by A. American
“Jablowme,” I replied with a smile.
A slight grin cracked his face. He lowered his eyes, scuffing at the sand on the road with the toe of his boot. Raising his eyes back to mine, he said, “Well, Haywood, I’m sure we’ll see each other again.”
As he was speaking, I looked past him at the crowd. There was a table where it looked like people were turning in firearms. It was stacked with long guns of all sorts and there was a bin on the ground in which handguns were being dropped. A spindly legged woman started toward us with two more of what appeared to be the militiamen following her. She was carrying a can of Vienna Sausages, from which she would extract a tube of meat, suck the jelly off, then push into her mouth. Even from this distance I could see she didn’t have any teeth and used her tongue and gums to mash the meat by-product to the point she could swallow it.
“What’re ’ese fellers lookin’ fer, Billy?” she said as she tossed the can to the ground, adding to the already considerable amount of litter already covering the parking lot.
The militiaman cocked his head slightly toward her. “They say they want to trade for some gas.”
The old woman cackled, her lips curling around her bare gums. “I don’t need no dayam gas. ’Bout all I got is gas.”
“We want to get some gas,” Danny said.
“Oh, ya need some? Well, what’cha tradin’?” she asked.
Slipping my pack off and opening it, I took out one of the hams. “How about something better than Vienna Sausages?”
Her face broke into the collapsed grin common to toothless people. “Now yer talkin’. I like them!”
“We want to fill all these cans. How about two of these and two cans of SPAM?” I offered.
She looked at the back of the ATVs with all the cans. We had a total of nine five-gallon cans between the three machines. “That’s a bunch of gas; what else ya got?”
Pulling the can of white gas from my pack, I set it on the fender. “I don’t really want to trade this, but the canned meat and this for all the cans filled.”
“Deal. Lyle, you an’ Billy bring ’em in an’ fill thur cans.” She started toward me with her hands out.
“Ah, no offense, ma’am, but I’ll give this to you once the cans are full.”
She chuckled. “Don’ worry, you’ll get yer gas. Billy, bring me the goods when yer done.”
With that she turned and headed back for the store, her two guards in tow. We pulled the ATVs up a spot in the parking lot where the fuel trucks usually filled the underground tanks. Another man was there, and he pulled the cap from one of the tanks and dropped a hose in connected to a hand pump. It took him a minute of furious pumping to get it to prime, but once it did he went straight to work filling the cans. While he worked, Thad and Jeff stood watch, watching the crowd gathering at the tables. Danny and I talked with old Billy to see what he knew.
“What’s with the lines?” Danny asked Billy pointing toward the tables.
“That’s where you sign up for assistance from FEMA. There are camps they can take you to.”
“Who was that other guy?” I asked Billy pointing toward the other uniformed man who had been questioning me.
“They’re with DHS, providing security for the FEMA folks.”
“And what are you and the militia doing? Danny asked.
“We provide security for Sharon there. She was the manager of the store and since things have gone to shit, she’s just sort of taken over. She tries to trade for things, keep the store working, sort of, but it’s running out of everything.”
“DHS doesn’t mind you guys being armed? I remember hearing a radio address where they said guns were now illegal,” Danny asked.
“We work with ’em, we help ’em out and kind of help with manpower when they need it and they leave us alone.”
I glanced at Danny and he frowned. I knew he was thinking the same thing I was: here was a militia that prior to the event I was sure was decidedly antigovernment. Now they were working alongside them to keep some sort of autonomy.
“You guys hear anything about raids going on, groups hitting neighborhoods and burning houses down an’ all?” Danny asked.
Billy jerked his head toward the tables. “Why you think all them people is here? It’s been going on all over. They say that gangs come in an’ raid houses, shoot people, steal anything they can get their hands on and leave. They set fire to any house they can’t get into. Some even say they’re taking women an’ girls.”
“Has anyone fought them off?” I asked.
“Not that I heard. They come in at night, sometimes on four-wheelers; sometimes they just walk in and are there before anyone knows it.”
“What are you guys doing about it?” Danny asked.
The question caught Billy off guard. “Wha’daya mean?”
“You guys say you’re a militia. What are you doing to help people?” Danny asked.
Thad came up and motioned for me to follow him. I walked over to where Jeff was standing. He was watching a small knot of the DHS security guards watch him.
“What’s up?” I asked.
They went on to tell me that the DHS security had been particularly interested in us since we arrived. They had made a couple of passes by the ATVs and Jeff said they were obviously trying to get some info off the machines. Thad said they had been on the radio. They both thought we needed to get the hell out of there before things got sticky. I agreed and went back to where the cans were being filled.
Danny was strapping three of them down when I got back. The man pumping the fuel had one more can to go. I handed the canned goods and the white gas to Billy and quickly started to strap three cans to the back of my Polaris. Danny carried the other two over to Thad’s machine and set them on the rear rack. As soon as the last can was full, I took it over to Danny. He set it on the rack and went to strap them all down.
“Well, Billy, thanks for the gas. Tell Sharon there we’ll be back sometime for some more.”
Billy nodded at me as I climbed on the machine and started it. Somewhere behind me I heard Jeff’s scooter roar to life. Without talking about it, we started out in single file for the house.
Chapter 30
“First Sergeant Mitchell?” a voice called from the front of the barracks.
“Back here,” Sarge replied, sitting up. He swung his legs off his rack and shoved his feet into his boots. Not taking time to tie them, he headed for the sound of the voice.
Sarge found a sergeant in ACU BDUs waiting by the front door. The man said, “Colonel Fawcet sent me over to take you to the motor pool to pick up your new ride.”
“Outstanding.” Sarge turned and shouted into the squad bay and yelled, “Come on, you dickheads. We got work to do!”
After a moment Ted, Mike and Doc came walking out. “What’s up?” Doc asked.
“We gotta go get some gear,” Sarge said.
They went out and climbed into a Humvee waiting out front. The sergeant drove through the base while Sarge and the guys took in the view. As they passed a small stadium, they saw a lot of armed guards. “What’s with that?” Ted asked the sergeant as they passed.
“That’s where we put all the DHS guys.”
Sarge looked out the window. “Why’s it always a stadium? You people should read some history.”
“What?” the sergeant asked.
Sarge didn’t reply. He just looked out the window as one of the DHS was being led to a waiting Humvee, hands bound behind his back and a hood over his head. The Humvee wheeled into a drive and pulled around behind a large, squat brown brick building. As they passed through a gate at the midpoint of the building, all the equipment parked there came into view. The Humvee stopped at a large roll-up door that was open. There were several small UTV-style vehicles sitting in the open bay.
The sergeant jumped out of the Humvee an
d called out into the cavernous bay. Sarge and the guys climbed out and stood together in front of the open door. From the bowels of the building came a cursed response. The sergeant said, “Watch yer manners; we got comp’ny.”
Shortly, a thickset fireplug of a man appeared from behind a couple of large tool boxes. He had a rag in his hands, wiping grease from them. A cigar-shaped object protruded from his mouth. As he approached, the object swapped sides.
“What the hell you want, Martin?”
“This is First Sergeant Mitchell; he’s here to pick up your toys.”
The burly man bristled. “I don’t know who you are, or what yer up to, but I do know I don’t want to give these to you.”
Sarge looked him up and down. “Master Sergeant, I assure you I will show your toys as much love and care as you have.”
Master Sergeant Antonio Faggione looked the older first sergeant before him up and down. Taking the cigar shape from his mouth, he replied, “Somehow I doubt that.”
Sarge smiled. “Is that a cigar you got there, or a piece of cat shit you’re chewin’ on?” Mike started to snicker, Ted was laughing on the inside, and Doc rolled his eyes in a “here we go again” way.
Sergeant Martin, who was standing beside Sarge, breathed a low “Oh shit.”
Faggione looked at the object in his hand, then back to Sarge before putting the Tootsie Roll back in the corner of his mouth. “If I only had a cigar. I gave up cat shit years ago. Just couldn’t get the taste outta my mouth.”
Sarge smiled, gesturing to the two machines behind the master sergeant he asked, “These beauties mine?”
Faggione smiled. “No, they’re mine, but if you’re nice I may let you use them.”
“Very well, I wanna take one for a spin.”
“Not until I check you out on them,” Faggione said.
Sarge jutted a thumb over his shoulder. “Check them out. I have an errand to run.” He stepped up into the smaller of the two machines and started it. Before Faggione could protest, Sarge was pulling out of the bay and racing down the road.
Sarge headed for the barracks, impressed with the speed and feel of the machine he was in. He would have some questions for Faggione when he got back. Pulling up to the front door, Sarge leapt out and ran into the old building, heading straight for the stack of gear they had salvaged from the truck. He started pulling out cases and boxes.
Inside the cardboard box, he found two jars and set them aside, then went back to the cases, looking for one in particular. Finding the small case, he pulled it out of the pile, picked up the jars and headed for the door. Setting the loot in the passenger seat, he climbed in, started the machine and headed for the motor pool, keeping a hand on the stash beside him so it didn’t roll out.
When he got to the gate of the motor pool, he stopped for a moment, picking up the small case and opening it. Reaching in, he took out one of the dark silky cigars. Sarge didn’t smoke very often, but he liked the occasional cigar. On a trip through North Carolina he had stopped at JR’s Cigars and bought a box of Rocky Patel 1990 vintage Robustos. Rolling the oily cigar between his thumb and forefinger, he fished out his Zippo, set it on the seat and went into his pocket for his knife. After cutting the tip, he stuck it in his mouth and lit it, drawing the thick smoke in and blowing out a cloud.
Sarge gripped the cigar with his teeth—he had to because he was grinning so hard—put the machine in gear and headed for the back of the building. When he came up to the open bay door, Faggione had his back to him. Sarge stopped and propped a foot up on the dash of the machine and took a long drag on the cigar. When he finished the point he was making to the guys, Faggione turned around, and just as he did Sarge blew a couple of perfect smoke rings at him.
Faggione stood there looking at Sarge. His eyes were mere slits in the hunk of meat on his shoulders. After a moment the Tootsie Roll hit the ground and he stepped toward Sarge. Sarge took the cigar from his mouth, holding it out as to admire it, then looked at Faggione.
“Nothing better than a quality smoke, huh, Master Sergeant?”
Faggione crossed his arms over his chest. “What’cha got there, a White Owl, or maybe a Dutch Masters? You don’t look to me like the kind of guy that can ’preciate a decent smoke. “
Sarge tucked the cigar back in his teeth and picked up one of the jars, spinning the lid off. “Not only do I appreciate a good smoke, I also appreciate a good drink.” Plucking the stogie from his mouth, Sarge took a pull from the jar, trying hard not to squint.
“Well, aren’t you just full of surprises.”
Sarge stuck the cigar back in his mouth and grinned at him, then reached over and picked up the case with the cigars. “Would you care for one?” he asked, holding the box out.
Faggione stepped over and peered into the case. “Patel, nice cigar.” He reached in and took one, inspecting the band. “Vintage, even,” he said with an approving nod. Faggione reached into his pocket, took out a cutter, clipped the end and quickly produced a lighter, struck it and puffed the cigar to life. Taking in a deep drag, his eyes closed and his head rocked back slightly, gripping it between his fingers he pulled the cigar from his lips, followed by a slow thick cloud of smoke.
“First Sergeant Mitchell, I think you an’ me is gonna get along just fine.”
Sarge smiled, his cigar clamped in his teeth. He took one of the jars and tossed it to Faggione. Faggione spun the lid off, held it to his nose for moment and sniffed. Then put the jar to his lips and took a long drink, swishing the hard liquor in his mouth and swallowed it with no more consideration than he would a drink of water.
“Mighty fine, mighty fine,” Faggione said.
“Hey, what about us?” Ted asked.
“Forget it, you’re on duty, dipshit,” Sarge replied.
Faggione’s cigar was planted in the corner of his mouth. “Come in here and let me introduce you to your newest love,” Faggione said as Sarge climbed out of the machine.
• • •
Danny pulled up beside me. “We got company!” he shouted, nodding his head over his shoulder.
I looked back to see another ATV behind us. When I looked back, so did the other guys. We slowed down, coming abreast of one another. Thad asked what we thought about the guy. We had no idea what he was up to but decided not to go straight back to the neighborhood. It was Danny’s idea to take a trail into the forest. It was just ahead of where we were and wound its way into the back of the neighborhood without having to get back out on the road. Jeff said he’d take the guy for a tour of the area and the three of us turned off as Jeff sped off down the paved road.
As we rode through the forest, we stopped occasionally to see if we were being followed but, never hearing anyone, we eventually found our way back to the neighborhood. The way we came in brought us in beside Miss Janice’s house. Seeing her house made me think of the ATV tracks we had seen and the men she said she saw back there. As we came out of the woods, I pulled up to her house and Danny and Thad followed me.
The three of us sat on the ATVs looking at the house. We would have to go in and look, but even from here I knew it wasn’t going to good. The front door was caved in.
“Who lives here?” Thad asked.
“An old lady. We brought her some food not too long ago,” Danny said.
“By herself?” Thad asked.
“Yeah, by herself. Danny, you want to come with me to look?” I said.
“Not really, but I guess we need to.”
“I’ll go around back and make sure no one is out there,” Thad said.
Danny and I slowly approached the door with our rifles at low ready. Stopping at the shattered door, we peered in. Miss Janice’s feet were sticking out from behind the island in the kitchen. We slowly entered the living room. Danny went to the left and I went to the right. There was a door on my right. I opened it and saw the master bedr
oom. I did a quick check and found it empty. Quickly crossing the living room, I caught up to Danny as he backed out of the bathroom. Together we cleared the other two bedrooms. The house was empty except for Miss Janice.
She had been strangled. There was deep, dark bruising around her neck. Her eyes were bloodshot and her mouth was open. Looking down at her I could just imagine the terrified scream that those hands choked off; even dead she looked scared. We never said anything, Danny and I. He went to one of the bedrooms down the hall, returning with a sheet. We spread the sheet out over. I knelt down and raised it from her face and closed her eyes, then gently laid the sheet back over her.
Thad was out front when we came out the door. “She dead?”
Danny nodded and we all climbed aboard our machines and headed for Danny’s house. Once there we unloaded all the cans of fuel into his shop, throwing an old tarp over them. Danny stepped back, looking at the tarp, and said, “That didn’t cost us too much.”
“Speak for yourself, there, sport,” I said. He looked over, his head cocked to the side. I smiled. “I’d rather not trade ammo if we can avoid it, ’sides, I got more cooked an’ canned pig innards.”
Thad said, “There’s cost and there’s cost, if you get my meaning. We’re on somebody’s radar now, I guarantee you that. I don’t think we should go back there no more.”
“Yeah,” I said. “You’re probably right about that.”
Reggie came down the drive toward us and said, “I slaughtered a hog and have it on the smoker. Tomorrow we’ll have some good eats.” That broke the suddenly solemn mood.
“Damn, that sounds good!” Thad shouted, rubbing his stomach.
“Well, I had to. I’m running out of feed for ’em, gonna have to start slaughtering ’em all.”
“There’s got to be something we can feed ’em; I mean, they’ll eat anything,” Danny said.
“I’m open for ideas,” Reggie said, shaking his head.
“Hell, I doubt there’s a chicken or pig left around here, ’cept for my birds and your pigs. We need to try and keep ’em around if we can,” I said.