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

by Zack Finley

  "If I am doing a lot of physical work, she gives me an extra food chit every day," Buzzer said. "I scope out the breakfast and supper, then decide which I like better. I always pick breakfast when it is a breakfast meat and eggs day."

  "How do you know what will be served?" Jumper asked.

  "I check out the morning spread and ask the cooks about dinner," Buzzer said.

  "It is still a work in progress," Tom said. "We are trying to balance nutritional needs and food supply for the whole Valley without making it too complicated. When spring planting starts, I suspect the basic ration will increase to account for the increased physical activity."

  "People get pissed if you don't clean your plate," Mike said. "Even if it is blood sausage."

  "Wasting food or taking more than your share are both bad ideas," Joel added. "If you are still hungry after meals talk with Dr. Jerrod."

  "Tom, is it true they may have an evening meal this summer?" asked Matt.

  "Yeah, with a longer working day, Dr. Jerrod is worried those with really physical jobs may need a boost. She wishes she'd paid more attention to scientific papers on the subject before the crash. Keeping everyone in fighting trim is tougher than she expected. She's hoping Allie will take that on as a research project," Tom said, pointing to Allie.

  Within moments Allie had plenty of offers to be guinea pigs for her research. "I haven't agreed to do any of that, I'm trying to get Jacob and Rachel to let me work their farm this year. I'll do what I'm assigned, but that is my preference. I'm more of a doer than a researcher."

  I imagined Jacob and Rachel would welcome her help with open arms. Expanding and merging our current farm practices with Mennonite methods was one of my dad's main objectives for this year and the next. Jules' warning gave us an extra year's supply of diesel to power our farm equipment, but it would eventually run out, and we had to be ready.

  "Grady, do you want to call Fort Sill today or wait?" I asked.

  "I'm in no hurry. I want to talk with you and whoever is in charge about a lot of things before we do. I know Andy's dad is your dad's XO and he needs to help his family for a few days," Grady said. "It isn't like the Army can help us, or we can help them. I'd rather talk before contacting any Army facility. That could be a highly beneficial discussion, but there is no reason to rush into it."

  I was already picturing Grady as the commander of our defense force. That would let Roger concentrate on his other five jobs.

  I left to give Razor's information to my uncle George for the stone mason. George hid in his storage room. I peered into the room, he sat at his desk. He cussed and glared at a piece of paper. If I was lucky, I could get in and out without getting involved in whatever pissed him off.

  I strolled straight in, holding my paper up and initiating the conversation, "Granny says you have a stonemason working on Andy's memorial. She said he could also make a small stone for Razor if I got you his particulars." I placed my paper down on his desk, preparing to reverse course. I hoped to avoid becoming embroiled in the latest animal husbandry problem. He still hadn't forgiven me for ramping up meat production and introducing rabbits and goats last year before the crash.

  "I'm sorry about Razor," Uncle George said, "He was a good man. He was getting more comfortable working with cattle, even if it meant he had to ride a horse."

  "I didn't know he was learning about cattle," I said.

  "Yeah, he said they didn't have any cattle where he grew up, just concrete and garbage," George said. "He really liked the clean air. Carmine said his horsemanship was coming along. I told him he couldn't be a cowboy unless he could ride. A shame."

  George picked up the paper, "Really a shame. I'll give this to Chris; he is finishing up Andy's now. I'll see you at the service."

  I took my cue and left. I hadn't realized that Razor wanted to be a cattleman or that Carmine was teaching him to ride.

  I went to find Zeke. He was my second in command and my main sounding board. I needed to say something at Razor's memorial and wanted some help.

  No surprise but Zeke was in the armory, cataloging and evaluating the weapons and ammo we brought back with us. We left with no machine guns and returned with two. The assortment of weapons Zeke had didn't include the rifles and pistols the Arkansas bunch was carrying. Those would come later as we evaluated their weapon skills and assigned them to offense or defense, in the Valley or at Justice.

  Together Zeke and I sketched out a few words to say about Razor. Amongst the Rangers, touting his lockpick and car thieving skills would resonate, amongst civilians, not so much. I kept returning to the mission where he carried a wounded man five miles back to camp, without fanfare. He didn’t even like the man, but that didn’t matter.

  Razor placed team and country above himself in at least 10 deployments around the world. To have him accidentally killed by a scared teenager in bumfuck Arkansas was impossible to reconcile.

  George's words eased the raw feelings inside me. Razor found a new home here in Breckinridge Valley. He had a bright future as a cattleman and horseman. He died on a righteous mission where we rescued a bunch of good people held by bad people. I lost men on missions where I wasn't sure if we were the good guys or the bad guys. On this mission, we were definitely the good guys. That had to be enough.

  I went home and did laundry, taking comfort in the mendacity of the chore. I hung my clothes on the empty family room drying racks. I arranged them as close to the stove as I possible without singeing. Drying clothes was one of those chores that electricity made so easy it disappeared from consciousness. Throw dirty clothes in the washer then toss them in the dryer. No more problem.

  In the Valley, we had enough electricity to run the washers, with some restrictions, but not enough for driers. Drying clothing became a wintertime problem, which would improve once the weather warmed. Another post-CME casualty I never considered.

  My house had eight crude clothes drying racks set up near the wood stove. Some of the guys washed underwear by hand every night and hung it up to dry overnight. Some tried washing all their clothes once every two weeks.

  We eventually adjusted, giving everyone drying rack time to use or trade as they needed. Those on deployments got special dispensations when they got back. I was taking advantage of that now.

  Some of the guys hung their combat uniforms outside or in the garage for a few days, to make the most of their rack time. I would move my heavier clothing to the garage if needed to keep the peace. Despite their bulk, the material dried quickly, so I hoped to avoid that by getting a head start.

  It was also why I built a roaring fire in the stove, hoping to dry my clothes and free up the racks for the rest of my crew. Several rainy days always built up a backlog on the drying racks.

  Alone time spent puttering around, doing laundry, and reading a book helped the coil inside me unwind.

  The gong for supper woke me up with a start. My book was lying closed on the floor. The room was no longer toasty, and the humidity caused by wet clothing hung in the air. I glanced at my watch, confirming it was the supper gong that woke me.

  I pulled dry clothes from the racks, leaving the damp ones in place. I chose a larger log to add to the fire, hoping by the time it died down, all my clothes would be dry. I consolidated and reoriented the damp clothes before dumping the clean ones in my locker. I vowed to put them away properly when I got back from supper. I needed something to kill time between supper and the memorial at 18:00.

  I grabbed my weapon, plate carrier, and helmet from the mudroom and jogged to the food hut. I got in line without looking around, more intent on today's meal. Tangy barbecue pork in a corn tortilla wrap with a dollop of raw cabbage and carrot slaw. It might be a coincidence, but granny knew it was one of my favorite meals.

  Once I had my plate, I looked around and walked over the kid's table to hug my girls. Careful not to overstay my welcome, I moved to sit with the table full of Rangers, half the Gammas and Grady, Jumper, Tiny, Deke, Fred, and Dwayne.
>
  Lois and Juanita sat with four of the children from the trip, surrounded by empty seats. The rest of their group sat at the next table, sans Jules and Andy's kids.

  I'd had some alone time, now I needed to earn my keep. But I wasn't going to do it alone. I walked across the café to where my mom and dad were discussing the fate of the Valley. Or comparing rhubarb pie recipes, I didn't bother to listen, "Mom, dad, can you join me for a few minutes?"

  I stood at their elbows, and they disentangled themselves from their friends and followed me to Lois' table. I caught the surprised tilt to my dad's eyebrow as they both realized they'd been played.

  "Lois, Juanita, I'd like you to meet my folks, Claire and Aaron Breckinridge. I brought them over to share supper with you because I'm sure you have a lot of questions." I looked over at Jimmy and the others at the next table, "Jimmy and John, why don't you bring your friends over here, there is plenty of room."

  My mom and dad transitioned to their gracious host personas while I dug into my supper. John and Jimmy pulled over everyone from their table. No one had anything left to eat on their plates, so I was the only one still eating. Once I finished, I switched to the other end of the table to answer any questions that hadn't surfaced before.

  I loved it, my mom waved over people for different group members to talk with, and my dad was answering every question they peppered him with. The council still needed to formally accept the new arrivals into the Valley. That required Jules to officially sponsor them with an endorsement from either Roger or Carmine. Once that formality was complete, they would receive a list of obligations and officially be sworn in. Only then could they receive their work assignments. They would remain on probation for at least six months although we wouldn't tell them that.

  I extricated myself from the meeting I'd dumped on my mom and dad. While I was putting my dishes in the cleaning zone, I overheard a conversation that reinforced some of the things my mom said.

  "Can you believe they are bringing more people into the Valley?" a dark-haired man about 35-year-old said to a blond man of about the same age. Their clothes suggested they worked for Uncle George tending animals.

  "Nepotism, that's what it is. You think they'd send a group all the way to Arkansas to pick up my family? Hell, no, they wouldn't. We need to vote that damned council out," said the blonde.

  "Nah, I think we should demand they return our stuff and let us go home. They owe us a lot of extra food for all the hours we work," said the dark-haired man. "We deserve more than two meals a day."

  They were still chatting as they left the food hut. I considered following, but that would just push the conversation further underground.

  I hadn't heard anything this blatant before. This wasn't just the "normal" complaints about having blood sausage for breakfast, again.

  No wonder my mom was worried. Those two weren't worried that I overheard them. They might not recognize who I was, but my Mecklin Defender uniform should have given them some pause. It just reinforced that some of our newcomers failed to understand their place on our lifeboat wasn't theirs by right.

  Those men had no clue what organizing along those lines might risk. Of course, it was possible they were just blowing off steam, but it seemed more serious than that.

  Most of the newcomers believed lack of food was why we limited everyone to two meals per day. It wasn't, but we didn't correct those who believed it.

  When my dad brought me in to update the Plan, one of the things that puzzled me was why transitioning to two meals a day was mandatory. I knew we had years of food in storage. The layers of thought and planning that went into that one element made me give more credence to other aspects of the Plan.

  Dr. Jerrod considered three meals a day a modern European-centric relic with little nutritional basis. She blamed it and the abundance of refined foods for encouraging people to eat more than their bodies needed. By initiating a gradual Valley-wide forced diet, Dr. Jerrod expected to reduce high blood pressure, heart disease, diabetes, and other diseases associated with the modern American diet. She felt if not addressed immediately, those chronic illnesses would reduce life spans and chew up our limited medical supplies within a few years.

  She also realized people with low fat reserves, those performing hard physical labor, pregnant women, and children had different requirements, so she constantly monitored people's weight and condition to ensure they had enough food to fuel their metabolism.

  My mom and the council jumped on Dr. Jerrod's meal plan because preparing two meals took fewer workers and less resources than three.

  There was a psychological reason as well, it marked the transition from old wasteful days to new SHTF days, encouraging people to respect the food they received.

  It seemed a no-brainer now, but one of the biggest controversies during the creation of The Plan was consolidating food preparation. Our hodge-podge of rugged individualists resisted that concept even in the face of resource charts and manpower loads. My dad told me the breakthrough came after a female-only retreat. Once all the wives, moms, grandmas, and daughters reached a consensus, their men caved to the inevitable.

  My dad, Roger, and his Vietnam cronies supported cutting back to two meals a day because it demonstrated to outsiders we had cut back, too. Having our neighbors think we were living high on the hog, while they went to bed hungry was a potential flashpoint. The anger and resentment caused by such envy could incite an attack. Helping others get by, while tightening our own belts, could elicit more cooperation and less animosity.

  Keeping secrets was ingrained for those raised in the Valley culture. So was respect for resources. Members pledged to treat every resource as finite, no matter how deep our supplies went. Recycle, reuse, renewable energy even if it took more effort, and zero waste were tenets we tried to live by, even when not home in the Valley.

  After the SHTF, our long-term survival depended on it.

  My mom was becoming increasingly concerned that too many people brought in soon after the crash were not adjusting well to our mission. She believed we offered them asylum too quickly. They never got a true taste of life outside of safe enclaves, like the Valley. At first, most were grateful to be safe, warm, have fresh water and food to eat. She feared they increasingly saw restrictions in the Valley as un-American and intrusive, not realizing what life was like on the outside.

  Now I had my own minor data point. It seemed I'd missed more during my recovery from getting shot than I knew.

  I wondered whether the arrival of our Arkansas group would remind people that life in the Valley was worth working hard for. Or if they, like the two I overheard, just resented adding more people to take resources away from them.

  It sounded like the next council meeting might have a lot more issues to discuss than just accepting Kurt and the Arkansas crew into the Valley.

  I intended to find out how widespread this disaffection was, especially if long term allies like Allie's father joined their ranks.

  I was jogging back home on autopilot while these thoughts roiled through my mind when something clicked. That was the moment I stopped mulling and decided to do something. Nothing good would come of this split.

  I changed directions and ran at a more energetic pace to the armory. Zeke would still be there servicing weapons and cataloging. Zeke was alone, he had an AK47 field stripped on his weapon's table, muttering to himself.

  "What has that rifle done to irritate you?" I asked, breezing into the armory.

  "I don't like this rust," Zeke said, waving toward the bolt assembly. "The AK47 can handle a lot of abuse, but it wouldn't have hurt them to clean it once in a while."

  "A little elbow grease and you'll clear that up easy," I said scrutinizing the offending piece.

  "Yeah, but now I'm worried about hidden problems," Zeke said. "I'll clean this up but put it on yellow status. I have too many pieces in that category."

  Yellow status just meant Zeke would only certify it for training and target shooting. I k
new he wouldn't be satisfied until he disassembled that rifle completely. Field stripping only involved five or six pieces, a full disassembly involved hundreds of little parts. I could do it but always expected there to be parts left over when I did it. Of course, Zeke lived for that.

  Most of the weapons behind him on the racks had green colored tags, only one was red-tagged, and four had yellow tags. Considering the conditions we recovered them from, that seemed pretty reasonable.

  "Where did you get these M240bs?" Zeke asked. "I can't imagine someone left them sitting around waiting for you to walk off with them."

  "We captured the first one on the way to Arkansas and the second one from the same source on the way back," I said. "We shot the first one some, but just packed the second away without firing it."

  "They are in good condition; I'd love to have extra barrels, but without more ammo, I'm not sure that matters," Zeke said. "If you have someone skilled on the trigger, they can baby them along."