Echoes of Family Lost

by Clayton Barnett

  “Lord, just how many are you?” Asked Leslie.

  “Excluding mine, sixteen. They wanted to bring more, but I wasn’t comfortable with that,” Fricker radioed back.

  As they sped up to thirty-five miles per hour, Leslie asked, “Who’s ‘they,’ if you don’t mind me prying?”

  “It’s not for me to…hang on.” He saw Fricker still talking, so obviously he’d been called from somewhere in his entourage. No, he wasn’t just talking, he was arguing. Leslie saw him pound the top of his AFV. Fricker looked over.

  “Change of plans,” he said with anger in his voice. “My employer – my civilian employer – has asked that we overnight in Bardstown. Does your offer still stand?”

  Leslie had to smile at the ‘civilian’ comment. “Sure does. Do we need to put you up, or…?”

  He saw Fricker shake his head. “Nope. Just give us a bivouac and we’re good.”

  Leslie thought about that. Don’t particularly want them in town…and he did say they’re headed towards Danville. Ah.

  “Only the best for you, Adam!” He radioed. “I’ll take you to the Country Club south of town. Hope you brought your clubs!”

  Fricker laughed back at him. “Damn! I left them in my other tank!”

  By Noon Fricker’s force had established their laager at the unused golf course: transports in the middle, with his vehicles around them, pointed out. Leslie had already sent C Company back home. He’d called ahead to have an unarmed hummer waiting for him. Fricker wandered over with an obvious civilian trailing after him.

  “Quick setup,” Leslie said, indicating the laager. “You’ve good men.”

  “Thanks, yeah.” Fricker had a hint of a smile. “The one’s that suck don’t stay long. Oh, let me introduce my current employer: this is Mister John Carell.”

  Leslie shook his hand. “I’m Leslie Hartmann. A pleasure.”

  Carell’s smile didn’t reach his eyes. A few inches shorter than Leslie, in his late thirties, perhaps, he gave off a look of sloth, but his eyes were everywhere. Jeans, polo shirt, and light jacket. And a semi-automatic in a holster.

  “It is, indeed,” he replied. “Is this town under your control?”

  “That’s a laugh. If you knew about military men, the last thing we want is control over civilians!”

  “Really? How interesting.” He looked at Fricker. “How about lunch? My treat.”

  Fricker shrugged. Since Carell was the one who stopped them, he wanted to talk for a reason.

  “Thanks,” Leslie replied, gesturing at his hummer. “Let’s go.”

  Some minutes later saw them in front of the old Talbott Tavern. Open since the Revolutionary War, even the Breakup didn’t seem to phase it. Looking about before they went in, Carell said, “You’ve no electric power here.”

  “Who does?” Asked Leslie. They did have a series of generators they used when they needed, but he didn’t need to know that.

  “But,” Carell continued, sniffing the air, “you’re burning alcohol in generators for some power. Makes sense, what with all the distilleries around here.”

  Leslie and Fricker exchanged a glance as they went in.

  Over lunch Leslie learned that they were on their way from Paducah to Knoxville. Neither of them said what they were carrying and Leslie didn’t ask.

  “Wouldn’t the southern route have been faster?” He did ask at one point. Fricker shook his head.

  “You may not have heard: Nashville burned, and what’s left are heavily armed gangs.”

  ”No, I’d not heard.” Life was amazingly local after the Breakup.

  Following lunch, Carell ordered a round of bourbons. “Any meeting that doesn’t begin with a drink is inherently hostile,” he explained.

  “So,” Leslie asked slowly, “we’re having a meeting? You called a halt to your own convoy just to chat?”

  “Oh, absolutely,” Carell said easily. “If I may ask, Mister Hartmann, what are the long term goals for you and your men?”

  Leslie stared at him. “In case you’ve not noticed, just staying alive as our country falls apart is something of a concern right now!”

  Carell did not allow himself to be provoked. “Surely. In the short term. That’s why I asked about the long term. I heard what you said about controlling civilians and I understand. Once your fuel runs out, whether diesel or alcohol, you’re no different than anyone else here.”

  He gestured about.

  “What then, Mister Hartmann?” He asked, finishing his bourbon. “The question stands: what are you and your men going to do in the long term?”

  Leslie paused to stare into his glass. It was not something he’d not considered before, but it was something he’d rather deliberately chosen to not think about.

  It was said that any city was three meals away from a riot. When the economy collapsed overnight, that was proven everywhere in the United States at once. The death toll was well into the millions: first by rioting, then killing, then starvation. After Louisville, when he and the others mutinied and left, some wanted to use their AFVs to set up their own fiefdom. Leslie and those like him mutinied from the mutineers. Weeks later, they found themselves here. First, just passing through, but persuaded by the Mayor to stay on as a security force.

  He took a last drink. But, then what? Electric power was spotty; how much could the distilleries produce by burning wood or coal? When their value as security was gone, they were excess mouths to feed. Outsider excess mouths.

  “I suppose we could settle down here,” he began. “There’s still plenty of unused land – ”

  “As peasants.” Carell cut in.

  “Excuse me?”

  “Peasants. Sooner or later someone stronger will move to exert their authority over this area. When that comes, at best you’re a peasant, at worse, slaves. And remember this!”

  Carell leaned forwards, looking directly at Leslie’s eyes.

  “Once, we controlled the lightning!”

  Leslie couldn’t suppress a shudder. That was true: the greatest, most technological civilization on Earth…and all he could think of was what field he might be plowing next Spring.

  Carell leaned back in his chair. “Things are going to be much, much worse, and sooner than you might guess. Winter will kill several million more. Outbreaks will start, and once the medicines on the shelves are gone, a few million more.”

  “And you’ve a solution to all that?” Leslie asked sarcastically.

  “We think so.”

  What?! Leslie looked to Fricker.

  “Adam,” he asked, “how is it you ended up with this madman?”

  Fricker sighed. “Is there anything he’s said, Leslie, that’s wrong?”

  Leslie looked away.

  “Yeah,” Fricker continued. “I got this speech two months ago. Like you, we’d a good gig set up for ourselves around Bowling Green. Not quite as nice as you, but still….”

  He paused and started again. “I’d been thinking about things like this when Carell and some of his people came through town. I think what he’s saying is right.”

  “So after this cargo run, you’re doing what?” Leslie asked.

  “I’ll be staying on in the Knoxville area.”

  “Why? Doing what?”

  “Rebuilding modern, technological, Western civilization.” Carell cut in.

  “How?” Leslie demanded.

  “Nuclear power.”

  Leslie returned those two to their laager. Back at his depot, he parked and looked about. Twelve months…maybe only six, and all this will be gone. He entered the Merton Tavern and went upstairs.

  “Sue? If you’d be so kind, please let the troop know that I need to address everyone tomorrow at 0700.” Leslie said to his comm officer.

  He looked awful. She wondered what happened.

  “Yes, sir.” Still, she asked. “Are you alright?”

  He shook his head. “I thought I was; now, not so much. Thanks.”

  He slept very little that night.
Fortunately the dawn saw another pleasant day. Easier to give his little speech outside.

  As he’d done in the past when he needed to talk to everyone, he climbed onto the hood of the scout car. They all depended on one another to stay alive; this time was no different. He thought for just a moment about what Carell had said at lunch: ‘We controlled the lightning!’

  “I had an interesting conversation yesterday,” he said, pitching his voice to carry, “and I wanted all of you to know, so we can get this sorted together….”

  The next ten minutes was largely a recapitulation of what Carell had said. At the end, he concluded, “I know what some of you have already taken some locals as spouses, and I’m not forcing anyone to go. But I am, and I will lead any who come with me. Thank you for your attention.”

  He was surprised when the entire troop snapped to attention and saluted. They had become rather informal since they settled in at Bardstown. He returned their salute and jumped off the scout car, walking away from them, back towards the tavern. Let them talk it out without him hanging over them, he thought.

  “Not bad. Wonder what the result will be.”

  Carell sat on a bench just outside Merton’s main entrance. With him was one of the most beautiful women Leslie had ever seen. Long, ice-white hair, even her eyebrows were almost invisible. Round face with a snub nose above a full, sensual mouth. Leslie tried very hard not to let his eyes wander, but in his peripheral vision, the rest of her was just as good. When they stood, she was taller than Carell. Just my height, he thought wryly.

  “Mister Hartmann, this is my wife, Anna.” Well, damn.

  “A pleasure, Mrs. Carell.” He said amiably. She smiled as she shook his hand. Even her teeth are perfect, he noted.

  “Mine as well,” she said. “It seems my John has stirred things up here?”

  She was able to draw a smile out of him. Leslie shifted his eyes to Carell. Safer.

  “Yeah.” He said. “It wasn’t anything new; just things no one wanted to think about.”

  She laughed easily. “Being part of the Remnant isn’t easy, Mister Hartmann. But, saving the world never is!” She turned to her husband.

  “I’ll be going back, now.” They embraced. “See you at home!”

  With a wave to Leslie, she walked to one of Fricker’s hummers and drove off.

  “Home?” Leslie asked.

  “Oak Ridge. She’s taking over the Paducah convoy.”

  “What?! A woman…like her… cross-country? Are you insane?” Leslie shouted.

  “Well, Fricker is in tactical command,” he grinned at Leslie, “but she can full well take care of herself.”

  “So what are you doing?” He was starting to find Carell’s sense of humor irritating.

  “Hiring you, and however many decide to stay with you.”

  Huh?

  “For what?”

  “There’s something in central Ohio that we want.” He pointed at the Dragoon AFVs in the depot. “Those will help me say ‘please’ when I get there.”

  Leslie’s jaw dropped. “Central Ohio? I can’t even imagine the staff work that will have to go into – ”

  “I can. I’ve done this twice before, Mister Hartmann.” He regarded Leslie. “You must have a talent for it, having gotten your people here securely. I’ll just add what I know to your skill-set.”

  Lord, but his self-confidence was irritating as his humor. But his mind was already working.

  “Cincinnati is going to be the main problem,” he said out loud to himself. “Whether it’s a handful of vehicles or the entire troop… we’ll have to find some other way across the Ohio River….”

  He came back to himself to see Carell grinning at him. He walked past him towards the tavern.

  “Come on. This won’t plan itself.”

  In two days he knew who was staying, who was going. That gave him sixteen AFVs and nine support units, including two tankers.

  In two weeks the plans were complete. Very open-ended: there was no way to know what they might run into. Some of the contingencies Carell wanted him to consider seemed ludicrous, but he had just stared at Leslie.

  “It’s already happened to me. This one,” he said, tapping a bullet point on the page, “twice.”

  Their only major disagreement was the main route. Leslie favored crossing the river at Madison, north into Indiana, turning east when they got to I-70.

  “That puts on the wrong side of Columbus.” Carell had countered. “And what little intel we have all points to that city being a hellhole right now. How about we go through Kentucky, north, here at Portsmouth. Up old US 23, then we swing wide east to outside New Albany.”

  While Leslie hadn’t been told exactly what was their destination, he did know it was between Columbus and a little city called Newark.

  “That’s a lot of hill-country through Kentucky,” he counted. “Ambushes.”

  Carell’s eyes took on a hard look.

  “I’d rather ambushes by a few dozen than a human-wave in Dayton by a few thousand.”

  Recalling his last assignment as an NCO in Louisville, Leslie relented.

  Hartmann and his forces pulled onto the Bluegrass Parkway on the fifth of October, headed east. It must take a special kind of crazy to want to save the world, he thought as his column picked up speed. From his perch on his scout car, he pivoted around to see the rest. Carell, on the Dragoon directly behind him, waved. A contagious form of crazy.

  Leslie sat on the crest of the small hill next to Carell. A light rain fell from the gray sky. Better than snow, he thought. They’d made better time than he had anticipated: most of the people they had encountered in the rural areas were just happy that they weren’t raiders. And that they weren’t stopping; food was still scarce. He through his field glasses again at the compound before them.

  “Doesn’t look like much,” he said. Carell grunted.

  “It was never meant to. Who wants a prototype reactor in their county, no matter how small?” He shook his head. “Between the NIMBYs and the eco-freaks I was surprised it got built two years ago, but they needed the jobs.”

  Looking more, Leslie noted, “The perimeter fence seems intact. You really think what that farmer told us yesterday was true?” Another grunt.

  “That this whole area is radioactive? Your people have detected nothing, though.” He stood. “If I was an enterprising chap that wanted to hole up some place safe, I’d want stories like that circulating, too.”

  Leslie glanced at his watch: 0930 on Tuesday, the 16th. I wonder if that’s auspicious or not, he thought.

  “So we just stroll in, or should I shell it from here?”

  Carell turned, surprised.

  “Would you? I’d love to watch that!” Damn. Leslie forgot for a moment that his employer was crazy. He raised his radio.

  “Mitch? Hartmann. We’re headed to the main gate.”

  “Copy, that,” his second in command replied.

  “Let’s see who’s home.” They started walking down the slight incline of the hill.

  Hanging from the chained and padlocked fence was a handmade sign: ‘Danger! Radiation everywhere! If you stay here you will die!’ Leslie glanced again at the detector on his belt. Nothing.

  “If there’s this sign, why a padlock? They didn’t think that all the way through.” Carell noted. Crazy, but astute. He took the bolt cutters from Leslie’s rucksack. With a clatter, they pushed the gate open enough for both of them. Leslie’s eyes kept snapping from window to window, waiting for a shot.

  Carell went into the compound about ten feet and stopped. The buildings were fairly identical: about two stories high and fifty by fifty yards wide.

  “The prototype was in building four,” Carell said. “We’ll need some of the controls from there and also the fixtures in building two.”

  “If, that is, anything is still here,” Leslie said, coming up next to him, his hand on his radio.

  “I think your mechanic’s starting to wear off on you. Alw
ays with the negative waves, Mister Hartmann! Ah, there’s building two, let’s take a look.”

  A large sign with the number two painted in blue over a yellow background hung over a door to their right. Carell twisted the handle and went in. Crates had been pushed to form a corridor about twenty feet long. Absolutely perfect for an ambush. Carell stopped after a few steps.

  “Good morning!” He called. “We are neither thieves nor marauders. We are just here to retrieve some equipment! We are even prepared to pay for it.” Was he talking to the empty air, or would whomever was there take the bait?

  “You may not be thieves, but you are trespassers. Hands up, please.” That answered that. Right before he raised his hand, Leslie clicked his radio twice.

  “Sorry about your chain. We’ll replace it for you. I’m John Carell, this is my hired help, Leslie Hartmann.” Leslie started at the back of Carell’s head. Really? “And your name would be…?”

  There was a pause, “I’m Steve Cummings. Come on forwards. Slowly.”

  At the end of the crate tunnel they saw a bear of a man; balding, but with a large beard. He wore a camouflage jacket over his overalls. The trench gun in his hand was pointed just away from them. Typically, Carell walked right to him and extended his hand. Cummings stared at it.

  “You do know there are others covering you two?” He asked.

  “Certainly,” Carell replied. “But there’s no reason to not be civil, is there?”

  Cummings slowly shifted his large shotgun and shook Carell’s hand, followed by the same for Leslie. Now out of the tunnel Leslie could see that the entire building was a large open space. The left, or north, side was mostly a machine shop. Opposite that were stacks of electronics. He also noted the bedding and personal effects in a corner on the electronics side. Squatters.

  “Dad!” There was a young woman’s voice from behind and above them. Turning, he saw a girl in her late teens, with a rifle, looking out the windows from her perch on more crates.