“But how have they managed to get so many? And keep them together?”
This was Scott’s question to answer, and he had some ideas on that.
“I think that’s where the Recovery Committee comes into play, LT. After this band of losers got their noses bloodied trying to take Joplin like they did Springfield, Walter says things started getting a little better. Not worse, as you would imagine with a rabble gang that got shot to ribbons trying to storm well-defended fortifications.”
The folks in northern Arkansas thought of Joplin in neighboring Missouri as one of the bright spots left in their part of the country. Not a huge city with a little over 50,000 souls pre-pulse, Joplin still had a sizeable population once you took in the outlying areas, and no way to feed them. Joplin likely would have fallen into the same orgy of murder and violence, except for a few mitigating factors. One, the city possessed a strong city council and a mayor who quickly came to grasp with what she faced. Two, Joplin also had several farming communities in the area, and those men and women decided to work together with the city, instead of fighting over the scraps.
So far, Joplin was managing to hold on and actually pacify some of the surrounding countryside as well, taking pressure off the farmers in the area. Scott didn’t know all the details, but rumors also indicated the city had survived a takeover attempt orchestrated by Jeffrey Chambers and his group of stooges.
“How were things getting better? He give any details?”
“Well, once on the road out of Joplin, just when the last few hundred were getting ready to split up, they suddenly got more buses and then a huge supply of diesel fuel. Just out of the blue, and with no explanation. Marshawn, their leader, claims the Lord is looking out for his flock by providing for them in their time of need,” Scott reported.
“Oh, no, not another Messiah,” Conners announced with a serious sigh. This was no joke, as several religious groups had already announced this was the Time of Tribulations. As conditions worsened across the country, some whole counties fell under sway of religious zealots, and many wondered if they weren’t worse than the outright warlords rising to power.
“Zombie Messiah, anyway,” Sarah continued, smoothly picking up the thread of their conversation. “The rank-and-file killers, the Liberators like Walter, are not sharp. Whatever they started out as, these months of drugs and booze and casual killing have taken a toll. Made them nearly immune to pain or hardship. The man claims he used to be a lawyer, and a successful one based on his rambling boasts, but now he can barely walk in a straight line, or compose a sentence without the word ‘fuck’ in it.
“That’s why we went with waterboarding the prisoner, since I doubt he would have noticed if we’d lopped off a few fingers or toes. He’s hard as hell to understand, like he’s rented out his brain as a timeshare. Sometimes he was answering us and sometimes, he was talking to his dead wife. Who we think he ate, by the way. Before the Liberation Army got to him, too.”
Scott curled a lip in disgust before he added, “If you don’t need him anymore, I suggest immediately putting Walter down. He’s a health hazard, if nothing else. Plus, there’s the whole cannibal thing.”
“What about any more details on their military objectives? Like what prompted their attacks on the campers?”
“Uh…sir. That wasn’t a military attack.” Scott looked down, then glanced up to meet Conners’ eyes. The older Marine’s expression was cold, like something carved from a block of ice. “He confirmed what we’ve seen. That’s what we meant about these zombies being hungry. It was the Army gathering food for the troops. They don’t just gather the dead after a fight and toss them in the stewpot. They are actively hunting humans for food.”
Conners let out a stream of air, like a deflating balloon, as the implications struck.
“So there’s an army five thousand strong headed this way, with half their force camped within twenty miles? An army of cannibals, aided and abetted by rogue members of a federal agency on an empire- building mission?”
Sarah looked at Conners and gave a short bark of a laugh, completely devoid of humor. “Well, it does sound pretty bad when you put it that way.”
Conners looked away, breaking eye contact with Scott before he spoke next.
“We need to get this intel to the Captain. And we need to both get the word out about what’s coming and see if we can scare up some reinforcements. We don’t have the manpower to face those kinds of numbers alone, and we can’t allow this slaughter of our neighbors to continue.”
“LT, you thinking of firing up the transmitter?” Scott asked, seeing where the young officer was heading.
“I am indeed. We will need to coordinate with Captain Devayne. He may want to initiate the plan himself, depending on what his people get out of the prisoner they are interrogating. Fighting zombies is one thing, but going up against a technologically superior foe requires a different strategy.
“For right now, Scott, I want you to write it up, everything you got from your prisoner, and deliver it to the Captain. I’m sending you in a two Humvee element, and I want you to pick one of your more senior militiamen to go with you.”
“You mean self-defense force?” Scott couldn’t help but saying. Then he sobered before continuing. “You think we are going to be doing some recruiting? Then I’ll take Bruce.”
“Can your brother spare him?” Sarah asked, practical as always. Bruce was a senior member of the force given his prior military experience, but he was also Darwin’s right-hand on the farm.
“Bruce knows all the right people around here, Sarah. He’s a local and he can fight. Been stuck here at the farm more than he’d like, so he’ll probably be amenable to going.”
Conners nodded along. “Get Bruce, if Darwin can spare him. We need to come up with a plan, and time is not on our side. I want you on the road ASAP, Scott. Unless the Captain has something else cooking, I want you out playing Paul Revere by noon at latest. Sarah, can you give a briefing for the men here? Guard and self-defense force together?”
Conners got a ‘yes, sir’ from both and the wheels started turning in short order. As Conners said, time was short and people were already dying.
CHAPTER THIRTEEN
“So, how do you know these guys?” Bruce asked as they rolled along the rutted gravel road, bordered on both sides by thick stands of pine and a smattering of cedar interspaced with the oaks. The oaks were already starting to turn, and leaves would soon begin to drop. The heat of the summer was only now beginning to abate, making the mornings and evenings much more pleasant that just a few weeks before.
With PFC Wallace once again behind the wheel, Corporal Arness was manning the M240 in the cupola and another soldier, Corporal Watkins, was riding shotgun while the older two men sat in back.
“What? The Copperheads? Just what I heard through the law enforcement grapevine. Motorcycle gang with a sideline in drugs, weapons, and gambling. In fact, I heard they ran one of the biggest underground poker rooms in Fayetteville.”
“I never understood why folks didn’t just go to the casinos for that, if they wanted to throw away their money so bad. And why didn’t the cops raid this place if they knew about it?” Bruce griped, expressing one of the most frequently heard complaints about local law enforcement anywhere. If you know they are breaking the law, why not do something about it?
“Well, wasn’t my call. Wildlife Officer, remember? Not my kind of wildlife. But I heard they kept it mostly legit, as things go, and used a popular nightclub as a cover. I imagine the decision makers in the local PD preferred them acting this way, where they were at least under some scrutiny.”
Scott didn’t repeat the rumors circulated that certain palms had been greased to maintain the status quo. Not his place, and no longer an issue in the new world.
“I don’t care what they were before, but if these peckerwoods did anything to Jeb and Marge, then it’ll be a cold day in Hell before I work with them. That’s all I’m saying.”
&n
bsp; “Ah, you mean the Porters?”
“That’s right. I’ve known Jeb my whole life, its seems. He was a grade behind me in school, you know?”
Scott shook his head, fighting a grin.
“No, I didn’t know that, Bruce. But I do know, the Porter’s oldest boy, Thad, is a lieutenant in this chapter of the Copperheads. That’s probably got something to do with why they are here. I’m guessing he invited them here, once town got too hot for them.”
Bruce laughed then at the unexpected news.
“That sure puts things in a different light then. So, you think we can trust them?”
“Hell, no. I don’t trust anybody but me and you, and I ain’t so sure about you.”
Corporal Arness, who’d been busy eavesdropping while still maintaining a proper watch, nearly fell out of the turret sling when he started laughing. Sometimes the oldies are the best, Scott thought as they turned into the driveway and saw the rough log blockhouse guarding the front gate to the Porter homestead.
“How you want to handling this, Sergeant?” PFC Wallace called out as they approached the manned sentry post. They’d already discussed the general idea, of course, but the particulars remained to be worked out as they surveyed the lay of the land.
“Watkins, radio Ramirez and tell him to hold up,” Scott said, once again all business as he began issuing orders for the lead Humvee. “He’ll need to pull back in a moment and assume an overwatch position to monitor the road.”
While the corporal on the radio got to work, Scott continued talking in a low tone that managed to carry in the Humvee, but no further.
“We don’t want to spook these guys. Wallace, pull up closer and activate the loud speaker.”
Wallace nodded along as Scott spoke. Before they’d left, the private first class had worked with Stan Schecter to install a battery-powered PA system Stan had rounded up from somewhere. To Scott, the collection of wires and boxes looked like something from the 1950s, but as long as it worked, he wouldn’t complain.
“I’ll give them a shout,” Scott continued, “and see if they are accepting visitors today. If so, Mr. Collins and I will be going in to talk. Nothing on the SINCGARS radio, mind you. If you all get a recall message or something from higher, hit me on the tactical radio, but don’t acknowledge like you normally do.”
“What if they wave us off?” Watkins asked.
“Then we return to base. But I don’t think they will. We are minding our manners and I’m banking on the head man being too curious to send us away without a meeting.”
Scott then used the microphone to deliver a short and succinct request to talk to the man in charge. The message boomed out of the mounted speakers, and then a tense minute passed until one of the sentries stood up over the improvised sandbags to wave an arm their direction. Scott could make out at least one other man still covering them, but he decided that was only prudent.
As per their previous discussions, Bruce and Scott elected to leave their rifles in the truck, but retained their pistols and other gear. Self-defense was one thing, but long arms represented an unnecessary provocation.
“That’s Jeb,” Bruce announced as they emerged from the protective embrace of the armored Humvee to see a short, older man in overalls with a solid white goatee coming around the side of the log gatehouse.
As Scott and Bruce made their way across the outer yard, Jeb broke into a trot and extended his hand to Bruce for a solid shake.
“Bruce, you old dog!” the short man exclaimed. “I figured you’d be okay if you stayed on with Darwin’s bunch.” The man turned slightly, taking in the tall, slender figure of Scott and finding his measure.
“You must be Scott, Dar’s baby brother,” he said, and shook Scott’s hand with vigor equal to the pumping he’d given Bruce’s. “You got your daddy’s eyes.”
Scott, who hadn’t been considered a baby by anybody in quite some time, let out a short bark of a laugh. “You got me, sir. I don’t believe we’ve met, though.”
“Hah! Last time I saw you, you were probably still in high school. Been what, twenty-five years or more? Anyway, I see you come with an escort. I hope that doesn’t mean anything.”
Bruce stepped in to reassure his old friend at that point.
“Nothing but a precaution. Things are getting bad out there, though. That’s why we’re here.”
“What? What do you need?”
“We need to talk to the man in charge of your guests, Mr. Porter. Bruce and I need to see Max.”
Jeb regarded Scott for a moment, his grin fading a bit as he processed the request.
“Alright. I’ll take you to him, but you need to leave the soldier boys out here. None of us are exactly comfortable with having too many armed outsiders around. No offense meant.”
“None taken. We have the same rules at home. The ways of the world, Mr. Porter. The lives of our family are too precious to risk.”
Jeb seemed satisfied with Scott’s remarks, for he waved a reassuring hand at the guards and ushered the two guests in past what Scott could now see was a wooden palisade like out of the history books. Made up of rough-hewn logs with sharpened points buried in a row and protecting the front entrance, the fifteen feet high barrier stretched to the tree line on both sides. A massive double hung gate, also made of cut and strapped logs, stood open and once inside, Scott saw the stout wooden logs that stood ready to bar the entrance. Also, the back side of the wooden gates boasted a sheet of welded steel, undoubtedly scavenged road plate. That stuff was heavy as hell, Scott knew, and he knew it would stop just about anything up to 50 caliber.
The open space inside the protective walls reminded Scott of sights he’d witnessed at Renaissance Fairs in times past. He wasn’t a big fan, but Bella had loved to go every year after seeing the local event advertised on television. Thinking of her in the elaborate fairy costume she loved made the big man smile slightly as he surveyed the scene.
A dozen large, colorful tents were arrayed in a semi-circle around, but well back from, a well-constructed, stone-lined fire pit. Behind these tents, Scott saw what looked to be rough but sturdy lean-tos built to shelter motorcycles of all types, as well as a variety of trailers. Further back still, Scott saw a line of shipping containers set up end to end and finally, behind that barrier, he made out the upper story of what looked like a large farmhouse flanked by an old wooden-clad barn, complete with a second story hay loft.
“Defenses in depth, I see,” Scott commented, and Jeb gave him a speculative glance.
“I’ve heard the boys, mainly Nick and Mark, talk about the FOBs, Forward Operating Bases, they saw or operated from when stationed overseas,” Scott explained. “Somebody here knows what they’re doing.”
“Aye,” Jeb agreed. “You really should talk to Max.”
With that, the man led them further on without saying another word until they reached the large hay barn. As they moved around the second row of walls, Scott saw more modern outbuildings on the property and he realized the barn was more likely a relic from the past than an actual working structure. He spied a metal-sided machine shed, several covered pens for animals and a pair of enclosures he pegged as a chicken coop with a separate brooding house and finally, in the distance, a hog house. Well-maintained cross fencing cut up the near fields into convenient pastures and he thought he might have heard Bruce grunt with approval.
As they neared the open double doors of the hay barn, a gray-haired but powerfully built man emerged from the shadows to examine the two newcomers. Since the man didn’t look surprised, Scott surmised the farm’s inhabitants, or at least the members of the motorcycle club, still possessed some type of radio communications.
“Max,” Jeb said by way of introduction, “this here’s our visitors. They come from over at the Keller place, and I’ve known Bruce Collins there for a lot of years. This youngster is Darwin Keller’s little brother, Scott.”
“Pleased to meet you,” Scott said, and shook the gang leader’s offered hand.<
br />
“Max Scofield,” the other man said, and though he might be on the wrong side of fifty, his Popeye forearms flexed with the handshake. He didn’t bear down, though, and instead just gave a polite up-and-down motion. Scott felt callouses on the older man’s palm that spoke of at least some manual labor in his not-too-distant past. He knew his own hands now felt much the same from pulling weeds, digging postholes, and hauling bales of hay around the farm.
Max surveyed the two men before him with a quick but intense scrutiny as he exchanged handshakes with Bruce next, and Scott found himself wondering just what the other man saw. Max ushered the two men in as Jeb peeled off without a word, and Scott found himself examining the coiled snake emblem emblazoned on the back of Max’s black leather jacket.
He’d seen the logo before, of course. The Copperheads might work at not making the news, but law enforcement still kept track. They were a relatively new outfit and word was, the more established and entrenched motorcycle gangs didn’t take to newcomers trying to horn in on their territory. If the dispute resulted in more than cross words, official channels knew nothing. Unofficially, based on the conspicuous absence of rival gang members, the struggle seemed to have gone the way of the Copperheads, and at least until the lights went out, nobody had tumbled to the bodies.
“Kellerville folks, is it?” Max finally said, breaking the ice.
“Yes, sir,” Scott agreed, giving the man a nod as he spoke. They’d agreed on the ride over to let Scott do most of the talking. He’d had at least some contact with these types of folks before, and then there was what he’d heard about their recruiting efforts in the past.
“And you got your Guard buddies up front. Show of force, then?”
Scott forced a chuckle before answering.
“You might think that, but no. Actually, they’re part of the reason we’re here.”
Lines in Shadow: Walking in the Rain Page 9