and shipping facility. Many of the boxes were open, filled with fruit, rotting seafood and Saran-wrapped meat and vegetables. Apparently, the robotic arms would grab boxes and add them to pallets. Then, robotic pallet jacks would run the pallets out to semi-trailers at the bay doors.

  All of the bay doors were closed, though, and it looked like the place had halted instantly when the power went out. There was no way this much machinery could run off generators.

  It wasn’t clear to Chad how to walk through the jumble of conveyors, so he stuck to the outside wall. At least staying to the outside, he would only have a one-hundred-eighty-degree threat area. If he walked through the middle of the jumbled processing floor, he would have to pay attention to a three-hundred-sixty-degree area with hundreds of blind spots.

  Chad stalked down the entire arm of the “L” without seeing or hearing a soul. By the time he reached the bottom corner, he figured it out; this arm of the building was dedicated to shipping and receiving perishables. After more than a week without power, it was obvious why nobody guarded the area; it smelled like the south end of a northbound hog.

  As he turned the corner on the other arm of the building, Chad heard voices. This other half of the distribution center made a little more sense. Like the other arm, there were tracks, trolleys and robots going every which way. But here, the place was packed with three-story racks holding pallets and boxes.

  The nasty smell began to abate, so Chad figured this for the dry storage area. All these boxes probably held canned food, cereals and other dry goods. After ten days playing Road Warrior, the warehouse looked like post-Apocalyptic Fort Knox. Anyone holding the distribution center would be rich like Rockefeller. If Chad didn’t have friends waiting for him in Salt Lake, he might consider holding onto this place for himself.

  Based on the voices—laughing and joking—Chad could tell the inhabitants weren’t on high alert. He thought about it for a second. Based on the parking lot, he guessed that people would be cycling in and out from Rock Springs, doing guard duty, then heading home. Maybe the truckers were camping here full time, but the citizens and police officers would likely rotate between the town and the distribution center. If he was right about that, a stranger in their midst might not raise an alarm.

  Chad noticed a Carharts coat hanging on one of the robot arms. He slung his rifle around to his back and cinched down his two-point sling, pulling the rifle tight against his lower back. With the bulky coat, he might get away with concealing both his rifle and his handgun.

  The trick, Chad had learned, was the walk. If you convinced yourself that you belonged there, everyone else would be convinced, too. Chad strode across the lanes of racking at a casual gait, looking straight ahead. Right away, he noticed someone at the far end of a row and gave him an insouciant wave. The stranger waved back.

  Chad made a full loop around the outer ring of the dry goods warehouse. Five people noticed him and none thought anything of it. When he returned to his starting place, he shucked the jacket and hung it exactly where it had been. With his recon complete, he headed back into the nasty-smelling section and worked his way back to the door where he’d entered.

  What he had seen didn’t surprise him―human nature on display. Laziness always defeated vigilance and, once a person settled into a routine, it was hard for him to imagine anything interrupting it.

  Chad chuckled to himself when he realized that was precisely what had happened to America. The country hadn’t experienced an economic collapse in living memory. Almost everyone who had seen the Great Depression had died. Consequently, the rest of the country assumed it couldn’t possibly happen because things in their lives had always been okay.

  To take the distribution center with a minimum of bloodshed, Chad would exploit that same trick of human psychology. He would take advantage of people’s tendency to ignore threats they had never personally seen.

  Now outside and heading back the way he’d come, Chad jogged clear of the distribution center, using the natural hills and draws to get back to his cowboy companion without being seen.

  “How’d it go?” the boy asked Chad.

  “Good. Do you guys have a country western band in Rawlins?”

  • • •

  Ross Homestead

  Oakwood, Utah

  “I’m telling you right now, that’s NEVER going to happen.” Alena and Robert stood facing each other, a hundred yards into the forest, arguing.

  Robert stared at her for a minute, gathering himself. “Honey. I love you, but this is something I’ve got to do.”

  Alena didn’t consider herself argumentative. Powerful, yes. Opinionated, probably. But, in the last week since the world started going crazy, she had raised her voice an awful lot. She didn’t like being that woman, but now wasn’t the time to back down.

  “There’s plenty that needs to be done around here. You don’t need to become one of those gun-toting idiots.” Alena dropped her voice at that last part, not wanting to offend anyone who might be passing by. Almost every one of the men here carried a firearm. Some carried several.

  “Alena, it’s not about guns. It’s about protecting my family and doing my part. I’m not going to do it your way this time, so you need to get okay with that. I start training tomorrow.”

  “The hell you are. You do that and I’ll leave you.” Her eyes brimmed over with tears.

  Robert smiled.

  “Why are you laughing?” she demanded.

  “I’m sorry, sweetheart, I’m sorry. It’s just… look at the world. Nobody’s leaving anybody right now. We’re in this together for the duration, whether we like it or not.”

  Alena tried another tact. “You’re not going to become a henchman for that Kirkham person. Just look at his eyes! He’s borderline evil. They killed more men today; did you hear? And they were probably all Hispanic. We’re NOT that kind of people, Robert. We stand for justice in the world, not g
unning people down because they’re different than us or because they’re hungry. That’s not us, Robert!”

  “Believe me, sweetheart, I’ve had those same thoughts. But, when it comes down to it, no matter what you or anyone else says, I’m a father and a husband. I have a duty.”

  “To hell with your duty!” Alena screamed. “You could die! You don’t know anything about guns.”

  “That doesn’t matter. And I know more about guns than you think. I’m in the Army, for gosh sakes, Alena. This is something I have to do. Look at me.” She gathered herself, sensing defeat. “I won’t die. Okay?”

  She leaned into him, sobbing.

  “Don’t die. Please. Don’t die.”

  “Honey, it’s just guard duty. Just a precaution. Everyone needs to do their part. I’ll be careful.”

  12

  [Collapse Plus Eleven - Saturday, Sept. 30th]

  Shortwave Radio 7150kHz 1:00am CST

  “THIS IS JT TAYLOR. ALCOHOLIC of the Apocalypse… Drinkin’ Bro and Lover Divine… broadcasting from a SINGCARS Humvee, telling the story they don’t want told, the reality of the shit sandwich we once called America.

  “I haven’t heard from our Drinking Bros stationed in Europe, which could just be because of the clouds today…. we’re praying for our armed forces inside of Europe, where ISIS is somehow on a bizarre winning streak. If you’re wondering WTF, then join the club.

  “I just got a call from North Dakota. Sounds like the Air Force base there just closed up shop. The commander poured a bunch of concrete down his missile silos and sent everyone home. Sounds like they ran out of MREs.

  “My trailer’s getting low on drinking water―thanks to the boys in Scottsdale for the re-supply of Leadslingers Whiskey. Guess I could just switch to whiskey in my Cheerios. So I’m roving around Northern Arizona. If there are any Drinkin’ Bros out this way who are still down to party hearty, ring me back on the 49 meter band, 6000kHz, right on the nose…”

  Salt Lake County Fairgrounds

  Salt Lake City, Utah

  The last two days had been a horror show for Gabriel. All of the bravado, all of the Mexican patriotism, all of the glory of running people out of their homes… all of it smacked of nefarious bullshit to him.

  The only thing Gabriel hated more than hypocrisy was disloyalty, and he wasn’t about to be disloyal to Francisco, so he kept his mouth shut.

  Somewhere in the back of his mind, a voice told him he had suffered trauma with the murder of his abuelita and the homeless man, and his thoughts couldn’t be trusted.

  He kept reliving the moment when he had put the rifle to the homeless man’s chest and shot him, leaving dirty starbursts on the man’s shirt. He kept seeing those starbursts with a black hole in the middle. No blood, just a black hole.

  How strange, not to trust his own mind. Gabriel knew his brain could be affected by things outside his control, even chemicals produced by his own body. Without a doubt, his sister turned into a hag once a month, and hormones definitely accounted for that. Could the same be said of Gabriel? Could trauma warp his mind, leading him down mental paths that weren’t entirely sane?

  But if he couldn’t trust his own mind, what could he trust?

  For now, he would keep his head down. He would do what his brother asked and he wouldn’t draw attention to himself.

  They had returned to Rose Park, to the fairgrounds where thousands of Latinos had gathered, called by his brother’s gang to unite for a grand Hispanic cause. Gabriel wondered, especially after their defeat and narrow escape from the Avenues, how could so many people believe in this insanity? How could anyone think getting behind a gang like Los Latigos would result in a righteous outcome? Gabriel knew enough about government to know there wasn’t an ounce of legitimacy in what his brother and his gang of criminals were attempting.

  “Gabe. Ven acá,” Francisco called him up to the front of the recreational vehicle.

  As soon as they had returned from the Avenues, Francisco and his men had “borrowed” many of the RVs in the KOA next door to the fairgrounds. Of course, Francisco and his family got the best―two forty-five-foot luxury motor coaches with automated lighting, satellite TV, automated curtains and a whisper-quiet generator. The RVs were far nicer than their home in Rose Park. Their mama complained about them being “too fancy” for her.

  Francisco spread his Salt Lake roadmap on the marble dining table attached to the wall of the RV. His top lieutenants, Crudo and Kermit, leaned over the map, listening intently.

  “I want you to hear this too, hermano,” Francisco said.

  Gabriel joined the men over the map.

  “Let’s look at our options,” Francisco said. “Option One: we can stay here at the fairgrounds.” Crudo nodded his head, obviously favoring Option One.

  “The problem with staying here,” Francisco continued, “is that we will run out of stuff. We’ll be raiding for food in our own neighborhoods. We might be able to take down the Mormon food storehouse over on 800 South, but I don’t think we’re ready to go up against the Mormon army again. Let’s not hit the Mormons until we’re ready.”

  The defeat at the Avenues and yanking their families out of those homes had been embarrassing enough, Gabe thought to himself.

  “We need someplace rich, but easy. We can hit the mansions at the south end of the valley, but that’s a long way to travel. A lot can happen in ten miles and our supply lines would be strung out. We’d have to move everyone down south, maybe down by the prison.

  “Or, we could hit Olympus Cove, here.” Francisco pointed to the map, since his guys wouldn’t know where “The Cove” was; it was another white enclave. “But attacking there will stretch us thin, too, and we’d be moving past the Mormon troops we ran into yesterday.”

  “Or we can go north. There are a lot of rich neighborhoods here, here and here.” Francisco poked several locations against the mountain on the map. “These are neighborhoods full of little mansions. That might work for us because, with our backs against the mountains, the Mormons could only hit us from one direction. To chase us, they’d have to leave their temple and come after us.”

  “Pancho,” Crudo interrupted, “the men we sent up Tellers Canyon yesterday… they haven’t returned.” This was news to Francisco, and he raised his eyebrows, waiting for details.

  “They radioed yesterday afternoon, saying they were fighting men with guns. But they never called back. Either they’re stuck in the canyon or they got popped.”

  Francisco stopped to think. To Gabriel, it sounded like heading into those mountain neighborhoods could be trouble. Still, he said nothing.

  “Tellers Canyon is too far from these wealthy homes for these neighborhoods to have played a part in whatever happened to our men.” Francisco pointed at Oakwood on the map, not knowing that he’d placed his finger exactly on top of the Homestead. “And look, we have a direct route.” He sketched a line down the frontage road of the freeway and Valley Vista Drive as it climbed up the hill.

  Gabriel finally spoke up. “Can I scout that area first? Before we do anything?”

  Francisco smiled and put his arm around his brother’s shoulders, shaking him playfully. “Good idea, hermanito.”

  • • •

  The freeways reminded Gabriel of cholesterol, like the cars had passed through smaller and smaller gaps until the freeway was completely blocked. There were long stretches of wide-open road, and then the freeway suddenly clogged wall to wall with cars.

  Most of the city streets weren’t jammed with cars, though. Gasoline had disappeared quickly, with no way to refill gas tanks. Almost nobody drove. The effect was more like a ghost town than a traffic jam. Driving through town became eerie, with people staring warily from roadside camps or peeking from behind closed curtains.

  Francisco insisted that Gabriel take at least two of his foot soldiers. The more men who accompanied him, Gabriel figured, the more conspicuous he would appear. His plan was to drive around the Oakwood neighborhood
s and get an idea of the defenses, then return to the fairgrounds. With three Latino guys, they would look suspicious, especially in a car.

  His plan changed as soon as Gabriel saw a military-style barricade exactly where Francisco wanted to make entry into the Oakwood neighborhood. Gabriel drove straight past the barricade. He turned up a residential street, looking for a way into the neighborhood. Every street led him invariably up the hill and into another barricade.

  Gabriel started getting nervous. All the barricades were manned, and all the men had radios. Eventually a guard would report their car and they would be pegged as suspicious. After turning around four times, Gabriel decided to head back to the biggest barricade off the frontage road, Valley Vista Boulevard. Neither of Francisco’s soldiers objected. Apparently, they were serving as body guards, not supervisors.

  Stopping several blocks back, Gabriel and the two men walked to the roadblock. There wouldn’t be much risk of being noticed, since a tent city surrounded the barricade. People lived in their cars, in tents and on the pavement by the hundreds. Gabriel got the impression they were waiting for handouts, waiting for work, or maybe just waiting for someone to let them inside.

  Gabriel asked his brother’s foot soldiers to back off, and he made his way to the front of the tent city. The refugee tents radiated out from a big army tent. Uniformed men in camouflage stood behind the barricade and in gun emplacements overlooking the road. A large sign hung on the side of the tent offering work for tradesmen. A line had formed, presumably to apply for work. Gabriel stepped into the line.

  Looking around, he reached two conclusions. First, the families on the hill had organized. They were armed and coordinated beyond anything he had seen since the power went out, even better than the Mormon army. It seemed very possible the group was aligned with the army, though Gabriel saw no military vehicles.