Abram shrugged, unslung his rifle, and set it at his feet. Likewise, he set down his pistol. That seemed to break a dam of some kind, and the others followed his lead.
Once disarmed, the soldiers seemed to visibly relax. “Please follow us, ladies and gentlemen.”
Abram followed, and the others followed him, Kent first, then Owen. Frank and the others took up the rear. The soldiers let them toward the helos, where a tall and imposing-looking woman in Army woodland camouflage—the old style, not the new digital kind—awaited them with more soldiers. On her lapels were pinned a major’s oak-leaf cluster symbol. Other details confirmed his hopes—US Army.
“Ma’am,” he said when they got within earshot.
The woman’s name tape read, “Benson.”
She said, “Good afternoon.” A smile crossed her face. “We have a lot to talk about. In the meantime, we brought medical supplies, food, and ammunition.”
Abram returned her smile. That was everything any red-blooded American could want or need, these days. “Let me introduce you to the Honorable Mayor Kent Brockman.”
55
It had been a very long day. Abram’s bones ached, but he’d agreed to have dinner with his people at Kent’s house. Nick hadn’t left his side since the Army had arrived, which seemed odd. Nick, the rescued father who had in turn rescued Abram’s own sister…
He hadn’t wanted to send Nick, truth be told, uncertain the man was up to the job. Plus, it was a lot to ask of anyone. Abram hadn’t had any other choice but to ask, though.
Funny…When all of this first started, Abram had originally intended just to hunker down with his own family, the rest of the world be damned. One person at a time, his hand had been forced to bring others in, however—practically against his will, because Abram knew better than most how people just couldn’t be trusted.
And he’d been wrong. If he hadn’t been forced to trust some people, like those his conscience had given refuge to on his compound, both he and his family would have died long ago, including family he had thought long dead.
The trick was finding the right ones.
That was a feat that was becoming easier, the harder things got. Nick was one of the right ones, for sure. But he was hoarding the salt. “Hey, Nick. You eating all of that salt, or can we have some?”
Nick’s cheeks turned red, and with an awkward grin, he passed the shaker.
Reaching for the salt, Abram said, “It seems hardship brought people’s true self front and center. The liars, the chameleons of the world, they ran loose back when there was a civilization.”
Kent chuckled. He stood with his arm around Brooke’s waist, on Misty’s far side. “They’re still out there. Black was one of them.”
Nick shrugged. There would always be wolves among the sheep. It felt weird to realize that he was no longer a sheep…“But still…The more time goes on, the more we have to rely on our tribe, our people. And there seems to be less room for their kind, at the same time.”
Abram grunted. “Who trusts outsiders, anymore? Tomorrow’s world has no room for fast-talking hucksters.”
Nick grinned. “You trusted me. I was an outsider.”
Abram grumbled into his mug. It was almost amusing, now, to consider how antisocial his friend had been—before they’d become friends. Wiping his mouth with his sleeve, Abram then said, “But I think it’ll keep getting better, now. I didn’t used to. But now I see, the world will climb out of this someday, because our sense of community got to hit the ‘reset’ button.”
Kent’s smile resounded in his voice as he said, “You and your people are part of my community. I’m pretty sure you getting that trade deal you wanted.”
Brooke cuddled her cheek in against Kent’s chest. “They’d better get it. They saved my momma, and she’s my family…just as much as I’m yours.”
Interesting. Nick found himself curious how Kent and Misty would get along, now that she could see just how much older her daughter’s boyfriend was. No wonder Brooke had tried to hide the relationship from her parents.
But again, that was before these hardships had brought out people’s true selves, their true colors.
“Speaking of family,” Abram said, “I have catching up to do with you, Misty. I want to show you pictures of your…birth parents. I won’t say real parents, because as I understand it, the sonsabitches who stole you somehow managed to raise you well. I can at least thank them for who you turned out to be, even if I was robbed of my chance to be there as you became you.”
“Mighty gracious of you to say, Abram, bless your heart. We’ll get that chance to catch up, too. But y’all might have to come up to my neck of the woods to do it. Clarks Crossing has a bunch of fences that need mending, and it seems they all reckon I’m the one for the job. It was a lot less scary when Wyatt was out front, doing the talking.”
Brooke smiled. “Daddy always said you were the real mayor, and he was just the name on the door. Even those Army people just took it for granted you were in charge.”
Nick laughed. They’d actually been pretty dismissive, until she had made an offer they couldn’t refuse.
“What’s funny?” Brook’s smile slipped.
Nick grinned even wider. “Yeah, they talked to her like the town’s leader—especially after she suggested they quarter as many soldiers as they could spare in Clarks Crossing, and in that other town. The one Black sacked.”
Brooke’s smile returned. “They got more men than they know what to do with, and so many men get into mayhem on their own.”
Misty said, “Well, quartering them in towns that now have too few men appealed to them. Seemed the smart thing to do, for us too.”
Nick nodded. It had been a great idea. “I think it was just the carrot to lure them in. Quartering them among you also means they’ll fight to protect your towns. More guns on the front line—trained soldiers, at that—only makes us all safer.”
Abram shrugged. “Too true. There are still a thousand bandit gangs out there.”
Nick asked, “Do you really think they’ll still get organized?”
Abram shrugged. “Nothing is certain, in life, but I think so. Black was just the first. The next ones won’t always come in quietly, either. They’ll come at the head of their own army, an army of cutthroats. They’ll be what happens when no one stops Black before he finished taking over.”
Misty said, “Well, putting soldiers in there was just the least we could do for Nettletown, after what all happened. I reckon it might burn away some of the bad blood between us, and if not, it puts soldiers between us. But it’s a good idea for us and for you, Kent, too.”
Frank, at the other side of the long dining table, raised his glass of wine. “Kent, my son-in-law. I was wrong about you, son.”
“No, you weren’t.” Kent held his gaze level with Frank’s. “But I tried to do what I thought you’d have done. That kept me pointed in the right direction, after I made a wrong turn.”
Frank’s cheeks turned slightly more crimson. His only response was to incline his head and raise his wine glass higher.
Misty looked to Brooke. “Speaking of the right direction, I need to talk at you, later. We got some things to jaw about.”
Brooke set her glass down. “Yeah, we need to talk later. I still need to think about what I’m doing.”
Misty said evenly, “Oh? You’ve decided something?”
Nick almost cringed. Misty would want her daughter home, but he had very little doubt Brooke would stay with Kent now, regardless of what her mom wanted. Nick wondered if it would be selfish of Abram if he were glad of that. It would leave his niece that much closer to the compound, and that would make it easier for him to get to know his niece. It would also give Abram’s sister ample excuse to come down south, where he could get to know her as well.
Probably, that was selfish, but he was glad for Abram anyway.
Abram said, raising his glass, “A toast. To everyone at this table—to my familia. You all a
re my coterie. Whatever the future holds, you have space at my table at the compound, if needs be.”
Of course, with the Army setting up garrisons throughout the region within the next few days, Nick doubted there would ever be such a need again.
Abram continued, “We’ve done it, mea arbitrium familia. We’ve survived. The new Dark Age is nearly over, almost before it’s begun.”
Nick nodded. That was true, sort of. But for those who had died, which were far too many, that distinction was meaningless. He raised his glass anyway.
Frank grumbled, “Think you’re special ’cause you know Latin.”
Good-natured laughter around the table, including Frank’s, set the tone for the rest of the meal. Oh, tomorrow would have its own problems, of course, but Nick smiled anyway. In spite of the darkness they’d all survived and endured, the future at last looked brighter tomorrow than it had yesterday, especially for his children—for whom, he realized, the future mattered far more than it did for himself. If only he’d realized it sooner…If only he’d been better prepared for uncertain times…All things eventually came to an end, he mused.
Even bad times.
56
High above, the harvest moon shone brightly in a cloudless evening sky. Abram sat in a reclining lawn chair, next to Shelly’s, with a delicious three-month whiskey cocktail in hand.
Shelly held his hand, between the two chairs. “The last couple months have been a blur,” she said idly.
Abram’s days had been more hectic than most, working with the Army’s liaison for Fenton Territory. “Yeah. Captain Morgan has had me busier than most. I’m glad he’s been so happy to meet with me in Fenton, rather than here.”
She gave his hand a little squeeze. “True. We haven’t needed to hide anything. Hard to believe hoarding is still technically a crime. But you know darn well that’s not his name.”
“And we’re most definitely guilty of that.” Abram smiled, and ignored her Captain Morgan comment. Hoarding now only meant having enough to survive, and he wasn’t about to give up what little they had to feed a bunch of people who had survived only by sheer dumb luck, with no useful skills.
“But, they haven’t gone out of their way to look. That bodes well for the relationship.”
“Mm,” he said, agreeing. Her squeeze on his hand was, by itself, a thing of joy. Her massive knife wound was still healing, but miraculously, she’d avoided long-term effects beyond limited range of motion. No nerves cut, and she’d be able to use it for farming again soon.
That was a good thing, since they’d had all hands on deck at the compound to gather the first of the autumn produce to come ripe. She’d been relegated to working in the canning kitchen, an outdoor space where they now ran pressure-canning operations from dawn to dusk. What produce they couldn’t eat before it spoiled would keep for months or years, jarred up that way, and even keep most of its nutritional value.
All around them, dancing and drinking continued in earnest. They’d finally finished most of the first round of veggies to come ripe. Next up—fruit trees, and yet more canning. But also, pies! And preserves, the best jelly ever.
Nick approached, with Maggie under his arm, knocking thoughts of jam and toast from Abram’s mind. He smiled at them both. He’d watched Nick look longingly at her from a distance for far too long, and likewise, watched her looking at him in that special way, too. They’d finally taken the plunge. It was good, they looked good together, and his kids liked her. Rumor had it, they’d have a new kid to join his other two, by next summer.
“How’s it going, Nick?” Abram raised his prized whiskey in greeting.
Nick raised his house beer in return, while Maggie waved and sipped her apple cider—no alcohol, Abram noted. The rumors might have some validity, not that he intended to ask. They’d tell him when they were ready, if she really was pregnant.
“All’s well that’s going well,” Nick replied. “I just came to tell you, Frank is here. I’m surprised he got away from his own farm, but no one wants to miss the party. Kent called ahead by radio that he’d be here, too, in about an hour.”
Shelly groaned. “He’s not going to ask for our vote again, is he? Who else are we going to vote for?”
Maggie let out a small giggle. “I’m voting for Miranda, if I can convince her to run.”
Abram let go of Shelly’s hand and, with a grunt, stood from his lawn chair. “Bah. Even in the apocalypse, there’s damned politics. I’m going to go talk to someone with the good sense not to get involved. I’ll tell Frank you said hello.” Before he walked away, he said to Shelly, “Olive female sheep.”
Nick said with an abrupt grin, “Um, what did he just call you?”
Abram ignored him, smiling after he’d turned away as he heard his wife explaining. It was Abram’s favorite new play on words. Olive sounded like “I love,” and a female sheep was called a ewe, pronounced “you.”
It was cheesy as hell, but surprisingly, Abram had become comfortable with some people seeing that side of him, lately. Learning to trust some folks had unforeseen benefits, it was turning out.
On the way around the house, heading to the front driveway where Frank was no doubt milling around, waiting for someone to invite him in despite being invited to come, he passed the new, separate hog pens they’d erected between the henhouse and the peoplehouse. He wasn’t too surprised to see the compound’s kid-folk there. The pens were just for pigs who were “new mommies,” as Nick’s adorable daughter, Rae Ann, had put it.
Sure enough, Emma was there, and Rae Ann—along with Henry and his dog Cooper, now fully recovered from the ordeal they’d rescued him from, and through that, rescued Cooper’s master and his master’s parents, Owen and Quinn, all now compound residents full time…
Corey was there, too, having apparently left the adult party—for which he was, to Abram’s mild surprise, now qualified to attend—but Corey and Emma were inseparable. Abram was glad Nick’s capable son had taken an older-brother interest in Emma—his daughter was safer for it.
Emma spotted him, and her face lit into a grin just before she sprinted to him. “Hiya, Dad. How’s your party?”
Abram found her smile infectious. “Going well. I hope the hogs are doing well with the noise?”
She nodded. “Yup. I told you this was a good spot. I knew the piggie maternity ward was an awesome idea.” Her smile shrank, a bit. “I’m surprised you listened.”
Abram laughed, somehow finding her puzzled expression funny. She had a strong point, too, because only a few months ago, he’d have probably dismissed her idea without much thought. It was extra work to set up, and they had their hands full with Abram’s new program to train Fenton’s survivors in their now-famous farming methods. The ‘zero-input growing internship,’ as he thought of it. The future was self-sustainable farming, at least for the next few years and hopefully beyond.
“Dad?” Emma’s bemused-sounding voice cut through his thoughts. “You zoned out again. You’ve been doing that a lot lately, when I talk to you. Maybe it’s old-timers.”
Abram pursed his lips, tongue in his cheek. “Alzheimer’s.”
“Whatever. Same difference.”
Abram let that one go. Honestly, his new relationship with Emma—who was far more capable and intelligent than he’d given her credit for—was a source of joy in all that darkness surrounding them. He’d take his happy moments as they came.
She said, “Oh, Frank’s out front, waiting for you to invite him in. I told him this is his compound, too, but he said you could keep it, he had a home.”
Abram nodded, snorting. “Sounds like him. Grumpy old bastard. Okay, thanks. Don’t stay up too late, honey.”
Emma surprised him with a strong embrace, one which he had no hesitation in returning. Another good thing to come out of the end of the world…
When he rounded the house, Frank Brown and his wife, Betty, stood by the steps to the front patio. When Abram approached, he held out his hand and, though Abram
hated doing it, he shook hands. Frank was old and wrinkled but built like a brick, and his handshakes were bone-crushing.
Abram tried not to shake out his hand to get the blood flowing again, when they were done.
“Howdy, Abram. Me’n the missus thought we’d take you up on your kind invitation. Been busy, out on the farm, getting things running your stupid way, but I was due for a break, and I couldn’t think of anything better to do.”
Abram grinned. “Sort of like the reason I invited you. I don’t know anyone else.”
Frank grinned, too, while Betty rolled her eyes behind him.
She stepped forward with four baskets hanging over either arm.
“What’s all this?” Abram asked.
“The wife’s idea,” Frank said.
God forbid the man be acknowledged for his generosity…but that wasn’t Frank’s way. Abram nodded. “Copy that.”
Betty said, “Don’t pay him no mind. These were his idea, and I’ll stick to that story. But these two are for that adorable Dexter and that Vaughn.” One little basket held a brand-new, unopened radio hand-mic set—that would be for Dexter, obviously—and the other, a leather clamshell case with the imprint, Fender – DeVille, set, 7 pc.
Abram whistled in appreciation. “Wow, the full-range set of Fender’s best blues harps? You know him well.” That was no exaggeration, either—Vaughn was the best harmonica player Abram had ever heard. “I think these ought to liven up the party a bit. What are those?”
Her other arm held wicker Easter-type baskets.
Frank grunted. “Real gifts, for real men. I got Liam one of those air-powered nail guns, and the missus got Tom a FatMax.”
Abram nodded in appreciation. That was the best go-to industrial-grade tape measure on the market. “The one with full stud markings and eleven-foot standout? That Seven-Two-Five is a beast.”
She nodded. “We thought he’d like it.”
He would, too, Abram knew. “I’m surprised you got Vaughn and Dex gifts.”
EMP Crisis Series (Book 3): Instant Mayhem Page 41