Bittersweet Homecoming; Surviving the Black--Book 3 of a Post-Apocalyptical Series

by Zack Finley

  "They don't pose much of a threat to us, and they seem like hardworking entrepreneurs," Ben said.

  "Too hardworking," I said. "between their trailer, the stills, the corn, and a few fish, these guys should be taking it easy, not pushing themselves. Their moonshine operation looks solid but makes way too much 'shine to supply four guys. We are missing something. They are either part of a larger group or trading 'shine to a large group."

  "We need to learn what we can from this bunch," Ben said. "Right now, we know nothing about this area. Even our maps draw a blank."

  Our ancient Arkansas motor club map showed one road in the area, and it didn't get near the Mississippi River. The lack of roads on the map did not concern me. I just assumed motor club maps ignored a lot of rural roads, especially the gravel ones. My assumptions proved correct, and I planned to pencil in the gravel roads on the motor club map.

  "Razor and Mike should monitor this operation and learn what you can about them. I prefer they remain unaware of us, but we may need to question them to learn more. We'll leave you a pair of ninjas," I said.

  "Ben and I will wait for the Cumberland and Jersey Girl to arrive. We'll do some wider range recon with the ninjas after dark. Radio if the situation here changes."

  Whoever named our black electric motorcycles ninjas, picked a perfect name. No one called them anything else. Their electric motors made no noise. This made the motorcycles almost impossible to detect, especially at night. We brought three ninjas on the patrol boat with us this morning for just this type of operation.

  The rugged bikes could recharge from their portable solar panels, from the generator on the Cumberland or with any running vehicle.

  All four of us slid down the levee to reach the patrol boat. Ben and I passed the ninjas from the patrol boat to Mike and Razor on the shore. Ben and I watched them scramble up the bank of the levee with them.

  Once it was clear they had the ninjas to the top of the levee, Ben and I slipped away on the river. Ben drove the patrol boat back to St. Francis Point, using only one engine to reduce noise.

  I studied my roadmap during the slow ride up the river. Storm Creek Lake campground and day use area showed on the map, about two miles away, as the crow flies from the moonshine operation. That campground was a logical place for refugees to gather. The surrounding lake and forest provided potential food sources. Even ground acorns tasted edible once you leached the bitterness from them. So my mom says.

  While it would be great, I doubted we would find Andy at the campground. I felt he would have left a message at St. Francis Point if he was so close. His group only arrived during the past week and might not find refuge in an established camp. Someone needed to scout the camp area if only to gather intel.

  We tied the patrol boat to a tree on the St. Francis River side of the point, waiting for the rest of our crew to arrive. Ben and I kicked around different scenarios aimed at finding Andy's group. We agreed monitoring the moonshiners was worthwhile if only to find out who they traded their product with.

  By the time Allie radioed that the Cumberland was only a few miles out, Ben and I formed a game plan. After dark, Mike and Razor would move in on the four moonshiners to listen to their conversations. Ben and I would scout the local roads, expecting to end up with a crude local road map. Then unless we spotted a better target, we would infiltrate the Storm Creek Lake campground to gather further intel. Tom and Joel on the Cumberland would serve as the quick reaction force.

  Ben and I helped tie up the Cumberland/Jersey Girl to the bank. The Cumberland had cable winches that once held its barge to the towboat. We looped those cables around the two largest trees near the shore. Joel winched the cables taut. With the bows of both boats stuck in the mud, the boats seemed secure.

  Allie, our pilot, and the least experienced warrior would remain with the towboats. As our junior backup medic, she was responsible for Craig's care while the rest of us were on the mission. Kurt, the teen we picked up near the Tennessee River, would help with Craig and boat handling.

  Joel and Tom would standby, ready to respond riding ninjas or by patrol boat if one of our groups needed help. I hated to divide our forces, but concerns about the fate of Andy's crew drove me. Time was not on their side.

  Someone shifted the M240b machine gun from the top deck of the Jersey Girl to the top deck of the Cumberland. That would make it easier to defend the Cumberland.

  I went in to check on Craig. A stray bullet sliced open his thigh in the shootout in the Memphis shootout, only eight hours ago. As our premier sniper and infiltrator, we would miss Craig's expertise in the coming days. Tom assured us the bullet missed anything vital. Craig bled a lot from his wound, refusing to call for help until he almost passed out from blood loss. Tom reached him just as Craig was sliding into shock.

  The bullet striking Craig traveled through the wheelhouse roof on the Jersey Girl, where Craig perched, shooting at the pirates. Tom believed Craig might be available for limited duty in a few days unless the bleeding started again.

  Craig remained in a drug-induced sleep, strapped in the stokes stretcher in the Cumberland galley. Tom expected to move him to a bunk in the morning. Tom coached Kurt on helping Craig pee into a container, should Craig awaken before Tom got back. While Allie would help in a heartbeat, Tom worried Craig might risk ripping his stitches open to avoid asking her.

  As a recovering alcoholic, Craig rejected most pain killers unless Tom ruled one was medically necessary. Craig got clean and sober when he came to Breckinridge Valley and maintained this status since he arrived.

  Craig missed having AA meetings right after the crash, but his sponsor was one of my dad's cronies who lived in the Valley. I suspected they reestablished a Valley AA chapter within a few weeks of the crash, though it chose not to pry into his business. I hoped this injury wouldn't be a significant setback for Craig.

  Ben and I briefed our backup team and those remaining on the boat. If the Cumberland came under fire, Allie would use the M240b to buy time to pull away from shore. The two trees we tied the boats up to probably would not hold against the hefty drag of the Cumberland's engines in full reverse. If withdrawal became necessary, Allie planned to park about a mile upriver and radio for instructions.

  The patrol boat would remain behind, but Joel, our engine wizard, temporarily disabled its starter. He radioed instructions for restoring the boat to operation if needed.

  Darkness swept over the area, as the dark clouds thickened and swirled above us. The scent of rain warned of the upcoming shift in the weather.

  Mike radioed that one person monitored the stills, but the others were now inside the travel trailer. Mike and Razor were moving in to listen and observe.

  That was our cue to leave. Ben and I switched to night vision, mounted our ninjas and eased away from the point, avoiding the broken bottles and other detritus. We gunned our accelerators to climb to the top of the levee and steered right to follow the gravel road paralleling the St. Francis River, retracing our earlier trek.

  Everything looked different in the cold and dark. Night vision gave the surrounding forest an eerie, unnatural quality.

  This time, we kept going along the levee past the first turnoff. As we noted before, the branch road was in much better condition than the road we stayed on. About a half mile later, our road branched again to our left, this branch angled away from the St. Francis River to the southeast. The branch was a lot more dirt and mud than even our current roadway. We suspected that track intersected with the earlier turnoff, forming a Y.

  The road's condition confirmed my earlier thought that few people drove on this section of road even before the crash. I wondered how many seasons it would take for the forest to reclaim this track.

  We remained on our current heading as the track continued to deteriorate until ending in a pile of garbage and an abandoned couch. Several dirt bike paths veered off the levee and into the forest away from the river, but we didn't follow them. On the north side of the r
oad, occasional trails broke through the thick tree growth to provide access to the St. Francis River.

  The place was deserted. The area looked like a fishing and drinking spot for teens and old men during mellower weather before the crash. I could imagine dragging an old flat-bottomed boat down the levee to the river to work a trotline, looking for monster catfish.

  Ben and I turned back once we got to the ratty weather-beaten couch. By odometer, we traveled only one and three-quarters miles in a mostly westerly direction since leaving the clearing at St. Francis Point.

  We checked in via radio and learned Razor and Mike remained at their listening post at the moonshiner's trailer.

  We took the first branch leading away from the river after backtracking about one-quarter mile.

  Ben and I slowed to a crawl to avoid wrecking the bikes. Riding on the edge of the roadway did not guarantee we could stay upright. We now rode single file with Ben in the lead. Ben picked our path around the downed branches and deep potholes. I followed his zigs and zags while trying to monitor our surroundings for threats.

  After another quarter mile, the track merged with a road in much better condition. By compass, the new road traversed northeast to southwest. If we turned left (northeast), we returned to St. Francis Point, so we turned southwest.

  This road had fewer potholes and more gravel, though still heavily rutted. While I would not drive a low-clearance vehicle this way, the track resembled many gravel roads in remote parts of Mecklin County, Tennessee. In Mecklin County, logging companies built this type of road, but here the trees looked too scraggly to interest any loggers. The land itself was young, born of Mississippi River silt.

  I rode behind Ben, still in a single file. So far nothing visible but thick barren forest. The rustle of the few remaining dead leaves on the trees and the crunch of our tires were the only sounds. From time to time, I caught a hint of smoke on the wind, but nothing definitive and its direction eluded us.

  During the past few hours, heavy clouds built in from the northwest. This far south I doubted they held snow. While rain would make infiltrating a camp easier, I was getting old enough to hope the dry weather continued.

  "The chainsaw group finished off a pint of moonshine and passed out," radioed Mike. "We didn't learn much. These guys are part of a group camped nearby. No idea where. This group supplies the booze and the used-up mash to the camp.

  “They are behind on this week's quota of booze, and they hate those running the camp. A lot of talk about taking this week's booze into Helena and selling it. The group sounded afraid of what would happen if they did. They talked about someone getting shot last time they missed a quota."

  "We could capture all four of them," Razor radioed. "If we drove the truck downriver and took the booze, those at the camp would think they ran off."

  Ben and I pulled over to discuss the situation. The benefit if knowing the situation outweighed the risk of an attack on the still operation.

  "Tom and Joel help them out, bring the patrol boat, we can't afford any truck tracks leading back to the point. Pick up anything in the camp, like fuel, 'shine, chainsaws, and food you think someone would take, but don't wreck their stills. Razor and Mike should take the truck and their ninjas south down the river to reconnoiter."

  "Roger," Mike radioed. "Give us about 15 minutes to secure the man minding the still."

  "We'll bring the patrol boat your way," Joel radioed. "We'll crank up the engine when you give the word."

  Ben and I resumed our slow ride through the wintry darkness. My ears strained to pick up sounds of conflict or gunfire. The absence of sound meant good news, or so I kept telling myself. Before the CME, I was not a mother hen and no stranger to being in harm's way. While I still worried before the crash, I didn't obsess when I sent others on operations.

  The CME fundamentally changed my risk calculus. I witnessed this type of change in others before. When the anxiety got too extreme, command eased them out of combat operations. Not something I could afford. Nor could I afford to let anxiety distract me from tonight's mission.

  Our road T-boned into an even nicer road after only a quarter mile. This new road still had ruts but more gravel and less mud, nearly suitable without four-wheel drive. I dismounted and cut a large branch, sweeping it behind us to erase our scant tracks in the gravel. No reason to lead anyone in the direction of our camp.

  We turned left in a southeasterly direction. I expected to intersect with the road to the still. Based on my map, we Storm Creek Lake park was close.

  "Prisoners secure," Mike radioed. "Come pick them up."

  Good news. The wedge around my heart eased at the message.

  "No tangoes on the levee road beside the St. Francis River. That road is a dead end, we are proceeding southeast on a new road about a mile from the point," Ben radioed.

  "We'll clean up here and apprise you of anything we learn from these guys," Tom radioed. "Mike and Razor went back for their ninjas, and Joel is trying to start the pickup truck. I confiscated the moonshine for antiseptic purposes, much to Mike's disappointment."

  "Keep us posted. Every sign of people so far dates from before the crash," I radioed.

  The better road allowed us to pick up speed. Ben and I stayed in a single file. The whiff of smoke strengthened, though we failed to pinpoint where it came from.

  A screeching owl swooping down in front of us caused Ben to swerve and almost sent me tumbling over the handlebars. By mutual consent, we stopped to catch our breath, and laugh quietly at ourselves. Nothing like a jolt of adrenaline to regain one's attention.

  We started back up. More relaxed. Still alert but looser. After traveling more than a mile, we gauged the source of the smoke was to the west and not on our road. I kept expecting to spot the campground. We continued the crunch of our tires the dominant sound.

  The four-way intersection surprised us, causing us both to slam on the brakes and kick up some gravel. The east fork went toward the Mississippi River likely toward the barges and moonshine operation. The most recent traffic, indicated by pothole splashes, went east to west. The amount of traffic favored that route, too. A dilapidated street sign indicated we had been traveling on Big Spring Road.

  We turned away from the river. This time both Ben and I cut branches and removed the traces of our travel from Big Spring Road. Blurring our passage might not be necessary, but it might keep our new base secure.

  The new stretch of road surprised me, doubling back to the north with a noticeable grade. The route aimed toward the smoke we smelled earlier. A T-bone intersection loomed in the darkness, we stopped to choose directions.

  Here, we spotted the first signs of official civilization since arriving at St. Francis Point, a paved road and power poles. Ben turned right onto the pavement, and I followed. I glimpsed something through the trees to our left, but until we came to the fencing and sign, I didn't realize what it was.

  We tucked our ninjas against some trees and edged silently toward the Storm Creek Lake access. In the green light of our night vision goggles, I counted more than forty RVs and travel trailers plus a significant collection of random vehicles. No lights. Several loud snores but no other sounds.

  Assorted wheelbarrows and buckets rested on the pavement within feet of a fireplace created by stacks of concrete blocks. Embers glowed in the fireplace and steam rose from heavy pots resting on the grates. A man, sporting a baseball cap, sat in a flimsy lawn chair next to the fire, staring into it. While we watched, he shoved several bulky sticks into the embers. The man then stood to pour steaming liquid out of one pot into one of the five-gallon buckets nearby. He placed the empty pot back on the fire and poured the contents of a second bucket into it.

  He flopped back into his chair, staring at the fire and sipping from a jar. The fire flared from the added fuel, illuminating his black bearded face. Not much to see here. The man at the fire carried a pistol in a holster on his hip, but no sign of a long gun, though we didn't edge close enough to verif
y.

  We faded back toward the road, hugging the tree line to reach the far side of the parking lot. The stench of a pig wallow mixed with the odor of fermented mash filled the air. We found the mash recipients.

  At the edge of the woods, lashed-together branches and small diameter tree trunks formed a lean-to enclosed by chicken wire. We didn't get closer, not wanting to rouse the chickens and alert anyone. Chickens weren't as bad as dogs, but it paid to tread lightly around them. Our thermal sights confirmed the presence of several pigs and a flock of chickens.

  More smoke blew toward us from further along the road. According to signs, the road led to a closed campground. The paved road gave way to gravel, and we hugged the far edge of the road to avoid crunching through the dead leaves. The road moved us uphill from lake level at a slight incline.

  The campground perched high above the lake, its 'closed' sign still dangled from a broken chain. From the stumps, I suspected this was once a lovely wooded campsite, reduced now to a parking lot. Knee-high stumps replaced most of the trees. I suspected the campers would miss their shade once summer came.