“I got no sympathy,” Beth continued. “For their families, maybe. Them? Heck, no. They attacked us, and killed our people with no provocation. You don’t get a pass for that because you get an outchie.”
So it went. I can’t say my dad recovered quickly from the loss of his only sibling, but he did find enough to keep himself busy. And that was part of it, as my father started to rely on me even more than ever. Not like he needed to, but like he wanted to see what I might do. So he was testing me, to see where I would hit my limit. Mike was in the mix, now firmly established as Dad’s second in command, and he began teaching classes with Gaddis on metalworking and smithing.
When I wasn’t running patrols or just plain running, something I did in an effort to rebuild my endurance, I found things to do as well. I tinkered with various bits of scorched electrical bits, trying to salvage what I could from the fried cameras and other exposed gadgets. I even fiddled with building wind systems out of automotive alternators, using a design I’d saved from a prepper website. Not a lot of juice, but it gave some of our neighbors a way to power lights and maybe charge batteries.
We worked hard and tried to get the defenders ready for the next attack. At least we had plenty of spare weapons and ammo, thanks to the Homeland thugs. And several more running vehicles, which was no small deal these days. We added a total of four of the M249 light machine guns and several cases of grenades, as well as enough body armor to outfit a couple of platoons of fighters. The primary arms of this group of Homeland fighters turned out to be the ubiquitous M4, with a lot of pistols chambered in .40 S&W.
“Well,” my dad said harshly, “we knew they stockpiled several hundred million rounds of .40 caliber before the fall. Glad to see our tax dollars being put to good use.”
We were all sitting out on the front porch, Amy in her accustomed spot in my lap, when suddenly Travis, one of Mike and Beth’s boys, came tearing out the front door to get my dad’s attention.
“Where’s the fire, Trav? Something bad?” my father asked, rising quickly and grabbing for his rifle. Hey, in this new world, that was the go-to move.
“I don’t know, sir. We just picked up a call on the radio. Asking for you.”
“And who is this mystery caller, Travis?”
“Don’t know him, sir. First time I’ve picked up his broadcast. Said his name is David. I got that, and then he said to pass on a message to you. Then said he’s sorry he’s late, but traffic was terrible.”
“What?” I asked, confused, but my father grinned.
“David Metcalf, from Ft. Worth. If it is the same guy I think it is, he was a schoolteacher we met a few years ago, remember? Right after I retired. He even came over here and hunted hogs a few times. I extended him and his wife an invitation, just in case. Is he alone, or with a part of a group?”
“A group, sir. He said he didn’t want to say more until he got closer.”
“So, we’ve got friends on their way,” Dad replied, looking excited and pleased by this news. As we spoke, I started to remember David, but I hadn’t recalled his last name. He was a competitive shooter, another old guy, at least in his thirties if not more, and I’d spoken to him a few times at matches as well as when we went hog hunting. I know he got along really well with Dad, but that was probably due to them being closer in age and having things in common.
“Can you trust him?”
“Hell, no. Not totally. Can’t absolutely trust anybody but us now. But his wife is a straight arrow, and I’m sure she’s been keeping him in line.” And with that, we started getting ready for more guests. Just another day at the Messner ranch.
Oh, and Congressman McCorkle? Fertilizing the azaleas, though it was one of Captain Marino’s men who did the execution, not me, once they sucked him dry of all the secrets. All I have to say is that chemical interrogation is scary to watch. But, after we found out about the four other farms his goons had seized, murdering the residents and stripping them of every last kernel of corn, I didn’t feel like shedding any tears for the jackass.
And he did arrange for all the evidence in Dana’s case to disappear, just as I suspected. That was the only question I had for the man, and Benny looked at me funny as I handed him the question written out on a 5x8 white card. I just shrugged, since I figured I was the only person still alive who cared.
So we were living our lives as best we could. Things weren’t great, but hey, it beat having to take a long walk in the rain.
THE END
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AFTERWARD
I always hate having to write these things, but I figure I owe it to the readers who’ve hung in this long. This whole thing started with me sitting at the airport in Chicago O’Hare, waiting on yet another delayed flight, and thinking about what would happen if the lights went out. After some hard thinking, I quickly figured out I would not make it home.
But what about a kid? Someone with some training and lots of common sense. Younger, stronger, and faster. Would he be able to make the trip home? And if he did, how much would that trip affect him? That was where the idea came from, but the idea for Luke actually went back before that.
For several months I’d been trying to write a post-nuclear war story with a character similar to Luke but with a different name and backstory. I’d shyly shown the completed chapters to a few authors I corresponded with, and I was shocked at the response I received. One of those writers was WJ Lundy, and I will forever be in his debt for the encouragement and advice I received from him. Another author who offered kind words was my good buddy, TJ Reeder, who told me to stop messing around and get it done. Mr. Reeder is a real character, by the way, and a man of who writes with a style that is all his own and I could never hope to copy.
So. Beyond the Wire never got past the first draft. I might drag it out and dust it off one day, just to send the completed story to WJ so he will stop asking, “When is it going to be done?” But I was pointed in the right direction, and I had a new idea. One about a boy walking home, and relying on the lessons he learned from his father.
Now we are four books into the series. This is not the end, but I have talked about taking a step back for a little while to work on some other projects. Hey, that darned zombie book I’ve been threatening people with ain’t going to write itself. We’ll see more of Luke and Amy in a few months, and I still need to tell Scott’s story. You guys remember the Kellers, right?
So imagine my surprise when I receive an e-mail from someone with the question, can I play in your playground?
Now, authors can be very territorial. I’m not exactly what you’d called a seasoned writer. Steve Konkoly, another of my personal heroes, can carry it off, and the critical and commercial success of his “Shared World” books in the Perseid Collapse series proves that point. Me? I’m still getting my sea legs in this writing stuff. But…the e-mail inquiry came from my brother. Let’s call him M.C.
He’s been a sounding board for me from the first book and has given me some great advice along the way. So I figured what the heck. If it sucks, I can break it to him gently. Except, the story drew me in from the first page and never let go. For a while there, we were swapping chapters as we completed them and commenting as we went.
Let me be clear: This is not Luke and Amy. This is something else. An even darker journey in some ways than anything endured by our teenaged travelers. A fast-paced, tightly written story about a prepper and survivor. David Metcalf is a good man who
has taken on immense responsibility, and he will do just about anything to protect those he loves. Even if it costs him his soul.
Even the name of the book is a departure. Titled Firestorm, this book will be called Book 5 in the Walking in the Rain series, even if it really represents a branch off from the existing story. This is not my book, but it is written in the same world I’ve created, and readers will recognize some common features and maybe even some familiar enemies. And if David and company plan on going to join the ranch, don’t you want to know how he gets there?
And with that, I’ll give you a sneak peek at Firestorm, Walking in the Rain Book 5, by M.C. Allen:
********************
Snap! Crack! Well that sound was familiar, and at one time I had let people shoot over my head at targets. Camp Perry was an experience that every competitive shooter should have. If nothing else, you didn’t cry like a baby when the bullets start to fly.
The round was close to my head, and as it flew past, it created a supersonic distortion in the humid air. Since the boom of the muzzle blast followed right on the heels of the crack, the shooter must be really close. Too close. The time between the crack and boom could be almost a half second for a long range shot. Besides, a long range shot would have sounded different.
The mixed hardwood and pine forest was thick along the seasonal creek, currently in the dry part of the season. So, the shooter had either missed an easy shot, or the round had been deflected by a branch. If that was the case, then where was the follow-up shot?
I would have fired at least twice in the time it took me to gracelessly fall to the ground and start rolling to cover. The pack on my back and my web gear made the cool maneuver look like a turtle mixed with a flea-bitten dog. It was definitely not pretty, but I ended up behind cover. At least the ground was soft here, even though the ground was parched dry. Diving onto limestone or granite rocks will leave you battered and bloody, but when someone is trying to punch holes in you, a few scrapes and bruises are minor issues. The pine needles and leaves over the loamy soil was almost comfortable. Except somewhere out there, probably to the right near the edge of the dry creek, someone was trying to kill me.
The last few months had proven that when someone tries to kill you, your best option was to “kill them back.” But something was off with this situation. Only one shot fired? I had decent cover, but I wasn’t being stealthy and a blind person could tell where I had ended up. I was prone behind a decent sized tree, a pine about two feet across. It wasn’t perfect cover, but at least it would conceal me until I could roll or crawl to something better.
Most rifle rounds would punch through my current pulpy companion, and even if the actual projectile misses me, the wood splinters that explode from the exit would be hazardous. My unseen bushwhacker was still silent. I was breathing like I had been sprinting for the last ten minutes, the adrenaline causing my pulse to race and my respiration to go haywire.
Even worse, I had no target. Heck, for all I knew I had stepped on a tripwire that set off a rifle set to fire at a specific spot. That would be a good way to warn people of intruders if you were short on guards. I scanned the area around me. Nothing but trees, leaves, and pine needles. So … what now? Without any extra clues, my next option was to withdraw and try to go around this area. Some extra data would be helpful. I hated making decisions without the full picture.
“Hey, could you hold off on shooting me until we at least get to know each other first? At least buy me dinner!” I tried to sound sincere, but it came across as sarcastic and angry.
The shooter might respond, or just start plowing copper jacketed replies through my peaceful majestic tree. Who knew I would become a tree hugger after the apocalypse? Why couldn’t it be zombies? Shamblers, not runners. They would be hard to hit if they all rushed you, but shamblers you could just spike and dodge. Nope, we just have to fight normal humans who were always trying to kill you for no good reason. Well, in their defense, most were fighting to protect their own resources. Water, food, livestock, or simply land were commodities that weren’t traded on an open market, but paid for in blood.
Stupid EMP. The electromagnetic pulse had knocked everyone on their butts. All of those years spent reading up and assembling gear felt wasted. Hell, I just thought I was prepared for anything.
Peering around the left side of the tree, craning my neck just enough to see where my adversary may be hiding, I pushed all of those thoughts to the side. No more than a few seconds had passed, but I could not see or hear any movement to my immediate front. Straining to hear the rustle of leaves or the crack of branches underfoot, I caught movement further to my right. Along the creek. I had walked right into a trap.
Following the creek was supposed to serve a dual purpose. Find water and hopefully find animal tracks for potential food. Obviously someone had already staked out this area, and I had stumbled across their claim.
The way forward was blocked, and to the right were more threats. To the left I heard the soft footfalls of someone sprinting through the forest far enough away that I only saw flashes of movement. I had to make a decision quickly. My position was untenable already.
I jumped to my feet and turned to start sprinting back the way I had come only to have another shot strike near my feet and a commanding voice bellow, “Hold on right there mister!”
Not what I expected. I figured they would just shoot me down and loot my gear. My rifle was useful and I had plenty of ammunition and magazines to keep it in a fight, but I was low on both food and water. At this point I might trade for just a glass of water.
“Go ahead and place your rifle on the ground in front of you and step back!” the voice continued. It had a southern twang, but didn’t sound too unfriendly. I complied by taking a single step back and raising my hands to shoulder height without being told. I was trying to be polite even though they had shot first, but I guess I was the intruder here. If they were up to no good, I was really screwed. I could have returned fire in the direction of the first gunshot of the sentry, but I had a feeling that I would have ended up dead and fertilizing the forest.
They had let me get into the “kill box” before firing, but had held up killing me for some reason. They didn’t ask me to drop my pack or the rest of my weapons yet, and I had several on me. I had weapons hanging off my web gear in plain sight, but I had an extra pistol tucked in my waistband near my left hip out of sight. I didn’t clank when I moved, but that was mainly from using lots of black electrical tape on all of the metal mounts and clips. I didn’t look like a modern soldier with the motley gear from the 1990’s, and my long hair and untrimmed beard gave me a wild look. The floppy hat didn’t even match the green web gear and large pack, and honestly, I cared more about how each item functioned over making a fashion statement.
From the creek came the universal question, “Who are you, and why are you on our land?” That came across a little angrily, so clearly this was a group that had staked out their own domain. I needed to be cautious and not piss them off further. When in doubt, try the humble approach. It might just save your life.
“My name is David Metcalf, and until about a month ago I was a resident of Arlington, Texas. I was following this dried up creek trying to find some water and possibly a critter for a meal. Crawfish, raccoon, rabbit, maybe even a hog if I was lucky.” I let my voice trail off a little toward the end. I let my voice rally a little, “I try to stay away from peoples’ houses and fields if I can. I don’t steal from folks. I know times are hard since the pulse knocked out the entire grid, and I’m just trying to make my way to someplace safe.” There. Lay it on, but not too thick. They could just kill me now and be done with it, and to be honest, it would be a relief.
My tank was empty. I was dehydrated and bordering on starvation. I had once topped the scales at two hundred and forty, but I knew by the length of extra belt wrapped halfway around my waist that I had lost way too much. My wedding band had become so loose that I carried it around my neck o
n a piece of string because it kept falling off of my finger. Just the act of projecting my voice to be heard was an effort. The act of jumping up from the ground left me lightheaded and swaying.
“Do you intend to do us harm Mr. Metcalf?” the voice was less forceful. He must have seen me really well for the first time, and noticed my condition.
“No sir. I really was just passing through. I have a little folding shovel that I was going to use to try to dig up some crayfish or even grubs. I’ve had to do that a lot recently.” That was a little thick, but not a lie. You needed protein and fats to survive, and I had been on a serious paleo diet since most of the canned goods had run out.
“If you are from the Dallas – Fort Worth area, why are you only this far away? It’s only about fifty miles from here?” he asked. “Most people came through this area months ago looking for food and causing trouble for us,” he added.
“I was delayed,” I replied quietly. “The plan was to get out of there as soon as possible, but things happened to delay us,” I let the last word hang in the air.
“What do you mean ‘us’ mister,” his voice going flat.
“I mean that I’m just the guy walking point. By now my team has already figured that I’m as good as dead, and they have already taken their positions while we have been standing around playing twenty questions,” I let my voice sound angry. I was bluffing, really.
The rest of my team should be hauling ass back about a quarter of a mile to our last rally point. I tried to stop at defensible positions and assign them as rally points every few miles. If something like this happens, they were instructed to go to the last place we had stopped to rest and immediately go to ground. We drilled this. Just wait there for two hours or until I give the order to move out. Without further orders, they were to find another route and get away from whatever had killed or captured me. If they followed my instructions.
Walking in the Rain (Book 4): Dark Sky Thunder Page 23