Hornet's Nest: A Post Apocalyptic EMP Survival Fiction Series (The Blackout Series Book 5)

by Bobby Akart

  Stubby studied her face. “But your skin, it’s so healthy.”

  “Whadya sayin’, Stubby. Black don’t crack?” Rhoda laughed.

  “No, I didn’t mean anything by it. It’s just …” stammered Stubby, concerned that she was offended.

  “Black don’t crack,” she continued, with a giggle. “It’s an old saying. A black woman’s skin ages better than a white woman’s does. We look at least ten years younger.”

  “I never thought of that.”

  “It’s okay to agree with me,” Rhoda said, laughing at the awkwardness. “People need to realize that black folks are different from white folks. Too many of us are running around looking for perceived slights and scream racism when they find one. What we all need to do is knock that chip off our shoulder and move on. We’re all unique in our own way. Big deal.”

  Stubby nodded, not sure what to say.

  Rhoda continued. “If folks would focus their energies on making a better life for themselves and their families, then the rest of that nonsense wouldn’t matter.”

  “Miss Rhoda, I agree,” said Stubby; then he changed the subject. “Did you say your husband was in the Army? So was I.”

  “My husband was part of the 1st Army Ranger Company that fought in Korea. He ventured north of the 38th parallel many times.”

  Stubby shook his head and smiled. “Small world. Of course, being younger, I missed Korea. I was part of the 3rd Ranger Battalion. I saw action in Cambodia.”

  “A ridiculous war,” said Rhoda. “They wouldn’t let our boys fight.”

  “Don’t I know it. You’ll get along great with my Bessie.”

  “I look forward to it,” Rhoda replied as she took Stubby’s arm and began walking back to the house.

  “Rhoda, we think alike and we’ll make a great team. We’re gonna need to.”

  “Why’s that?”

  “A war is coming and we’re gonna fight it together,” replied Stubby.

  “Rangers lead the way.”

  “Yes, Rangers lead the way.”

  Chapter 13

  4:00 p.m., November 3

  Cherry Mansion

  Savannah

  Ma Durham resumed her normal pace as she and the Brumby Rocker reunited. The vintage rocking chair had taken a direct hit courtesy of a fifty-caliber bullet from nearly a mile away, breaking through the ornate woodworking that made up its back. This was just one of many chores Junior would have to complete before he could go chasing ghosts around Hardin County.

  “Ma, the windows are either replaced or boarded up temporarily until we can find more like them,” said Junior as he exited the front door onto the porch overlooking the river. One of the flat-bottom boats used in the attack remained flipped over at the shoreline, bullet-ridden more out of frustration than purpose. “Tomorrow, I’ll have the men fix the roof.”

  Ma, deep in thought, continued to rock without responding. This was a tactic of hers she’d used for many years since her troubled childhood. Human beings were naturally chatty, especially when nervous. Ma had been questioned by police at an early age. After she murdered the Tindle family on Election Night in 1976, fingers immediately pointed at the Pusser family. Her grandmother was the first suspect, but the teenagers of Adamsville immediately raised the possibility of another—the reclusive Betty Jean.

  Betty Jean was brought into the police station and immediately isolated from other people. When she was hauled out of school, nobody bothered to mention this to her grandmother. She was alone in the interrogation room, surrounded by men, effectively employing the Reid technique, which had been so effective in eliciting confessions in the past.

  Good cop—bad cop. In this case, frail Betty Jean saw mainly bad cop. They started out declaring her guilt. She would receive the maximum penalty by law, the death penalty, which had been recently reinstated. Both officers berated Betty Jean with their version of the facts—the working theory—which was remarkably spot-on except they missed the stolen car as a getaway vehicle.

  My daddy would’ve put two and two together immediately.

  Betty Jean remained stoic, lips pursed. At a young age, she remembered her daddy saying many times that all he had to do was get them talkin’ and they’d hang themselves. In that interrogation room, Betty Jean didn’t hang herself. The good cop and the bad cop thought they were studying Betty Jean to determine her culpability when, in fact, Betty Jean was learning how to keep calm under pressure. It had served her well over the last forty-some years.

  “Ma, Ma, did you hear what I said?” asked Junior.

  “Yeah, I heard you,” Ma bristled. “You brought this down on us. I can go back and rehash the screwups you’ve made since they came into town, but what’s the point? This ain’t some kind of teachable moment. I want my home cleaned up and then we’ll talk about what’s next for you.”

  “But, Ma,” Junior plead, “every hour that goes by gives them a chance of getting away. I need my guys out there—”

  Ma cut him off. She stopped rocking, but didn’t make eye contact. “Now, you listen here. I’ve given you full rein on runnin’ things around here and you’ve messed it up. You’ll follow my instructions now. Fix this place, secure the routes into town, and make sure these people toe the line. I don’t give a tinker’s damn whether they’re talking behind your back. You get your house in order before you make another move.”

  Junior slumped against the porch post and then slid to a seat on the front step. He sat quietly and stared at the river. Ma sensed the rage in her son and knew it had to be carefully controlled. She’d been in this state of mind herself in the past, and the result didn’t bode well for others.

  She continued, but softened her tone. “Son, I know this is important to you, but it has taken us off our program, which is to maintain control and profit from this collapse. We were doing very well on both counts until these folks showed up.”

  “I know, Ma. Now it’s escalated and we’ve got to tamp it down. When they, or the locals, see that we can be shown up like that, well, it’s just a matter of time before they try it again.”

  Ma continued rocking. He was right. This couldn’t stand.

  “Let’s talk about where we stand on security,” said Ma as she decided to approach this logically, creating an actual teachable moment. “Give me an assessment of the damage we incurred at the west bridge entrance.”

  “We lost a few men, but there are plenty to fill the slots in security,” replied Junior. “The Jeep Wagoneer was flipped upside down and exploded, ruining our two vehicles on the bridge. Today we relocated the barriers with the fork truck and tomorrow we’ll drag the burnt vehicles out of the way.”

  “Good,” added Ma. “We don’t want to leave them to scare off any future guest workers. This can be completed by tomorrow?”

  “Yes, ma’am.”

  “What about the hospital?” she asked.

  “I’ve talked to Dr. Fulcher and Nurse Sutton,” replied Junior. “Either they’re very good liars or they’re telling the truth, but I don’t think they treated the girl knowing she was a fugitive. The fella that brought the girl in talked like he was acting on my orders. In fact, as the story was relayed to me by the doc, it sounded like the guy was here when it happened.”

  Ma slowed the rocker and closed her eyes. She replayed the events of that evening following the propane tank explosion.

  “Did he describe what the man was wearing?”

  “Yeah, a burgundy Hardin County sweatshirt.”

  Ma stopped and looked Junior in the eyes for the first time in the entire conversation. It was beginning to make sense to her now, but she didn’t want to reveal her thoughts to Junior. He had enough on his platter without going on a witch hunt here in town.

  “What?” questioned Junior.

  “Nothing, just had a thought,” replied Ma. “Where are you gonna live?”

  “I’d like to move into one of the guest rooms, if that’s okay?” he replied.

  “Junior, I’m n
ot gonna have any of that carousing in the house. No smokin’, no drinkin’, and most certainly no hussies. Bill knows these ground rules and, technically speaking, this is his home. He follows the rules.”

  “I agree, Ma. I need to focus on the task at hand. I’m gonna clean up our town, shore up our security, and with your permission, devise a plan to ferret out these weasels. I need revenge, Ma, and I won’t be able to live with myself until I get it.”

  Ma heard the words and relived the moments in her life when she’d uttered the same. She understood, and after seeing a marked changed in Junior’s attitude, she acquiesced.

  “Okay, let’s talk about that now,” said Ma, picking up the pace in the Brumby. “You found their boat, right?”

  “We think so. Our patrols check most areas every day or two, and the boat they found south of the bridge wasn’t there the other morning.”

  “How many people could it hold?” asked Ma.

  “Two or three.”

  Ma’s working theory began to come into focus. There was a presence within her Savannah. The existence of disdants, as Junior said, was bigger than they imagined. She would help Junior exact his revenge, but she’d better make sure an uprising didn’t boil up right under their noses.

  “You move in here with me, son,” said Ma. “We can strategize together. First order of business is to clean up and secure the town. Second, we need to send a message to the townspeople that those who oppose us will be dealt with immediately.”

  “What do you have in mind?” asked Junior.

  “Find a scapegoat and execute him,” she replied brusquely. “No, make it a woman. It will have a greater impact. Show the good people of Savannah that dissention will not be tolerated. Do it in the Court Square, as a hanging.”

  “Right next to the gazebo,” interjected Junior. “That’s where all the political speeches are made. We’ll be making a statement of our own, right?”

  “Yes, son. A clear message will be sent. Then you may send out patrols looking for your fugitives.”

  Chapter 14

  8:00 a.m., November 5

  Croft Dairies

  Nixon

  Colton and Beau assisted Miss Rhoda in setting up a perimeter watch. Over the last three days since their arrival, Colton learned that nearly five dozen young adult women lived in the five-mile radius surrounding Croft Dairies. Few were armed and even fewer were organized to put up any kind of defense against Junior’s men. They intended to rely upon hiding or running to avoid capture.

  Colton immediately realized how tenuous this was and worked with Beau and a few of Miss Rhoda’s charges to gather together representatives of the neighboring farms. Fifteen to twenty people had arrived at Croft Dairies to listen to Colton’s proposal. After a breakfast of corn pones, a southern delicacy combining corn meal, creamed corn, butter, eggs and sugar, Colton laid out his proposal.

  He unfurled a bedsheet, mapping the area south of Savannah with a Sharpie. Each of the farms represented were noted by a smaller star with Croft Dairies represented by a large red star. Most of the farms shared a property boundary with Miss Rhoda’s place and all of the farmers knew where it was located. Over the years, trails had been carved through the woods in this direction, as folks mainly traveled by horse to visit rather than car. This backwoods highway system would serve them well under Colton’s proposal.

  “The idea is to discourage Junior’s men from traveling this far away from Savannah,” Colton began. “If we provide them an easier route to search, such as Highway 69 towards Walnut Grove, they’ll hopefully choose it.”

  Miss Rhoda added to Colton’s thought. “Junior knows the Pickwick Dam is closed to traffic. If he’s chasing after Colton and Alex, he’ll most likely send his men toward the only highway open to Mississippi—Highway 69.”

  “Exactly,” said Colton. “If they do come this way, I propose that we block the roads with barricades and trees. This will inhibit our own vehicular traffic, but we have ways to circumvent the blockades. How many of you own chainsaws and, just as important, have gas-oil mix to run them?”

  A few hands rose into the air. Colton invited them forward to point out on the map where they were located and logical tree-cutting points were established. The main highway was too wide to block with trees without tractors to pull them across, but the side roads and long driveways could easily be done. This worked out for the best anyway because the open road would encourage Junior’s scouts to follow the path of least resistance toward Pickwick Dam, which was a dead end.

  Each of the chainsaw owners committed to a schedule to accomplish their tree barricades by the end of the next day. In the meantime, scouts were assigned to each of the four churches along Highway 128. If Junior’s men were spotted, the scouts on horseback would use the trails cut through the woods to alert the farms. Colton envisioned a Paul Revere-inspired warning system, which gave the residents enough time to either establish a defense or hide.

  “What about weapons?”

  “How do we know when to fight or run?”

  Colton nodded, understanding the context in which these questions were made. He’d been through this same thought process many times.

  “We’re behind in our planning, but better late than never,” he replied to both questions at once. “We will bring you some additional weapons, but in the meantime, here’s a rule of thumb that I’ve adopted since the collapse. Never enter a battle you can’t win. If you have the option, find a place to hide. Don’t worry about your homes, your belongings, or anything except your lives and the ones you love. Everything else can be replaced and you can live to fight another day.”

  The group began to grumble at the thought of this. Colton could overhear a couple of conversations concerning how they would survive and not wanting to give in to Junior. He needed to make them understand.

  “Everyone, please, listen up,” said Colton. “I feel ya. My family went through this in Nashville. We loved our home. Alex was raised there from an early age. But it would’ve meant nothing if we’re dead.”

  The group continued to whisper among themselves and some were becoming animated. Colton wasn’t getting through, so he took a dramatic approach to open their eyes. He continued. “Excuse me, everyone. Do not doubt me here. How many of you have ever been shot at?”

  Nobody raised their hand in response to Colton’s question.

  “Really. Nobody?” Colton asked. Time for the drama. “Okay, no time like the present. I want everyone to step back ten yards and spread out. Now, I’m going to pull my weapon and shoot at you. Okay?”

  “You’re crazy!”

  “This is nuts!”

  “I’ll have no part of this!”

  Colton started to pull his sidearm and one girl shrieked. The others began to turn and run until Colton yelled, “Stop!”

  Beau looked at him wide-eyed as well and Colton gave him a slight smile. He worked to diffuse the situation.

  “You’re wrong, I’m not crazy, but Junior and his men are. They’re nuts too. But the person who insisted they’ll have no part of this gave the correct answer. You have no idea what a gunfight looks like. It’s not like television where the good guys hit their mark ninety percent of the time and the bad guys always miss. I’ve been in gunfights. People die. Their bodies come flying apart. This could just as easily be your family or friends. Then what? You could die along with them.”

  Most in the group lowered their heads for doubting Colton and moved forward toward the porch. Beau, who was looked upon as one of them, spoke up to the group for the first time.

  “I’ve seen what Ma and Junior are capable of doing,” said Beau. “It has to stop and we all agree on that. Our opportunity to fight back and take our town back is coming, but Colton is right, we’re not ready. In the meantime, we need to protect what we’ve got.”

  “When do we fight back?”

  “Very soon, I suspect,” replied Colton.

  Chapter 15

  10:30 a.m., November 6


  Croft Dairies

  Nixon

  “Well, that didn’t take long,” said Madison as she walked out of Alex’s room. “Alex is feeling much better and is ready to go home. She asked for her AR-15. It’s like a security blankie.”

  “I’ve never seen her attached to something like this before, much less a gun,” added Colton. He gave Madison a kiss and invited her to join them in the parlor. Rhoda had brewed up a pot of tea and whipped up a batch of campfire doughnuts with powdered sugar. “Miss Rhoda has a treat for us.”

  Madison immediately stopped and stared at the oak coffee table. It was adorned with beautifully designed teacups with a matching kettle and a plateful of doughnuts.

  “Are those …” Madison began.

  “Doughnuts.” Rhoda laughed. “Yes, we make campfire doughnuts using the basic ingredients we have stored like flour, sugar, and cinnamon. The butter and milk required for the recipe come from our babies out there. A little vanilla extract would’ve been nice, but it doesn’t affect the taste, really.”

  Rhoda offered the plate to Madison, who scurried to grab one. Madison allowed the flavors to circulate through her mouth and she closed her eyes, yearning for a Krispy Kreme store again. Then she came back to reality as a horse could be heard approaching down the long drive. Colton looked outside and hustled toward the front door and grabbed his rifle.

  “Stay here,” he said. “I’ll see what’s up.”

  Madison nervously drank some tea and dunked her doughnut in it. She made conversation while they awaited a report from Colton.

  “I realize that there are families who’ve suffered as a result of the grid collapsing,” said Madison. “But I also believe that if everyone could’ve come together, more would’ve survived. There is no excuse for people like Ma and Junior taking advantage of folks in a weakened state. That’s not only a crime against man, but also a crime against the laws of God.”

  “Give, and it will be given to you,” said Rhoda. “It doesn’t matter if you give a lot or a little, it’s what’s in your heart that matters. The Durhams are takers and have used their position and power to further their goals.”