by Lopez, Rob
“Where’s everybody else?” Rick asked Doug.
Doug sat on a log by the fire, tired from the climb. “Oh, they’re about somewhere,” he said, waving carelessly. “Gathering and stuff.”
Rick scanned the empty slopes. Visibility was good, and it would have been hard for anyone to approach the settlement unseen. Nevertheless, he kept his hand on his rifle and the safety off. He glanced at the men around the fire, and they glanced warily back.
“Many of you here?” said Rick to Doug, who seemed quite relaxed.
“No,” said Doug. “It’s been tough. A lot of people in the town got sick and died even before the winter. We had some kind of epidemic and there was nothing we could do for them once the drugs ran out. Doc Johnson and his nursing staff went down pretty early. We were burying people everyday. The snow came and things got real hard. It was a bad winter. Refugees came in off the interstate and pretty much ate everything they could find before moving on to Asheville. I don’t imagine many of them made it, but there wasn’t much else we could do for them. The worse thing was the scavenger gangs, though. They came in and robbed a lot of people, and we lost a few who tried to fight back. A big group of them camped up at Round Knob and claimed hunting rights over the surrounding mountains. Said they’d kill any trespassers. They even claimed the coal train that’s stranded on the line just outside of town. Shot our police chief in a battle over at Mill Creek for it. We lost a lot of people in that fight. After that, the gang came and took every running vehicle we still had, and those of us that survived abandoned the town and came up onto the mountain. That gang still gives us trouble. They control this area now. We tried to get help from the town of Black Mountain to the west, or Marion in the east, but they said they had their own problems. They wouldn’t take us in, either, so we’re stuck here in the middle, with no way of defending ourselves. But now you’re here, all tooled up and ready to rock. If you could stick around, maybe the gang will leave us alone. We’ll offer you whatever you want.”
Rick didn’t see that they had anything to offer. “We didn’t come to fight someone else’s battle,” he said. “We’re not for hire.”
“But we’re hiring. You’re military, right? That gang might not mess with you the same they did us.”
“We’re not all fighters. We’ve got children and a woman who’s pregnant. We’re looking for some place that’s safe for them.”
“But that’s the thing,” said Doug. “There is no safe place. Where can you go? Marion won’t take you, and they won’t let you into Black Mountain. There’s militias everywhere, and if you go into the mountains, you’ll just meet that gang anyway. Or some other. The coves are full of them. All we ask is that you stay. Maybe we can start our own militia,” added Doug brightly.
“Why haven’t you?”
Doug turned to one of the guys by the fire. The guy held his hand up – there was a finger missing.
“They disarmed us,” said the guy bitterly. “They took my trigger finger for not surrendering my weapon to them. At least they let me live. Others who tried to fight, or who didn’t give them what they wanted, were shot dead where they stood. Or worse.”
“They’ve been getting more savage,” said Doug. “Dragged poor old McClinsky behind one of their trucks after he bad-mouthed one of them.”
“How big is this gang?” asked Rick.
“Don’t rightly know. They tend to come in groups of eight, but it’s not always the same faces. I’ve heard estimates of everything from fifteen to fifty. But they’re cowards. They chose us because we’re easy targets. Now, with a fella like yourself, they might not be so confident. We can go back into the town and fortify it like the folks at Marion did.”
“Where does the gang live?”
“Round Knob. It’s kind of a holiday retreat in the mountains with a big lodge on a hill. You should see it. It’s like a castle.”
“If you’re hiring,” called out Scott from his position, “what are you offering?”
Doug looked to the others to see if he had their unanimous agreement to state their terms. It didn’t appear that he had, but he continued anyway.
“It might look like we ain’t got much,” he told Rick, “but we keep it that way so we don’t attract more attention. But we got resources we might be willing to share. We can make it worth your while.”
“I don’t work that way,” said Rick. “We’re not mercenaries.”
“But …”
“Forget it. We’ll stay the night in the town, then decide what we’ll do. I have to think of what’s best for my family and the people in my group.”
“If you know what’s good for you,” said the man with the missing finger, “you’ll turn right on around and go back the way you came. There ain’t nothing in these mountains but misery.”
*
Walking back to the town, Rick turned to Scott. “What were you trying to pull back there?”
Scott shrugged. “I just wanted to see what they’d got. Packy’s right. People have got more than they’re willing to admit. There’s no way they survived through the winter in those shacks without something that could keep them alive.”
“Maybe, but I liked it better when you played bad cop. I don’t want to give these people ideas, and tactically, they’re not in a good situation. I’ve got my doubts about joining them.”
“What do you make of their talk of the raiders?”
“If half of what Doug said is true, the raiders are more capable than he gives them credit for. It sounds like they picked a better strategic location than here, and they secured their resources and eliminated any threats. They won’t take kindly to us pitching up on their doorstep, and I didn’t come this far just to hide in some crappy shack in the woods.”
“Got any ideas for where we go next?”
“Not yet.”
*
On the small west hill that overlooked the town, they found two mobile homes hidden behind trees and accessed by a steep winding road. The homes had no running water and no old stove, but they were better than pitching the tents. They set up two camouflaged OPs to watch the roads below, dug a fire pit and latrine holes, and sent out one heavily armed scavenging party led by Scott. Rick stayed in camp, giving himself time to think and staring at the map.
He didn’t like any of his choices. Feeling hemmed in, he went through the options, discounting each one in turn until he was back to where he started. He had no illusions about how difficult it would be to head deeper into the mountains. The best retreats were likely already taken, and the higher altitude micro-climate up there made long-term survival difficult. They also ran the risk of being easily ambushed on the narrow roads.
Scott’s group returned empty-handed, and as the sun went down, Rick patrolled the perimeter, still thinking. In the distance he caught the sound of a vehicle, its engine laboring as it negotiated some steep track. In the clear air of dusk, the sound carried easily, even though it was probably miles away.
It seemed folly to try and stay hidden when it was obvious the land around them wasn’t as empty as it looked.
9
Connors’ convoy crawled its way across western North Carolina. At Gastonia he deployed flank guards and made it through with few problems, shooting three looters and dismantling a roadblock to get the vehicles through. From there, it was a slow and depressing march along Highway 74, with the biggest issue being the old vehicles that kept breaking down. Two jalopies were abandoned at the roadside, and the remaining vehicles were burdened further. A few shots were directed at them from towns and heavily wooded areas that they passed, but Connors had plenty of firepower at his disposal, and the snipers they located were either suppressed or put to flight. The convoy continued on its laborious way until it reached the town of Fairview.
Connors saw the roadblock in the distance at the top of a rise, spanning all four lanes of the highway, and halted the convoy. Through his binoculars, he counted four or five figures manning the obstacle. Dead traffi
c lights hung on a slack cable over the roadblock, and signs from the nearby gas station had been taken to serve as facings for the barricade, enhancing its visibility.
“They really don’t want anyone coming through their town,” mused Connors, lowering the binoculars. He turned in his saddle, eyeing some abandoned houses at the top of an embankment by the highway. “Get a sniper up there,” he ordered to his men, “and set the mortar up.”
“Should we get everyone out of the vehicles?” asked a soldier.
“No, this shouldn’t take long. Just wait for my signal.”
Clicking his tongue, he ordered his horse on, its worn shoes clomping on the pavement. Upright in his saddle, he rode slowly until he was halted by a shout from the roadblock.
“That’s as far as you come,” called a guard with a rifle.
Connors shouted back: “My name is Major Connors, U.S. Army special command. I am escorting the state government to Asheville, and you are obstructing a state highway. You are ordered to dismantle your roadblock and let us through.”
“I don’t care who you say you are,” replied the guard. “That ain’t no army convoy, and this road’s closed. Find another.”
“Sir, I’m giving you an order. Remove the obstruction and let us through.”
“We don’t take refugees. You gotta find someplace else.”
Connors turned his horse around and rode slowly back until he was about halfway between the roadblock and the convoy. Then he raised his hand.
Back by the tractor, a round was dropped down the mortar tube and launched with a hollow thump. Perfectly ranged, the mortar bomb whistled over Connors’ head and impacted a few yards in front of the roadblock. The explosion sent a shockwave that swung the traffic lights, and the guards ducked as grit and chunks of concrete pattered down around them.
Connors’ horse flinched and skittered sideways at the sound, and Connors reached down to caress its neck. “Easy, now,” he whispered. Pulling on the reins, he turned her around and made his slow way back toward the roadblock.
The guards were in shock, struggling to comprehend what had just happened. Connors rode calmly toward them, and the guard who’d first challenged him raised his rifle. A crack rang out from the houses on the embankment, and a fifty-caliber sniper round punched the guard in the chest and carried on straight through him, blowing his entrails and spine in a wide spray across the pavement. A second guard tried to level his shotgun and was forced to duck as automatic fire peppered the barricade. When he lifted his head again, it was taken off by the sniper’s second shot, leaving just a puff of red mist above his sagging shoulders. A third guard, not liking what he saw, took off without looking back. Unperturbed, Connors approached the roadblock, seeing a fourth guard cowering behind it.
“I just want to make it clear,” Connors told him. “That was a warning. You’re obstructing the passage of government, and that I cannot allow. Give me your rifle.”
The guard’s rifle had fallen when he’d taken cover, and it was now lying in blood.
“You’re going to shoot me,” said the guard.
“Only if you do something stupid. Just pass me the rifle.”
Delicately, the guard picked up the rifle and offered it up, keeping his head low. Connors leaned down from the saddle to take it.
“This is an automatic rifle. Are you a serving national guardsman?”
“No.”
“Then it’s illegal for you to have this. Where did you get it?”
“Uhh, I don’t know.”
“Sir, I’m sure you do know, but fortunately for you I don’t have the time right now to pursue this further. Too many of these have been taken from armories, and they’re getting into the wrong hands. The law is still in place. You can’t just do what the hell you like and arm yourself with whatever you want. What kind of crazy place would this be if we simply let that stand?”
The guard stared at him, unsure what to say.
“Exactly,” said Connors. “We need some order, and by God, I aim to bring it. I’m confiscating this weapon. You run on back into town and tell everyone that this is an official government convoy. Any attempt to obstruct its passage will be met with deadly force. This is America, not some sandbox hellhole. When I come back here, I want to find a duly elected representative and a list of men and women willing and able to serve in the state militia.” Connors brandished the rifle. “Then, and only then, will they be allowed this rifle. In the service of something greater than themselves. You hear what I’m saying?”
The guard nodded uncertainly.
“Okay,” said Connors. “We’re on the same page. You can go.”
The barricade was dismantled and the convoy drove through, with Connors riding imperiously at its head. Clearing the town, they made their way up the eight miles of highway to Asheville, reaching the intersection with I-40 and passing under it. The hills rose up all around, and they saw crude shelters clustered under every bridge, but no sign of whoever the inhabitants might have been. Pushing on, they passed dilapidated shanty towns constructed on the highway embankment, and vehicles that looked as if people had been living in them for a while, but again, like the bridge shelters, they stood empty, mute reminders of the pre-winter refugee exodus. Few clues remained as to where they might have gone since, but it didn’t take a genius to guess that most of them probably weren’t around anymore. Two miles farther on, however, they caught sight of a more substantial scratch-built construction.
Built on the main bridge over Highway 70 and blocking their route into Asheville was what appeared to be a log fort. Sandbags reinforced the base of the log wall, and rifle barrels poked out of firing holes. An American flag flew from a pole above the fort.
“At last,” said Connors, lowering his binoculars. “Some sign of organization.”
Dismounting, he left his horse with his squad and walked back to the convoy, leaning in through the open window of an old Buick to address Jeffries.
“Showtime,” he said.
Jeffries got out, attempting to smooth out the wrinkles in his pants. It was Connors’ idea that he dress in his old suit in the hope of acquiring some gravitas, but the unpressed pants and jacket gave Jeffries the look of a hobo from an old movie. Apprehensively, the acting-governor looked toward the fort. “This won’t be the same as the last roadblock, will it?” he asked.
“Maybe, maybe not,” said Connors casually. “You just stick with me and we’ll see how we do.”
“Perhaps I should wait here while you check it out.”
“Grow a backbone, Jeffries. If you want to run this state, you need to lead by example.”
“I’m a lawyer by trade, not a soldier.”
“You’ll never get to practice your trade again if we don’t restore the law to its rightful place, and that starts here, with you and me walking side by side as equals. The citizen soldier and the people’s lawmaker, just as the founding fathers intended. John Adams and Thomas Jefferson were both lawyers. You’ve got to walk in their shoes, now.”
“Those are mighty big shoes.”
“Then you’d better start filling them. Stay by me, walk tall and don’t make any sudden moves.”
The late sun cast long shadows as they walked. In the far distance, snow shone on the peak of Mount Mitchell, and the wisps of cloud that crowned it glowed red. The rifle barrels in the firing ports tracked Connors and Jeffries as they drew closer. A figure in camo gear and body armor appeared at the top of the log wall.
“Halt and identify yourself,” he called.
Connors complied with the order and called back, “Major Connors, U.S. Army special command. And this is Mr. Jeffries, acting governor of the state of North Carolina. And who might you be?”
The figure, not used to receiving distinguished guests, hesitated. “Corporal Parson, NC National Guard, FMC No. 1.”
“Field Maintenance, huh? Well, Corporal Parson, this gentleman here is your commander-in-chief, and he’d like to see your boss, if you have one.�
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The corporal narrowed his eyes as he sized them up. “That’s a nice story, sir. Do you have any ID to back it up?”
“I surely do.”
Connors and Jeffries stepped up to the wall to present their biometric cards and accompanying papers, passing them into a firing port as a rifle barrel was withdrawn. The corporal climbed down from the wall and took their IDs. While he was reading them, Connors examined the fortifications. The wall looked a little more rickety, close up, with numerous gaps between the uneven timbers. Bullet strikes in the wood showed that the fort was no stranger to confrontation.
“This kind of stuff can be picked up anywhere now,” said Parson. “I’m going to need a little more before I waste anyone’s time with this.”
Connors nodded approvingly. “Good answer. Well, the commander of your battalion is Colonel Reese, and if you’re old enough to have been deployed in Iraq, you’d have been stationed in Habbaniyah, because that’s where I met the good colonel, all those miles from home.”
There was a pause. “Habbaniyah. Jeez, that was a shithole. Were you a close friend of the colonel?”
“Not really. We only talked because it was interesting to meet someone from our home state.”
“That’s okay then, because he’s dead.”
“Sorry to hear that. What happened?”
“No clue. Simply got told he wasn’t in command anymore because he was being tipped into a mass grave along with a bunch of others. He probably took sick. It got so that you couldn’t keep up with who was alive and who wasn’t. I stopped taking numbers after a while.”
“Yeah, we had kind of the same experience. Who’s in charge of the city now?”
“That would be County Director Moresby.”
“Is he any good?”
“I wouldn’t like to say, sir.”