Hard Rain Falling (Walking in the Rain Book 3)

by William Allen

  Sergeant Halloran proved to be an experienced Bradley crewman, if not heavy equipment mechanic, and he quickly jumped in to assist the master sergeant in removing metal access plates. Other than horsing the heavy plates out of the way and standing ready to run and grab tools, the rest of us just hung back to stay out of their light.

  The corporal, Towson, wanted to quiz me like Private Grady did earlier, and since I was going to traveling with these guys in a few days, I gave him short but complete answers. He, too, wanted to know how things were out there, and I could tell he was hoping to hear about how the ‘Recovery’ was progressing.

  I’d heard that term repeated several times, the Recovery, like some central authority was out there stringing new electrical wires and systematically fixing the water plants somewhere. It was like wishing on a falling star, or whispering a prayer in the night. I stressed that I’d only seen a snapshot of the middle of the country, but what I saw wasn’t good. My message was clear: we would need to bootstrap ourselves into whatever recovery was possible. I hated always being Debbie Downer and wanted to talk about what they had seen.

  “OKC is a cinder, man. Oh, some parts escaped the fires but probably three quarters of the city suffered at least some damage from the crashes. Too many flight paths ran right over the city.”

  “Yeah, out towards O’Hare was bad. Fortunately it was raining in Chicago on the day, but still, there were so many planes on approach when it happened. I didn’t understand at first.” I stopped talking then, remembering how the streets had shuddered with each impact like a mini-earthquake. The idea that my teacher thought there was any way help was coming after a week of fires and looting never ceased to amaze me.

  “So I heard you have your own all-girl squad,” Towson quipped. “They any good?”

  He gave me a stupid half leer, like I was carting my own playthings around for my amusement.

  I gave him a grim smile in return. He might have thought he was being funny, but from my perspective he was showing his ass.

  “Corporal, they’re alright,” I allowed, “for not having that much experience.”

  “How about you, kid? You any good?”

  I caught Jay’s frown at the question. He spoke up in a stage whisper, thankfully intercepting my mouth from moving before my brain engaged. Sometimes that happened when I lost my temper. Before the lights went out, I had a long fuse, but since… well, I was a little more volatile. I wanted to chalk it up to missed meals and lost sleep, but I feared the change might be more fundamental.

  “Tommy, leave it alone. I heard this guy’s killed more men than cancer since the lights went out. Please, just don’t.”

  I blinked, and so did Corporal Towson. Pushing off from the side of the Bradley, I decided I’d done enough today. Suddenly, I wasn’t mad anymore, but just tired of being around curious—and annoying—people. Jay was nice enough, but I didn’t need to see Towson or Halloran any more. Be seeing them plenty on the road.

  “Master Sergeant, I’m pushing off today unless you need something else,” I called into the bowels of the track.

  “Take off, Luke. We got this.”

  As I walked by the two soldiers I caught Jay’s eye and gave him a nod, then for some reason I decided to invite him for dinner.

  “Jay, if you got any time this evening, come see us over at Barracks Fourteen. Our mess hall is next door and they start serving at 1930. Later.”

  Private Grady looked shocked by the invitation, but he quickly agreed.

  I had planned to leave even before Corporal Towson’s questions and comments got my temper going. His snide comment about the all-girl squad had rankled more than his question as to my competence. Really. I knew I lacked the training to be a real soldier. My training, before the lights went out, was for something else and after; I was just scrambling to survive.

  The weeks spent at the Keller farm had helped me grasp how much I still needed to learn; especially working with Nick and Scott. Nick worked with me on small unit tactics, both in the field as part of the militia and by passing me off books—mainly field manuals—to read. For my part, I gently steered him away from using the term militia, substituting the title ‘safety patrol’. He laughed but went along with the change. He could read the coming conflicts as well or better than I could.

  I had thought I was good in the woods until I started hanging with Scott. As a game warden, he liked to sneak up on the poachers and avoid getting shot for his trouble. He was scary good, and I tried to steal as many of his skills and moves as I could assimilate into my own bag of tricks.

  With the plans Amy and I hammered out the night before, I made a few radio calls on the base system using my pass and pleading with the operator on duty. It worked and after a few minutes chatting on the two meter band, I had the information and permission I needed. Honestly, the thanks and praise I heaped on the young comms tech on duty had been earned. Without the radio, I would have needed to make a trip in person; not a recommended option with the main gates all essentially under siege. The starving crowds wanted whatever they could get their hands on, and only the threat of death kept them outside the fence. At some point that threat of death would no longer serve as a deterrent.

  I felt for them. I know most of us did. I felt guilty even eating the meager meals being supplied by the mess halls. When we discussed this feeling the other night amongst ourselves, Amy tried to ease our suffering. She confided the food stocks on hand in the camp might feed the city’s inhabitants for a few days at most. We were on 1800 calorie diets as is, which is not quite starvation but was right on the edge. Especially when trying to perform physical activities. I just drank more water and tried to push on through to my next step.

  That next step involved returning to the block of offices housing the base commander. I simply approached Colonel Hotchkins’ office and got his secretary’s attention with a wave. Surprisingly, the colonel called me in, saying he could spare a few minutes.

  As I started my spiel, Colonel Hotchkins saw through my intentions immediately and regarded me with a stern cast to his features.

  “So you want to trade me a clapped-out farm truck for one of my Humvees, Luke? A truck, I might add, that you don’t even have in your possession or control? Well, I guess you could have a future as a used car salesman. Or a camel trader.”

  I had the decency to blush, but pushed on anyway.

  “Well, Colonel, you have plenty of marked and flagged vehicles, but surely at some point you could use a, let’s say, deniable vehicle. Once you clean the blood and brains out of the cab, of course.”

  Hotchkins finally broke down and laughed; his voice sounded rusty, but none of us had a lot to laugh about lately.

  “I can’t trade you, Luke, because the Humvee doesn’t belong to me, but I can loan you the vehicle. An extended loan until you are back this way.”

  I gave the colonel a surprised look. He was being much more flexible than I expected. He nodded and responded seriously.

  “Luke, I’m an officer and have sworn an oath I have to uphold… but I’m also a father. If I can help you get home and it doesn’t conflict with my duties, I’m glad to do so. Have you tried to contact your family over the HAM Net?”

  “No, Sir. I don’t know anybody in the area who is a HAM, and I’d rather not put anybody in danger trying to deliver word.”

  I hated lying to the colonel. He was a good man, maybe a great one, but it all went back to my first duty. That was to my family. Don’t draw any attention and keep your head down. Stay gray. Don’t let on that you have communications gear. Or guns. Or food. Help out where you could, but don’t become a target. These were the lessons I learned early from my father and grandfather.

  Some might think of them… us as hard hearted or uncharitable. Hoarders, I think was a term I’d seen as well. My family believed in preparing for disaster and being self-reliant. My parents worked like dogs to provide us with everything we had and to set back extra for when times were bad. They paid the
ir taxes, never asked for a handout, and didn’t cause any trouble. Still, under the right set of circumstances, the federal government could and would declare us domestic terrorists. Sound crazy? They’ve done it before.

  My mother taught school and gave freely of her time as a volunteer with a variety of charities. My father never hesitated to help our neighbors, many of whom quietly shared a similar mindset. Our part of the country was not blessed with a plentitude—a word I learned from Grandpa—of high paying jobs, but what money people earned was usually well spent. Sure, we had our welfare leeches and ‘disability’ abusers, and meth was a huge problem, but every community had their share of the worthless. You just had to be watchful and never turn your back on those folks.

  No, the state folks didn’t scare me; neither the ones from Arkansas nor these new folks from Oklahoma. These were by and large good people tasked with an impossible job but still doing the best they could under the circumstances. Sometimes, as Captain Vanderpool said, the best you could do was clean up the bodies. I felt a tinge of concern over being too relaxed around the colonel though. The man was just too sharp. And he had a curious nature.

  No, my biggest fear was that anything recorded or even written down here might find its way to Homeland Security. Or whatever that domestic law enforcement might morph into after the feds crawled out of their bunkers and started trying to call the shots once again like nothing happened. Boy, those guys were in for a rude wakening.

  But those were the kinds of over officious assholes who would go around to all the farms and ranches, seize the seed corn and the breeding stock, and distribute it in the name of serving the people. I know, sounded like tinfoil hat talk, but I have seen the Executive Orders authorizing just that—and worse. All we needed was a president short-sighted enough to activate those orders and my family—and the Kellers—could find themselves fighting a war against federal troops. The last thing I wanted to do was draw official attention to the Messner family.

  If I sounded more mature and maybe a little jaded that your average sixteen year old, then you just don’t know me very well. I’d already seen what could happen when the controlling norms were removed. I still have nightmares about the drawn, weary faces of those girls pressed into service as whores to please Colonel Abbott’s bullyboys. Before that, even the well-meaning efforts of the FEMA personnel at my first camp would result in mass starvation as their meager supplies ran out and with no hope of resupply. That actually made me feel sorry for the poor souls trying to do what they thought was the right thing, even as they imprisoned displaced persons for their own safety.

  And if those lessons didn’t do the job, all I had to do was close my eyes and see the bodies hanging from the makeshift meat hooks suspended from the metal support beams. Those blood slick coveralls and plastic goggles covering the faces of the butchers as they processed a mother and her daughter on adjoining hooks.

  Sometimes I thought too much. As I walked out of the colonel’s office and into the bright sunshine I felt a shiver run up my spine. I wonder at times like this, when things seemed to be going too well, if I ever really escaped the killing floor of the rest stop. Maybe everything that happened since—my meeting with Amy and the friendships I have forged afterwards—were all an elaborate hallucination. Were these unexpected feelings and everything else all the products of a blood starved brain? Was my subconscious trying to cast a fantasy world to cushion my last few moments of existence?

  Yeah. Sometimes I thought too much. I headed over to the barracks to get cleaned up for dinner. I tried to keep a tight rein on my thoughts and only focus on the future. Fantasy or not.

  CHAPTER SIX

  Jay showed up for dinner looking clean and refreshed; his wet hair a testament to his efforts to look presentable. His uniform was still wrinkled but I could tell he’d tried to brush off most of the dirt and wipe off the oil stains. Just standing around in the mechanic bays could be enough to get you filthy.

  Jay’s earlier comment about my denim on denim ensemble was a result of some scrounging—this time meaning the polite form of the word. The girls and I traded some ammo at the Base Exchange for a couple of sets each of durable work clothes. I had traded two boxes of .223 and one box of 9mm for three sets of long sleeved shirts, jeans, and a few other odds and ends. The girls did about the same with their trade items. Amy suggested the visit after revealing her supply contacts said these clothes, discovered in storage, were going on sale. Some of the clothes for sale were left over from the 1980s and were still usable, but we focused on picking up the newest stuff that would fit.

  That the base personnel would take ammunition in exchange for goods struck me as another innovation from the colonel. I wondered how long it would be before he started paying troops in the same manner.

  ***

  “What’s up, man?” I called out as the young trooper ambled our way. It wasn’t the cocky strut you sometimes see in young men or young soldiers, but an almost shy approach, as if he was unsure of his reception.

  “Hey, Luke, ladies,” Jay responded, angling over in our direction. Dinner was officially over, but many of us hung out in the dining hall for a few minutes afterwards to socialize before heading off to the barracks. Since the girls worked in the kitchens all day, they were spared the serving line and cleanup duties.

  We had one of the little six man folding tables to ourselves and when Jay arrived, he couldn’t seem to figure out where to sit once I’d asked him to join us and made introductions. Finally, he shrugged and pulled a chair over from an empty table next to us and sat between a smiling Lori and a slightly flustered Summer.

  “So these are your friends, Luke? Ya’ll look like some hardcore mercenaries in those Canadian tuxedoes.”

  “What?” we all chimed in together, puzzled. Yes, we were wearing our newly acquired denim outfits but his reference made no sense at first.

  “Denim on denim was something called a Canadian tuxedo,” Jay explained and then shrugged. “Sorry, just something I read on the internet.”

  Then the four of us laughed, more at Jay’s discomfort than anything funny that he said, but that little interlude seemed to break the ice.

  Lori and Summer peppered the young man with questions about conditions back home. Apparently, this teenage soldier made them more comfortable than the aloof Captain Vanderpool or the emotionally charged Sergeant Halloran.

  Unfortunately, Jay didn’t know much directly about McAlester, but he had ridden some patrols out of OKC as far east as Wetumka—which meant nothing to me. I quickly learned this tiny town was only forty odd miles from their hometown.

  “What were you doing there?” Summer asked. “That’s barely a one stoplight town.”

  Jay squirmed, visibly reluctant to discuss the mission any further, and Lori let him off the hook. She was good that way.

  “Ah, don’t worry about it. My sister’s like a cat; always curious and always looking for a mouse to torture.”

  This byplay seemed like a well-worn trail for the two girls as they teased back and forth, Jay’s discomfort forgotten; by them, anyway. I filed the tidbit away to follow up on later. Something had the young man spooked.

  “So, how did you and Luke meet,” Jay asked Amy. For her part, my girl froze up, not sure how to answer. She didn’t like to talk about the past much, especially her own. After a second, she seemed to rally.

  “Well, these three desperadoes had me cornered in this trashed house outside Gainesville, up in Missouri. I was down to my last bullet and ready to take on these three outlaws when all the sudden, I hear gunshots and the three men drop dead at my feet.” Amy stopped there, pausing for effect, and then drove on with her vastly edited and altered account of how we first met.

  “I waited, knife ready, trying to figure if I could get to the dead men’s guns before this latest threat could hit me, when out stepped this kid in long brown shorts, a brown shirt, and a yellow necktie. He just held out a hand and said ‘come with me if you want to live.’ We
ll, what the heck was I supposed to do?”

  I couldn’t help breaking up with laughter as Amy finished her story. Lori and Summer, already aware of much of the true tale, just giggled along. Amy sat with a straight face and Jay looked around at our little group. Probably wondering he’d sat down with a group of crazy people.

  I waved a hand in his direction as I finally got my laughter under control. A little breathless, I managed to speak.

  “Amy’s just having a little fun with you, and with me, too. I made the mistake, one time, of mentioning how I’d learned some survival stuff earning a merit badge in the Scouts. Amy never lets me forget how much of a geek she thinks I am.”

  “Boy Scout of the Apocalypse,” she stage whispered, and then finally lost her battle to keep from laughing. She laughed, muttering the nickname Stan hung on me.

  I gave her—and the other two snickering girls—a look of faked disdain.

  “I was a Life Scout, ladies. Just needed my community project to earn my Eagle Scout medal. At least get it right.”

  When I smiled at Amy, she leaned in, gave me a hug, and a kiss on the cheek.

  “I love my Terminator geek, and don’t you forget it.”

  “So that was all made up?” Jay asked, hazarding a guess. He gave a tentative little grin.

  “Well,” Amy said, serious once again, “the Boy Scout and Terminator stuff was made up. As for the other, Luke did kill three men to save me that night.”

  Jay looked over at me and I shrugged before speaking.