by Nathan Combs
As Randal was about to exit, Wade grasped his son’s arm and stopped him at the door. Putting his arm around his shoulder, Wade sighed. “Maybe we’re overreacting here, Randal.”
“Dad, you don’t believe that any more than I do.”
Wade looked Randal in the eye and replied, “Yeah, well, don’t take any unnecessary chances. I want you back in one piece, Randal. I know I don’t tell you often enough, but I love you.”
“I know that, Dad. I love you too.”
The patrol was mounted and ready when Wade and Randal walked outside, and each man nodded as they reached down and shook Wade’s hand.
Maggie stood with the others and watched until they rode out of sight, then turned to Wade. “I don’t have anything scheduled right now. No patients. I’m going home.” Her behavior was out of character, as was her silence during the short walk to their house. She didn’t speak but went straight to their bedroom, picked up her diary, went to the screened-in patio, and without looking in Wade’s direction, began writing.
Wade watched from the kitchen.
For five minutes, the only part of her that moved was her hand. Without warning, she stabbed the paper with the tip of the pen and slammed the book shut.
Quietly, Wade opened the slider and sat next to her. “Mags, would you like to talk about it?”
She hesitated as tears filled her eyes.
“Maggie, we’ve never hidden anything from each other. Let’s not start now.”
She exhaled slowly, bowed her head, then reached out and tenderly touched his face. “Oh, Wade, you have enough problems to deal with. The last thing I want to do is burden you with my middle-aged female crap.”
“Crap? I don’t think so. Talk to me.”
Eyes closed, she was silent for several seconds. When she opened them, she took Wade’s face in her hands. “It’s Adam, Wade. I worry about him. What will happen to him if something happens to you? To us?” Her eyes teared up, her face reddened, and her voice quavered. “Since the collapse, our life’s been a constant struggle for survival. Every day. Every single day.” She drew a deep breath. “I know that’s the way it is. I do. But now we’re going to be facing another enemy? I want Adam to have a childhood. I want him to be a little boy.”
Wade placed his hands over hers. “We don’t know for certain that Texas Nation is a threat, Mags.”
She pulled away. “Please don’t patronize me, Wade. It’s beneath you. Will this ever end?”
He gently retook her hand. “I’m sorry, Maggie. Yeah. It’ll end. Probably not in our lifetime, but it’ll end someday. Hindsight doesn’t account for much, I know, but before the collapse, our world was a house of cards. I admit that life today isn’t always pretty, but it’s real. Adam’s a tough kid, honey. And he’s happy too. He doesn’t remember the United States as we do. This is all he knows. And for what it’s worth, the boy’s more of a man at eleven than most twenty-somethings were before the collapse. He’ll be fine.”
She nodded reluctantly. “You know I’m not weak-minded, Wade. It’s just that…even though I know it’s irrational, I long for us to be a family. To be normal.”
“This is normal, Maggie.”
She snuggled up to him and sighed heavily. “I’m tired, Wade. I’m tired of the constant struggle. I’m tired of the daily uncertainty. I simply don’t want Adam to be a warrior. I don’t want him to be more of a man at eleven. I want him to feel safe enough to be a kid. I can’t bear the thought of losing him. I know I’m acting silly, but I can’t help it.”
Wade kissed her gently. “You’re not silly, Maggie. You’re a mother. But Adam can also be a doctor, like you. Maybe you should start him down that path. If mankind’s going to survive, everyone will have to become a warrior-something. Warrior-doctor sounds good to me.” He moved his hands to her shoulders and looked her in the eye. “Besides, a wise man once said, ‘Yesterday is yesterday, fuck it.’”
She chuckled. “Bill?”
Wade grinned. “Yeah. And he’s right.”
“He is. You know I know that.” She exhaled heavily. “I’m just having a weak moment.” She hesitated, then grimaced. “Maybe I’m entering menopause.”
Wade picked her up, a mischievous grin spreading across his face. “Well, maybe we should make hay before Father Time intervenes? Strike while the iron’s hot, so to speak?”
“Is the iron hot?”
“See for yourself.”
Her hand wandered south, and she smiled.
Worried about Texas Nation, Bill’s gut told him they would be sending a patrol to recon them and after Randal and his patrol left for Corpus Christi, he reentered the Powwow Room and broke out the map of the Sebring area. He thought long and hard about where to post watches, convinced that too much security was a better choice than too little.
The logical route for anyone visiting the Sebring area would be to take US-98 south to Sebring, then follow US-27 south to Lake Placid. But these guys would probably be riding horses, not driving. That meant they might go cross-country. But would they? Logic said they’d follow the highway route dictated by the map, but because their reasoning might be different than his, Bill set two teams. He positioned Chris and three men on the roof of a Publix supermarket in Lake Placid, and in the unlikely event the patrol came down I-75 and cut across Florida Highway 70, he put Cole and three rangers at the Twenty-Seven Truck Stop at the intersection of Florida 70 and US-27. That placed Cole fifteen miles south of Chris, and twelve miles north of New Fort Terminus. If the Texans came south on US-27, Chris’s team would allow them to pass, then follow until they reached Cole. If they came across Highway 70 and went north on US-27 toward Chris, Cole would follow them north. Either way, the Texas patrol would be history. He also placed two-man sniper teams at approach points east, west, and south of New Fort Terminus.
Other than being a lot colder than average, the mission to Texas was uneventful. On the east bank of the Mississippi River, at an exit ramp on I-10 in Baton Rouge, Randal and the team stopped to examine the charred remnants of a massive, years-old plague pyre embedded with what remained of human skeletons. The Baton Rouge fire and a similar pyre in Houston were visible and sobering reminders of what had happened in the USA, and the world, years ago.
Moore Haven was twelve days in the rear-view mirror when they stopped for the night in what remained of Beeville, Texas, fifty miles northeast of Corpus Christi.
Randal keyed the sat phone and called Wade. “We’re in Beeville, Dad. We’ll be entering their territory tomorrow. Anything new?”
“Yes. Stuart got McNulty to give up their location. They’re headquartered at the international airport. Doesn’t mean they are, but it gives you a starting point. Anything else?”
“No. Everything okay there?”
“Yes.”
“Roger. Talk to you tomorrow.”
March tenth dawned gray and blustery, and ten minutes from the airport, Ma Nature began an assault with intermittent rain squalls and southwest winds gusting to fifty mph.
In the kitchen of a vacant home three miles from the primary runway, Randal spread a map of Corpus Christi on the table, and the team gathered around. He said, “Unless they made serious modifications, there’s no way 10,000 people are living within the perimeter of that airport. There’s not much in the way of housing nearby, or cover either, but the rain will help to keep us undetected. I’m going to check out the entrance.” He pointed to the main entrance. Tapping the chart with his forefinger, he said, “Ty, check out these two neighborhoods and locate an observation point. Be back here in six hours.”
Just after noon, Randal told the team. “They’re routing all traffic through one inbound lane. There are two indifferent guards in a makeshift shack that appear to check IDs or papers. Getting in won’t be a problem.”
Tyler touched the map. “People are living in both of these housing developme
nts. Most homes have solar or wind power, and vehicles, mostly pickups, are in the drives. No watches, no patrols, no security at all. Very quiet.” Pointing to a small, wooded area northeast of the main airport entrance, he said, “The observation team can station here.”
Randal nodded. “Okay, I’m going in. I’ll give you updates between 2200 and 2230.” He handed Tyler his sat phone. “Can’t take a phone with me in case I’m searched. Don’t need them wondering why I have a phone and who I might be calling. If they find the walkie and ask about it, I’ll tell them I use it to listen for survivors during my travels. Obviously, you can’t call me, but I’ll contact you on channel 27.” He put his hand on Ty’s shoulder. “Call Wade with a synopsis at 2400 hours. More often if the intel’s important. If I’m not back in twenty-four, assume I’ve been compromised, finish the mission, and get the guys home.”
“Randal, I can’t leave you—”
Randal leveled his gaze at his friend. “That’s an order, Tyler.”
“Yes, sir.”
After a radio check, the six men shook hands, and Tyler and the four rangers vanished into the rain.
Thirty minutes later, Tyler broke squelch on his walkie three times to indicate that they were in position.
As they’d discussed earlier, the plan was simple. Randal would enter the Texas Nation on the pretext of passing through in search of family. From there, he would wing it.
The rain had become a light drizzle and ran in rivulets off of Randal’s Stetson as he rode slowly toward the gate. Fifty yards out, he could see the men in the shack watching him. When he closed to fifty feet, one came out and held up his hand, M4 at the ready.
Randal stopped.
“Where’s your badge?”
“Don’t have one. Just passin’ through. Thought maybe I could get a bite to eat and find a dry place for the night.”
“Where’re you comin’ from?”
“Arizona.’’
“Goin’ to?”
“Houston.”
“What’s your name?”
“Randal Collins.”
“Okay. You’ll have to see Mr. Vandenberg.” He turned and pointed toward the terminal. “Find the red door.”
“The red door?”
“Yeah. Can’t miss it. Don’t even think about going anywhere else. We’ll be watching. I’ll let Mr. Vandenberg know you’re on the way.”
“Okay. Thanks.” Well, that was easy.
After tethering his horse to a sun-bleached stop sign, Randal walked to the red door. In another time, it had been white and was part of the sidewalk baggage check-in for a major airline. Randal knocked lightly.
A high-pitched voice from inside said, “It’s open.”
Randal entered a small office where a scrawny, weasel-faced man sat in a chair picking his nose. “Mr. Vandenberg?
“Yep.”
“The gate guard told me I had to talk to you to get something to eat and maybe a bunk for the night.”
Vandenberg sported a black shirt with red sergeant chevrons and black pants with red piping. He cocked his head and raised his eyebrows. “This isn’t a soup kitchen, pal. And it damn sure ain’t a hotel. You can join up, though. Providing you qualify.”
“Qualify?”
“Yeah. Qualify. This is the Texas Nation. We don’t take people in unless they have value and can pull their own weight. Ya got value?”
“Well…I was in the army before the collapse.”
“Okay. That qualifies you, but ya have to be interviewed.”
“Interviewed?”
Vandenberg’s skinny face scrunched up, and Randal again thought he looked like an overgrown weasel.
“Look, Mac, that’s the rule. I don’t make the rules. I follow them just like everybody else.”
Randal wanted to punch him in the head, but said, “Sorry. Just curious.”
Vandenberg eyeballed him for a long minute, then shrugged. “What’s your name?”
“Randal.”
“Ya got a last name, Randal?”
“Collins.”
The Weasel harrumphed. “Right. Mr. Shelton performs ex-military interviews himself. You packin’ anything other than the rifle?”
“Who isn’t?”
“Right.” He slid open a drawer. “Put your piece in here. Knife too.” Nodding to a rifle rack, he said, “Put your rifle there. You can pick ’em up after the interview.”
“Will my horse and gear be okay out there?” He motioned toward the door.
The Weasel looked offended. “There are no thieves here, Collins. And those who were don’t have hands anymore.”
“Can I ask who Mr. Shelton is?”
A hybrid cat-shriek/smoker’s cough cackle escaped Vandenberg’s mouth. “Who’s Mr. Shelton? Why…Mr. Shelton is God, son.” He laughed the laugh again. “Yep. Mr. Shelton is God.”
Vandenberg led Randal out a rear door and into the main terminal, which had been completely redone with a series of sliding fabric doors off of one long corridor. At the western end, they stopped in front of a gleaming, polished mahogany door. In the center of the door, two gold eagles flanked a two-tone blue plaque with the head of a lion at the top and a gold ribbon scrolling through the center. In red letters in the center of the scroll it read, Shelton. The Weasel paused and rapped lightly. Then he stepped back, folded his hands in front of his crotch, and transformed into an awestruck otter.
Randal cringed. Whoa!
The red light on the camera above the threshold blinked green, and the door lock clicked.
Vandenberg slowly pushed the door open and stuck his head inside. “Mr. Shelton, sorry to bother you, sir, but this man is”—he opened the door all the way and nodded toward Randal—“ex-military.”
Mr. Shelton lounged in a blue leather chair behind a large teak desk, reading a book. Unlike Vandenberg, he was dressed in a white polo shirt and gray slacks. He appeared to be in his late thirties or early forties and was about five-foot-eight and 160 pounds. His thinning sandy brown hair was parted in the middle and plastered flat to his skull. He sported a stupid looking light brown, Hitler-style mustache.
Before Shelton closed the book, Randal caught a glimpse of the title. Mein Kampf by Adolf Hitler. Randal grimaced inwardly and thought, My struggle, my ass.
Shelton stood, opened a desk drawer, placed Adolf inside, smiled, and extended his hand. “Gabriel Shelton.”
Randal shook the soft, limp, cold hand and a vision of a dead moray eel slithered through his mind. “Randal Collins.”
Indicating a chair in front of the desk, Shelton said, “Have a seat, Randal.” Turning to the Weasel, who stood beaming like an assbag at an Easter sunrise service, he said, “That’ll be all, Jerry. Thank you.”
Vandenberg backed toward the door, bowing obsequiously, nearly tripped over his own feet, then turned and left.
When the door clicked shut, Shelton grimaced, then said, “Is it Randy or Randal?”
“Whichever you prefer.”
“Okay. Tell me about yourself, Randal.”
Randal decided to tell half-truths. “I’ll give you the short version. Before the collapse, I was a captain in Special Forces. Green Berets. Married with one child. They’re both dead now. I’ve been living in the mountains in Arizona, but it’s too cold to stay there. I had family in Houston and, although I know it’s a long shot, I thought I’d see if any of them were still alive. That’s about it.”
Shelton’s face was pensive. “We’ve been to Houston. Sorry, Randal, but no one’s alive there.”
Randal attempted to look fatalistic as he nodded. “Yeah. Figured as much.”
“I find the fact that you were a captain in the Green Berets quite fascinating. I’d be interested in hearing about your political beliefs.”
“I don’t have any political beliefs, sir. Never
did. However, it seems to me that the average survivor was either lucky or simply killed and took what they needed to survive. For the most part, I always thought the human race was worthless, and since the collapse, I’m now convinced that’s true.”
Shelton pursed his lips and nodded.
Randal shrugged and continued. “I believe that if those who survived are going to flourish, they need to be led by someone strong. Otherwise, I believe humanity is doomed.” He looked Shelton in the eye. As he spoon-fed Shelton what he thought the man wanted to hear, he casually looked around the room. Other than the Shelton crest on the wall behind the desk, the office was austere to the second power.
When Randal stopped talking, Shelton gave a thoughtful nod. “That’s an interesting theory, Randal, and one I tend to agree with. A strong, decisive leader is necessary if humanity is going to survive. How do you feel about the creation of a new society?”
“Never gave it much thought. I suppose it’s inevitable, though.”
“If a new society were created, it would have to have fairly stringent rules, at least initially, if it were going to succeed. Do you agree?”
“I do.”
Shelton stared at Randal. After a moment, he swiveled his chair and grabbed two glasses and a decanter of bourbon from the credenza behind him. He placed the glasses on the desk and poured two fingers. He handed one to Randal and said, “To a new society.”
Randal decided a bit of Germanic prose was in order and held up his glass. “Prost.”
They tossed the drinks, and Randal was confident that his choice of a German toast had convinced Shelton that they were on the same page.
Shelton put his glass down and picked up Randal’s, then wiped the glasses out with a rag he withdrew from the desk drawer. He turned, carefully folded the cloth, placed it on the left corner of the credenza, then set both glasses rims down on the rag. He fiddled with the crystal and their arrangement on the washrag until he was satisfied with their alignment to the edge of the table. He turned back and grinned. “One of my little idiosyncrasies.”
Randal grinned back.
Shelton nodded to himself and looked Randal in the eye. “I may be able to use a man of your intelligence and experience.”