by Nova
“You know, Gardener. You should help Tommy strip and clean these. You’re going to need to be able to do it. If not for you, then for someone in your squad.”
“Yeah. Sounds good, Max.” I got a look from everyone. I guess the tone of my reply spoke volumes about how I felt. I knew he was right. I was to going to have to know every weapon we stocked.
The next two crates I recognized. They were the heavy ones. Inside we found they were filled with loose ammo, damn near to the top.
Max picked up one of the rounds, looked at it, and then tossed it back into the crate. “Interesting.”
It was what came out of the next crate that caught my attention. The top was popped, and as soon as the first item was unwrapped and set on top of a crate, I fell in love. It was ugly. The metal was darker, deeper, more real looking than anything else I had seen so far. It had dark solid wood where it needed it. It looked like a tank compared to the M-16s.
“That’s mine!” were the first words out of my mouth.
Diesel was staring at it. “Damn, is that what I think it is?”
“Yep. The corps still had them around when I first came in.”
“You guys were always a couple decades behind everyone else in weapons procurement.”
I had no idea what it was, but I wanted it. I didn’t want to ask what it was in front of everyone. Thank God for Night.
“Okay, so what do I write it down as?”
“That, Night, is a BAR, a Browning Automatic Rifle. It’s no surprise G likes it so much. It was the automatic weapon for rifle squads about a million years ago. The Marine Corps usually assigned two to a squad. It runs out of ammo pretty quickly. Go on, G, take it, and set it aside. We probably have someone in the militia who knows how to use it.”
“Yeah, we just need to find the oldest living one,” Diesel replied.
I picked it up to put it aside. It was heavy.
The rest of the crates held more ammo, including some for the M-14s, .357 and .45, plus magazines and bandoliers for the BARs, and a couple of cans of loose fifty-caliber, including armor–piercing shells.
“Look at this,” Max said, holding up a round. “See the tip? That’s how we tell what it is.” He held up another. “This is a tracer.”
“So they know we have a Barrett?”
“Yeah, and for now it seems like they approve.”
The final crate held cleaning kits and a box full of parts.
Next we started on the cardboard boxes. We had boots, ALICE packs, plastic canteens, folding shovels, cases of MREs, and a carton that had twenty smaller boxes inside. Each box contained civilian-made night-vision goggles. We also had a box of night-vision scopes—old ones, according to Max.
Ten boxes of copier paper perked Night up. “Yea! Maybe my pony is in here somewhere.” It was—in the form of two HP LaserJet 3400s and seven toner cartridges. She was ecstatic. There was also a box of slings, canvas belts, load-bearing vests, and three pairs of wool socks.
“Not bad,” Max said after stifling a yawn. “You know what’s weird?”
“Diesel?”
Everyone ignored me except for Diesel, who flipped me off.
“No,” Max laughed, a tired laugh. “No helmets, no comm, no vests.”
“Yeah, they should have sent more green BDUs. Then we could field a well-dressed, vintage 1980 rifle company. Still, not bad. We never planned on going head to head with the U.S. military anyway,” said Diesel.
“What about the note?” Ninja asked.
“Tomorrow, Turtle. Tomorrow,” I told him.
The note stuck in my head. It pissed me off. It was obvious manipulation. I talked about it with Max, who told me to blow it off. “You start running errands for Big Daddy and he will run you into the ground.”
“Yeah. What about the payoff, Max?”
“Did you see any guarantee of a payoff?”
“No.” That was a good point. Still, it stuck in my head. We needed more of everything.
CHAPTER THIRTY-THREE
The tollbooths were up and running. While I was out in the field we had received three Crown Vics so we had vehicles again.
We also had a protected parking area for RVs and cars. These same vehicles paid to use the town campground which also included an escort for ten miles when they left town. The campground proved popular, so popular that Night told me they were considering a commercial vehicle area only. A lot of small trades and craftspeople on the way into the Zone liked having a secure area to park. They were usually coming from within a day’s drive of us. Parking with us kept them safe, and within a few hours of the Zone for an early morning check in.
The state police liked what we were doing. They had a lot fewer officers; budget cuts had hurt their force badly. Those that were left found that they were getting pulled into local policing, which they hated. So we set up an informal information-sharing agreement. The state guys would cruise by every other day and stop in at the station. If Max had anyone he was interested in, they would run it through their car communications for us. In exchange, they got a free meal at the diner and the knowledge that we would never call them into areas we claimed.
We were locking people up now. For petty crimes, we would hold people overnight to sober up or cool down. Miss Edna would lecture and fine them, and we would cut them loose.
We also were getting an increasing stream of people who wanted to stop and settle here. That was going to make for an interesting town meeting next time.
Night ran a town update that was open to the public every Thursday. Miss Edna and the pastor ran the town meeting once a month. Finding out what the town wanted to do with settlers was up for discussion at the next meeting. Night told me the general feeling was to “move them on.”
Her plan was to make people apply for residence. “That way we can look for medical professionals and anyone else we really need. They can pay a ‘resettlement’ fee. If they can’t afford it and we really need them, well, they can pay it off with community service.” I thought it was a damn good idea.
The squad spent the next month running exercises at the training house and in the nearby woods. Twice we flushed deer and were able to kill a couple each time. The first time there was no way to decide whom the kills belonged to, as almost everyone had fired on the small herd.
After that we devised a plan. The second time, Diesel was on point and flushed them, and I took the shots with the BAR. We cut up the meat there, and everyone got some. I initiated the rule on the spot: Regardless of who took the shot, everyone got a piece. The only thing the shooter got was first choice.
The other rule I devised was that everyone could change their name—with my approval—if they wanted to. But it had to be a one-word name. I added that part after Zit asked to change his name to Wandering Dark Death Wolf. He ended up going with Darkness.
It turned out that our lesbian, Grace, was an herbalist. She was also our only female now; the other female recruit had broken her ankle during training. She slipped on a rock, trapped her foot, and then fell wrong. We were wearing packs, which didn’t help. She was good, but I was glad to see her go. She was very hot and a bit of a distraction for me. I think she was to the squad, too.
I found out Grace knew her stuff about plants when she flashed the STOP sign and motioned for me to come to her. She was excited.
“Look! We are in the middle of ginseng patch. A good one too!”
It turned out everyone in the squad knew something about ginseng. We took some roots from the oldest plants back with us. Grace made sure I took a big piece for Donna, whom she apparently knew. After that, I had her teach us plants we could eat and use for medicine whenever we had a chance.
The squad and I also practiced using the night-vision goggles. At first that was fun. Darkness—I really had to work at not calling him Zit—made infrared flashlights for us using a regular flashlight and a remote control. That was very cool.
One night when I came back to the trailer I didn’t light the ker
osene lantern. Instead I took off my clothes and slipped into the bedroom, intending to surprise Night. Instead I almost lost Mr. Winkie. She came awake fast, pulling her fillet knife from where she had it stashed at the head of the bed. She carved air in front of me and had me stumbling back calling her name: “Night! Chill. It’s me.”
After she got over being pissed we took turns with the goggles and invented a couple new games.
My time after the field exercises was spent doing and learning. I ended training at 1500 hours every day after multiple requests. Many of my team had responsibilities elsewhere. Some had family who needed them on the farm. Others were needed to do community service projects Night had come up with.
She had them distributing rain barrels to collect fresh water. She managed to get a truckload of food-grade fiftygallon barrels from her clan. They got them from the Chinese restaurants they owned or protected. She also wanted to start a community food bank. So far that had not happened. Time and people who could organize were both in short supply.
The day after I got the BAR, Max brought an old guy around to meet me. He said the guy had been a “gunny”—a gunnery sergeant—and Max made sure I knew that was a big deal. Anyway, Max said, he was now our armorer. I never did ask his real name.
Gunny and I would meet at the station, which is where he hung out most of the time anyway. He taught me how to fieldstrip the BAR and insisted that I do it every day. So after I cut the squad loose I would go by the station, clean the Browning, and talk to him about the exercises. He would then tell me stories about some young lieutenant he had known and some incident or situation he had been in and how he handled it—sometimes correctly, sometimes not. It took me a week to realize he was teaching me, not just talking for the hell of it.
Gunny knew his stuff and he liked to talk. I liked to listen. I learned to fieldstrip the BAR blindfolded. Then I learned the M-14 and the M-16. Next we started on the handgun inventory. He was partial to the Colt .45 but he thought my Ruger was a fine weapon.
What he kept coming back to in his stories was the need, if you’re a leader, to have people believe and trust you completely. They had to know you cared about them, and you had to demonstrate it. It was important that I train them hard and never let up on them or myself.
Once I would have walked away muttering “stupid, corny, old doddering asshole.” Now what he was saying rang true to me. I had never understood what motivated men to stand in disciplined lines, and take and give brutal life-taking blows. I understood the desire to inflict pain; I just had a hard time grasping why I should do it at someone else’s command. Now I understood that you did it because the people around you were your family.
I hadn’t forgotten about the sheriff. He may have lost the team he sent to kill us, but he himself had not paid the price. The feeling of loose ends in my life bothered me. I still had the sheriff, Casey, and the trip to Bruxton, which I felt obligated to do.
If I was going to do it, I was going to have to do it soon. We had been asking around about the town, mostly with the people who passed through ours. Bruxton was near the farthest outpost of the guy we knew as “the colonel.” The colonel’s territory had expanded rather rapidly. Night charted the growth on a map. He had quietly set up outposts in towns that sat on half of the secondary roads into the D.C. Zone. He stayed away from the interstates, which made sense. They were considered priority minizones and a lot of resources went into policing them.
The next day when we all were at the station I mentioned I was going to pay a visit to the sheriff soon. I had already told Night. She wasn’t happy about it but she understood. Our power had been down for two days. I was waiting for it to come back up so I could get some Google maps of his area. I told them I was going in soon regardless. Fall was coming, and the temperature was dropping. I wanted to do it while I still had ground cover.
They were fine with the idea. They were not fine with me going alone. Some said I should “make it a team exercise.” Ninja claimed he had just as much right to go as me. I told them I would think about it and get back to them.
Later, when I came in from the field, I sat with Gunny to clean the BAR and my handguns. We were talking about nothing when he asked me, “You going tomorrow?”
I looked at him. I hadn’t even told Night yet. All I had was an address and the knowledge that the sheriff and his family lived in a farmhouse.
“Yeah. That I am.”
He nodded his head. “I thought so. Doing it alone too, aren’t you?”
“Yep.”
He started to say something but stopped. Then he shook his head and said, “Son, you were either born too late or just in time for something I am too old to want to see.”
CHAPTER THIRTY-FOUR
I woke early the next morning. Night got up to see me off. Ninja came out of his bedroom when he heard me putting on the gear.
“You’re an asshole, Gardener.”
“Yeah, I know.”
He just stood there staring at me. It seemed like minutes.
“Alright. Gear up, ya freaking Turtle.”
He grinned. “Yes, sir! Don’t go anywhere.” He disappeared into his room.
Night came out of the bedroom wearing one of my uniform shirts. “You taking him?”
“Yeah.”
“Good.” She stood there staring at me. I hated the goodbye scene and she knew it. She did a little wave and went back in the bedroom. I was tempted to follow but Ninja popped back out.
“Almost ready, bro. How much food?”
“Three days should be good.” I knew he kept that much in his pack. We always kept our packs loaded and ready to go. The required food minimum was three days. We had a rendezvous point about ten miles away, in case we got separated. We also had plans to set up a cache there someday soon, in case the helicopters came again.
I finished dressing. He was lacing up his boots. I slipped my bayonet in and out of the sheath three times for luck and I was ready. “Bring it all, Ninja, and bring your best.”
He nodded. He had switched to the M-16 for no apparent reason other than it was cooler looking. Max had shown him how to tape two magazines together so he could reload faster.
We left the trailer. Our breath was smoke, and a touch of frost was on the ground. It glittered in the moonlight. I could smell the leaves. It was beautiful.
It was good to be alive. Damn good.
“Let’s go headhunting, Ninj.”
He grinned, and I stepped off across what passed for a lawn. We waved to Old Guy as we crossed the berm. Within five minutes we were in the woods.
I liked to believe I could live in the woods forever, especially at this time of year. I had read a poem in school by a guy named Frost that captured it perfectly. I had no idea what deep woods were like then, but I understood exactly what he meant. It was “Into My Own” time.
We had approximately twenty-five miles to go as the crow flies. A lot of it was uphill and then back down again. We followed deer trails, old logging roads, and paths that should not have existed for any reason I could imagine. These were not the trackless woods I had read about in the West. People had been walking them for centuries, if not a millennium. We passed house foundations and stubs of chimneys in the middle of nowhere. We scared deer in places that were still barely hunted. We saw a black bear cross the trail a couple hundred yards in front of us.
We made wide detours around any house or trailer we saw. Most of them were occupied; we usually could tell from the chimney smoke. A couple of times distant dogs barked at us, or we heard shots from someone hunting. At night we made a fireless camp. The only time we made a fire was at lunch.
Ninja and I didn’t talk a lot. Well, I didn’t. He did. I would listen, make appropriate responses, and let him ramble. He wanted to discuss the mysteries of the universe. I didn’t care about them anymore. I had once, I suppose. We all do at some point in our lives.
I didn’t define my world, or myself, by what I was looking for. If anything defi
ned me, it was what I was running from. I had no desire to discuss that with anyone, not even Night. I wasn’t even sure I wanted to think about it. Ninja enjoyed talking, though, and I was okay with that.
Late in the afternoon of the second day we came out on the side of a ridge and saw the town below us in the distance. The scattered farmhouses grew thicker. In the distance we could see a newer development that looked to be from the boom years. The shells of fast-food places and gas stations stood at intersections. Then it thickened into a town about three times the size of ours. It was the county seat, so the downtown section had a few more blocks of business and housing.
A large trailer park sat at the opposite side of the town from us. The state had purchased a number of FEMA trailers and set up temporary housing; that was at least four years ago. They wanted to run their own state camps for those in need, but the money for the program dried up after the first year.
I pulled us back a bit, and we sat down to look at the map. There was only one main road in and out of town, which made the orientation easier. We were a bit off from where I wanted to be, so we kept going for another hour until I thought we were in a good place to scout from without being spotted.
I was secretly impressed we had come out as close as we did. Deep down inside I would not have been surprised if we had wound up ten miles from where we wanted to be. Navigation by map and compass still seemed a lot like magic to me.
The house I hoped was the sheriff’s was below us and in the middle of a cornfield. The hills were clear-cut to about a quarter mile from their tops. This was pastureland down to the start of the flat land, which had all been planted in corn, ready now for harvest. This town was at a lower elevation than ours. Back home, our corn was already in. We had timed it right. Another week and our cover would have been gone.