Going Home

by A. American

  Thad executed the same maneuver at the next overpasses without incident. The miles were flying by. All he could think about was home—Anita and little Anthony and, of course, Momma. A couple of years ago, she got to the point she couldn’t live on her own anymore, so he moved her in with them. Anita didn’t work, so there was always someone home with her. Thad made enough driving his truck that his wife didn’t need to work. It made him feel good to provide for his family, sufficient that they lived comfortably and wanted for little.

  Rolling along, he was thinking of Anthony with his Erector Sets and Legos and other building toys. He was obsessed with them and built some of the most amazing things, especially for his age. At seven years old, he was damn smart. A big green sign told Thad that Irvine was ahead. It wasn’t so much a town as it was a place; there was a truck stop off the interstate there that he knew well. Thinking of it, he remembered there was a Wendy’s there. “Damn, I’d love a big hot ’n’ sweaty burger,” he said out loud to himself. The pass over the surface road came into view; even from this distance, he could tell someone was standing on it, at the peak. The eastern sky was getting brighter, bathing the road ahead in a soft light.

  The figure was too far away to really see, but there was definitely a person standing near the inside guardrail. Thad eased the truck over; the small figure rapidly increasing in size as he hurtled toward it. The figure was leaned against the concrete barricade, Thad saw him stand up and step out into the lane. Thad moved over into the emergency lane, trying to put some space between them. The man, whom he was now close enough to see, started waving his arms and stepped out into the right lane. Thad couldn’t move over any farther.

  Pressing the accelerator down, he white-knuckled the steering wheel, gritted his teeth, and started to move back out into the right lane. The man on the overpass flinched when the Chevy emblem on the hood lined up with his chest. He stopped waving and started to half run, half skip toward the left lane while still waving his arms. Thad blew past him and looked in the rear side mirror to see the guy kick the gravel and debris on the side of the road and then throw his hat on the ground with exaggerated force. Thad watched him standing there with his hands on his hips as he slowly disappeared in the mirror, watching the back of the truck as he sped away.

  Three miles later, about three minutes after passing the guy on the bridge, another overpass loomed. Checking it for any sign of people, he didn’t see anyone but still executed the standard maneuver for passing under one. This time, he went to the far right, on the shoulder. As he was passing under, he made his change to the left. What he hadn’t seen were the three men on the bridge. They were staying down below the tops of the concrete barricades, looking through the joints where they connected. There was a gap about an inch wide that allowed them to look down at the road. The other thing he didn’t notice was the CB antenna, connected to a CB sitting on the overpass. They had hauled a car battery up there to operate the radio and had received a call from the boys down at Irvine that a truck had just passed.

  They had hauled material up to the top of the overpass with a wheelbarrow—cinder blocks, bricks, and a logging chain. While they couldn’t be certain where the truck would come out, they compensated for it by dropping their deadly missiles in both lanes. Thad was just to the left of center of the left lane as he was coming out; he saw the block for an instant before it crashed through the windshield.

  • • •

  That little shed ended up being a good choice to sleep in. With no windows it was fairly dark, and I slept like a rock. When I woke up, I looked at my watch through sleepy eyes. It was 1:45. I lay there in the bag, warm and comfy and not wanting to get out. I’d like to have just stayed there, but I needed to get home. I finally rolled out of the bag and slipped on my boots, laced them up and put on my light coat. I decided to take advantage of the little spot and cook some breakfast. Using the canteen cup, I made the last of my oatmeal with some powdered milk and sugar. After cleaning it up, there wasn’t much water left. The Platypus bag was empty, along with the two-quart canteen. There was a little water in the one quart, and the stainless steel bottle was full, but that didn’t leave much. I needed to find more.

  With the change in our comm schedule I was to contact Sarge around three, so I had a little time. I packed up all my gear and decided to use the shed for one more thing. I dug a cat hole in one of the corners, just in case someone found their way in here, and left a very satisfying dump. I went out and took the panel off the roof, stowed it, and then hefted the pack; feeling good, I headed out looking for a tree to string the antenna in.

  Finding a nice tall pine, I dropped the pack, took out the slick line and antenna, and set the plastic-wrapped radio out. Ha, I got the line up to the top of the tree on the first throw and hoisted the antenna up. After unwrapping the radio and connecting the antenna, I checked the time, five minutes till three. I checked the notebook, tuned the radio and waited another couple of minutes. About five minutes later, I keyed the mic and made the call.

  “Walker to Foxtrot Sierra Mike.”

  Immediately there was a reply, “Foxtrot Sierra Mike, I have you five by five.”

  “Authenticate x-ray,” I replied.

  There was a pause. “Orange,” came the reply. The delayed response was a little unsettling.

  “Roger that, SITREP, en route to Hotel, SNAFU,” I replied.

  “Roger that. We’re mobile now. Will relay destination later. What’s your distance to Hotel?” he asked.

  “About forty miles. What’s your situation?” I asked.

  “TARFU. Foxtrot Sierra Mike out.”

  “Walker out,” I replied.

  I sat there thinking about those guys. I hoped they were all right. What in the hell would make them leave the house? I began to hear a helicopter again. It sounded like it was north of me. I quickly pulled the antenna down and packed up the radio. I don’t know what the helo was up to, but it seems to show up whenever I used the radio, and it didn’t take a rocket scientist to add those two up.

  It was still a couple of hours before it got dark, but I headed out anyway. I needed to find some water. Leaving the relative safety of the trees, I stepped back onto the little dirt trail. Standing there, I did a pretty quick survey to see if there were any tracks—same as before, just deer and other critters. Following the trail, it came out on an open field, and I turned to the left to follow it. Out in the field was a low spot and what looked like the top of a dock. Dock means water, but from where I was standing, I couldn’t tell.

  I decided to watch the field and surrounding area for a little while. Stepping off into the trees, I dropped my pack and took out the binos. Glassing the field and tree line behind it, there wasn’t a sign of anyone, but I had time. Making myself comfortable against a big pine, I figured I’d wait until almost dark before moving out into the open. The sun cut through the cover where I was sitting, and what little there was felt good on my face. I still heard the helo working an area behind me but sounding like it was making some wide orbits, and they were getting closer with each one.

  The binos were up to my face when it thundered directly overhead, going straight out into the field in front of me. It was a Kiowa Little Bird. When the pilot made a hard bank, I saw him. There were no doors on the ship, and he and his observer were looking down. I sat there still as stone, with my head turned down slightly so the bill of my hat would cover my face from their altitude. The helo made a wide loop and turned back the way it came, the sound slowly dying off. It felt like my heart was going to pound its way out of my chest, I heard my pulse in my ears. I was scared shitless; I didn’t know if they’re looking for me, but I sure didn’t want to find out.

  Sitting there trying to relax, letting my heart rate drop, there was a tickle on my neck. Reaching up with my left hand instinctively—fuck!—I slapped at my neck and saw something fall to the ground. I jumped up, knocked my hat off, tripped
over the carbine that was at my feet, and landed on my back. My hand was on fire; there was a small red dot in the fleshy part of my palm just below my index finger. Looking on the ground where I saw it fall, I found a damn scorpion almost three inches long. Florida has a lot of scorpions; most of them are small, but this one was huge. “You little bastard, if I was “Bear” Grylls, I’d eat your ass,” I said out loud. I settled for grinding him into the dirt and pine needles with the toe of my boot.

  Fortunately, the sting of the small scorpions in Florida feels worse than it actually is. Some people can have swelling in the affected area, but other than that, the sting isn’t too bad—hurts like hell, but that’s about it. I squeezed the little red spot. I don’t know why, but what else could I do?

  The sun was starting to go down, and I really needed water. Shouldering the pack, I headed out across the field to what looked like a dock. Just as I hoped, there was a small pond in the field with a dock on one side. Cautiously approaching the pond, I dropped the pack and took the filter and empty containers to the water’s edge. The pond sat in a small depression, so I wasn’t visible out here. However, I couldn’t see around the area either. The water in this little pond looked kind of strange. It was sort of a milky green color. Scooping a handful up, it looked clear in my hand, so it must have been the bottom. It was either lime rock or an old phosphate pit. At the moment, I didn’t care. I needed some water.

  It didn’t take long to get all the containers filled and everything stowed back in my pack. I was moving again about twenty minutes after stopping. Checking the compass, I headed out on the southeasterly track. The area was all scrub, broken up by the occasional swamp or bay head. Going around these to keep from walking through them took me on a route that resembled a drunken snake. I constantly had to verify my direction with the compass. Fortunately, there was zero sign of people out here, save the occasional dirt road, none of which ran the direction I wanted to go.

  Chapter 8

  After Morgan and his crew left, Mike and the guys sat down to brief Linus on what they knew. Their mission was to make contact with the sheriffs of Levy, Dixie, Columbia, Gilchrist, Lafayette, Taylor, and Marion counties. They were to do this without being detected by the locals. If they were compromised, they were to eliminate any witness to their presence. Once contact was made with the sheriffs, they were to determine their willingness to work with the federal authority, assess their needs, find a suitable location for advance bases of operation, and get them to relinquish their local autonomy to the incoming federal presence.

  Any sheriff that refused was to be noted and relayed back to the operations folks, where contingencies were being developed for dealing with them. They had been inserted close to shore in Levy County, in a very rural, sparsely inhabited area. After the briefing on their mission, before they even left for their insertion, the guys had decided they wanted no part of this. The talk of “contingencies” to deal with any sheriff that didn’t go along with the plan bothered them. Most folks do not realize the power the sheriff wielded. He or she was the supreme elected leader in the county. The sheriff’s money might come from the commission, but he or she was the Big Yamma Yamma.

  Once inserted, the guys proceeded with their mission as planned, with the exception that they laid out the fed’s plan to the sheriffs. Most of them had some colorful words for what the feds had planned. The only ones that were eager for the intervention of the feds were the sheriffs of Alachua and Marion. These two contiguous counties had rather liberal sheriffs. They were particularly excited about the prospect of disarming the citizenry of their respective counties and implementing the new “Aid Distribution Assistance Monitoring” plan, referred to as ADAM. The stated goal of the plan was to provide aid in the form of food, water, and clothing to those in need. The real intention was to remove any means of self-support from as many people as possible and make them completely dependent on federal aid to survive.

  This plan had been under way for many years, in various parts of the country, with varying degrees of success. This opportunity presented the perfect chance to catapult the plan downfield toward the ultimate goal. By a perceived fortuitous set of circumstances, an event of a magnitude the administration could only dream of fell in their lap, and they would be able to paint a certain segment of the society as the culprits. When the news of who did this reached the cold, hungry, scared people, their reaction should turn them right into the open waiting arms of the federal government. The only problem was the guns. The American people possessed enough guns to arm half the armies of the world, and those were just the ones the .gov crowd could account for. But there was a plan for that too.

  After the guys had made contact with the various sheriffs and knew who stood where, they decided to go rogue and help the other side. By informing the sheriffs that had their heads screwed on right, they won the support of them. By letting them know where some of their counterparts stood, they were able to help draw up a defensive plan for them. They had purposefully saved Dixie County for their last stop, knowing Sarge was there, and they could depend on him, so long as their reason was sound. If not, he would be the first to turn them in. After they laid everything out for him, Linus was pissed. He always suspected the shithead ’n chief would try something like this if given half a chance; well, now he had it.

  It was shortly after Morgan and his crew left that Ted spotted an observation post on the far side of the river from Sarge’s house. It was upriver near the bend on a high bank on the inside of the curve. They watched it for two days and, using their radio and encryption codes, were able to determine that they were under surveillance. They had identified their hide and had a count of three men. The situation became a point of contention as to what they needed to do about it. Sarge wanted to go out and kill the occupants; Mike and his guys weren’t on board. After all, they might know these guys, and they might not even know who they were watching.

  The plan that they developed was for Mike and Ted to go out and around them on this side of the river. They would cross the river upstream of the observation post and come at them from the rear. Ronnie and Sarge would keep their attention by having a barbecue on the deck, complete with plenty of beers to make ’em thirsty. The mission would be carried out at night to minimize any chance of accidental encounters with civilians.

  The plan was to find out who was there. If they were guys that Mike and Ted knew, they would try to persuade them to break off their mission and come with them. If they weren’t so inclined or were openly hostile, they would be neutralized. Ronnie had Sarge’s scoped M1A in the shed on the back of the property. The window in the rear of it faced the river and had been transformed into a sniper hide. When the guys were in position, they would key the mic on the handheld ham they had with them. Ronnie would go to the hide and offer cover for them.

  Mike and Ted each had a Taser in addition to their weapons. They carried these with them on their mission from the start as a way to deal with civilians if they were discovered. These would be used first if it came to it; live fire was the last resort. Using a game cart, they transported Linus’s canoe to a landing upstream and crossed over. After crossing the river, they approached the hide from the rear at an oblique angle. Once they were within sight, they observed the three men for a while. They didn’t recognize any of them. Their identity was revealed when they made a radio call to give a SITREP. The call sign they gave was for the DHS unit operating out of the same base they deployed from, Junkyard.

  None of the guys in their unit liked having the feds there. They completely segregated themselves from the troops, going so far as to have strung barbed wire and posted armed guards. None of the troops were allowed anywhere near them. It was a very uncomfortable situation; the tension of having two groups of highly trained and armed men in such close proximity to one another was dangerous.

  Once they determined these guys were from the wrong side of the tracks, they came up with a plan. One of
the three was in a sleeping bag, another was preparing food for himself, and the third man was on watch. They would get within range of the Tasers and hit the one on watch and the support man. The one in the bag would be dealt with in whatever manner the situation required.

  Mike keyed the mic twice on the handheld. The radio in the OP squawked twice, drawing the attention of the support man and the one on watch. They looked at one another, and then the support man went to the radio. Just then a rapid series of pops started coming from downriver. The one on watch pulled down his NVGs and started looking toward Sarge’s house. The second man had a headset on and was actively looking for the source of the transmission. “Firecrackers. They’re lighting firecrackers.” The one on watch said over his shoulder.

  With these two distracted, Ted and Mike moved the last couple of yards, a Taser in one hand and a suppressed 1911 in the other. They fired the Tasers almost in unison, both finding their mark. The two men went rigid, the support man falling over on the one in the bag. The sudden impact caused the one inside to cuss and try to fight his way out of the bag. When his head popped out, he was looking into the suppressor of Mike’s pistol. The five seconds timed out, and the Tasers released their victims. Both of them released the triggers and pressed them again, sending the stricken men on another five-second lightning ride.

  • • •

  Thad instinctively jerked the wheel hard to the left. The block struck the top of the windshield at the roof line. Half of it crashed through the glass and landed on the bench seat, tearing a huge hole in it. The other half bounced over the roof into the bed. Thad slammed on the brakes in response to the impact. The windshield was spider-cracked across its full length. The truck went into a skid, the rear coming around on the left. Being a truck driver, Thad knew how to counter it; letting off the brake, he steered into the skid. This straightened the truck, and he floored the pedal again. The driver’s window was open; he stuck his big arm out, giving whoever dropped the block the international peace sign. They responded by taking a couple of shots at him.