by Ray Gorham
Sunday had been the town meeting where Kyle had spoken and answered questions for over forty-five minutes, giving a recap of his journey and, at Jennifer’s suggestion, trying to inspire people to persevere. He wasn’t sure how inspirational he’d been, but a lot of people had come up afterwards to shake his hand and thank him.
That had been followed up on Monday with Kyle and David joining the new militia. Sean Reider, the head security person and man putting together the protective force, had announced after Kyle spoke that they had to start organizing and training, and had urged and cajoled as many community members as possible to join. Sean’s efforts had been rewarded with fifty-three individuals showing up for the first meeting, ranging in age from David, at fourteen, to Tom Hanson, at sixty-nine. Kyle had been surprised by the number of weapons in the community, but pleased, under the circumstances.
The militia members had been broken out into companies, training had been scheduled, and strategy discussed. Being expected to fight for the community, to prepare to actually shoot at people, was an uncomfortable thought, but Kyle knew that was the only option they had and was likely the only way they’d make it through the winter intact.
Regardless of participating in the militia and his new responsibilities there, it felt good to get out and stretch his legs, and walking without a backpack on or a cart to pull made progress fast and effortless, despite the uneven terrain. The creek meandered back into the mountains, and Kyle followed it for a couple of miles as the sun slowly climbed overhead, finding comfort in the solitude and thickening pine trees, and enjoying the change in scenery from the paved roads he was used to. The creek split, and Kyle followed the narrower arm of it east to where it came tumbling gently down the hillside, splashing between small boulders and tree roots, leaving delicate icicles hanging from the bushes growing along its edges.
Kyle stopped in a small clearing and took his hands from his gloves and rubbed them on his face to warm his cheeks. He listened for the telltale sounds of wild turkey, but heard only the wind as it gently rocked the pine trees back and forth. He glanced back towards Deer Creek and could see sections of the freeway north of it, but the forest hid the community itself. There was a cut in the forest above him, so he headed that direction.
The slope of the mountain was gentle, and with weeks of conditioning and a good breakfast fueling him, the climb was easy and enjoyable. He reached the ridge, about 1,500 feet above the valley floor, followed it for a half mile or so, then dropped down the east side and continued exploring, finding an old logging road near an empty one-room cabin that was missing windows and looked to be decades old, as well as several four-wheeler trails. He saw a few deer off in the distance, that, had he had his rifle with him instead of his shotgun, he could have taken, along with a number of pheasants, but no turkey. Kyle stopped occasionally to reset his bearings, then, determined to impress everyone with a turkey, he pressed on.
About six miles south of Deer Creek and deep into the mountains, Kyle found a maintained gravel road and followed it westward, along the south side of the mountain. After a good mile, he was about to head back home when he heard something that sounded very much like a turkey. He stopped and listened. With a lull in the wind, the trees quieted, and he could hear the deep guttural wallowing, the distinct sound of a Tom turkey. He followed the sound further west, stopping every couple minutes to listen.
Kyle noted that the sun was past vertical and on its downward trajectory, and estimated the time to be around 1:30 in the afternoon. He pulled out a small chunk of jerky and tore off a chunk, popping the piece in his mouth as he glanced around for the turkey. As he savored the flavor of the meat, he realized that it actually had little spice, but because of his limited diet of late, that little bit of beef fat seemed like a rare treat. As he chewed, the distinct sound of turkeys came to him again, this time from the South, downhill from where he stood.
Kyle grabbed his shotgun, checked the chamber for a shell, and gingerly climbed through the barbed wire fence that lined the side of the road. The snow on the south-facing slope had mostly melted off, but the undergrowth was thick, forcing Kyle to carefully pick his way downhill in the direction of the noise.
A hundred yards from the road the ground leveled out and the trees thinned. The turkey sounds seemed to come from behind a football field long outcropping of sandstone that lay up ahead of him. Kyle put his gun to his shoulder, eyed the sights, released the safety, and crept forward ready to shoot. Then he heard a different sound, definitely not a turkey. He paused and listened, trying to identify it. It was a bleating sound, like livestock.
As he stood, paused and listening, he detected a faint smoke scent. Kyle sniffed the air, but couldn’t be sure. The turkeys wallowed again, definitely from behind the rocks. He crept forward as quietly as he could. A large juniper bush grew alongside the rock outcropping, and Kyle moved silently in behind it. He peered through the bush and noticed movement.
Up ahead, three large turkeys, their feathers fanned out, paced back and forth in a clearing in front of the rock. Kyle raised his shotgun and aimed at the one nearest him. As he was about to pull the trigger, movement in the background caught his attention. He lowered his weapon just as a goat walked towards the turkeys. It had a chain around its neck that was tethered somewhere back towards the rocks. Kyle lowered his gun and stepped out from behind the bush, peering carefully around the rocks.
The goat’s chain was attached to a stake embedded in the ground about ten yards from the rock face. A fifty-foot radius around the stake was grazed down and nearly clear of brush. Closer to Kyle, up against the rocks, was a wire cage, ten foot by twenty, where a female turkey and at least half a dozen good-sized chicks were caged, the hen being the obvious object of the male turkeys’ attentions. Kyle looked around, searching for further evidence of domestic animals or the presence of people. He saw neither.
Kyle approached the turkey pen, distressing the male turkeys, which circled around behind him making a series of strange, alien-like noises, and rushed him when he turned his back. The turkey pen had a thin layer of waste in it, but was otherwise clean and well tended. Kyle looked at the goat, which was eyeing him as it chewed lazily on a clump of dry grass.
“Hello!” Kyle called out, then waited, but there was no answer. He turned his attention back to the male turkeys, which were as large as he could ever remember seeing. Their heads and necks were bright red, and long flaps of skin hung down over their beaks and swung from side to side as they assaulted him vocally. Kyle wondered how something so ugly could taste so good. He grabbed at the closest one, but it retreated beyond his reach as it warbled threats at him.
Kyle looked around again, still not seeing any signs of humanity beyond the obvious ones in front of him. He looked back at the turkeys and thought how nice one of them would taste for dinner. He raised his shotgun again, pointing it at the nearest turkey, but just couldn’t pull the trigger. Kyle knew what wild turkeys looked like, and these weren’t them. This breed was domestic and obviously belonged to someone.
Kyle lowered his gun and slung it back over his shoulder, took a deep breath, then turned and retraced his steps around the end of the rock outcropping, heading back towards the road. He had just rounded the end of the rocks and turned back to take one last look at the turkeys, which were following him, when a gunshot rang out and a bullet whistled by, ricocheting off the rocks a couple of feet above his head. Kyle dropped to the ground and rolled up against the rocks, then crawled behind the bush he had crouched behind earlier. Another shot rang out, the bullet striking the rock nearby and showering pieces of sandstone on him. Kyle’s head swiveled from side to side, trying to locate the shooter.
“Stop shooting!” Kyle shouted. No response came. He looked towards the road, gauging how long it would take him to sprint that far. He pulled his handgun from its holster and turned so that when he leapt to his feet he’d be moving in the right direction. He was about to make his move when a voice called out.
Kyle weighed his options. He realized he’d been pretty vague with Jennifer about where he was headed, and if something were to happen to him, there was no way help would show. He tried to figure out where the gunman was.
“I’m not going to shoot you,” the man called out to him. “If I was, you’d have been dead fifteen minutes ago when you squeezed through the fence at the road. Drop your shotgun and pistol and stand up, then I’ll show myself.”
The voice came from behind a clump of bushes forty yards away. Kyle could make out a shape, but was unsure if he was seeing a person or a rock. He quickly weighed his options, then pushed up onto his knees, took his shotgun off, and laid it on the ground, then put his pistol down beside it. He looked back towards the bushes and cautiously rose to his feet.
Kyle waited, but nothing happened. He crossed his arms and nervously leaned back against the rocks. He waited in that position for a couple of minutes until a man slowly emerged from behind the bush, followed closely by a German shepherd. The man carried a military-style assault weapon and wore tan pants and a large camouflage jacket. A green wool hat was pulled down over his ears, and a full beard, more gray than black, covered his face. A pair of glasses glinted in the sunlight.
The man approached slowly, and the dog ran ahead of him, approaching Kyle with a deep, threatening growl that sent shivers down Kyle’s spine. Kyle looked from the man, down to his own guns on the ground beside him, then at the dog, which was now just a few feet away.
“Don’t make any sudden moves, and the dog won’t hurt you. If you go for your gun you’ll lose an arm,” the man said in a matter of fact tone. “Stand still while Copper sniffs you for weapons.”
The dog hit on Kyle’s pocket and growled again. “Do you have another weapon?” the man demanded.
Kyle shook his head. “I have more shells for my shotgun, but that’s it.”
Kyle was instructed to put the shells on the ground. The dog sniffed him again, then returned to his owner and lay down on the ground.
The man crouched and rubbed the dog’s head. “Why are you up here?” he asked as he stood back up.
“I was hoping to find a wild turkey, for Thanksgiving dinner tomorrow. I didn’t realize I was trespassing. Thought this was all National Forest land.”
“It is for the most part. I have a ninety-nine year lease on the land. What’s your name, and where did you come from?”
“Kyle Tait. From Deer Creek.” Kyle began to relax a little. “Who are you, and do you mind not holding me at gunpoint?”
The man looked down, realizing his gun was still pointed at Kyle. He lowered the muzzle towards the ground. “Sorry about that. Can’t be too careful nowadays. Not a lot of law and order to be found. My name’s Frank Emory.” He coughed a couple times, then turned to the side and spit. “Why didn’t you shoot my turkey?” he asked as he wiped his mouth with the back of his hand.
Kyle shrugged. “I could tell they weren’t wild birds. I’m not desperate, so I’m not going to kill someone else’s animals.” Kyle paused a second. “If my family was starving, I’d have shot it. We’re lucky. We’re not there, at least not yet.”
Frank smiled for the first time. “You’re honest, boy, on multiple fronts. I respect that. Did you prep for all this?”
Kyle looked confused, and Frank restated the question. “You said your family isn’t starving. Were you ready for the EMP attack? You must have known it was coming.”
Kyle shook his head. “No. Can’t claim to have done anything to prepare for this, unfortunately. Guess we got lucky and bought a house in the right place. You? You look pretty prepared.”
“Damn right I’m prepared. Spent the last eight years getting ready. Would have liked to have a couple more, but yeah, we’re in good shape.”
“We?”
“You’re asking too many questions. Maybe I got a militia. Maybe I have five sons with their guns leveled on you right now. Maybe I …”
“Oh Frank, relax. This one’s harmless.” A female voice came from above and behind Kyle, startling him.
Kyle lurched away from the rocks and jerked his head over his shoulder, causing Copper to growl and spring to his feet, ready to lunge.
“Down Copper!” Frank ordered. The dog slowly lowered back down to the ground. “You surprised him, Brenda. Good thing Copper’s on his best behavior today. Kyle, this is my wife, Brenda; she’s part of the we.”
Brenda scaled nimbly down the rocks and dropped to the ground beside Kyle. “Hi Kyle,” she said, extending her hand. “It’s nice to meet you.” She smiled brightly and seemed sincerely pleased to meet Kyle. Brenda was short, just a little over 5’, with short blonde hair, freckles that covered a nose that was bent noticeably to one side, gray eyes and dimpled cheeks. She wore tan pants and a camo jacket similar to Frank’s, but had a much slimmer build than her husband. Her jacket was unzipped, and Kyle could see a leather holster holding a weapon in addition to the assault rifle slung across her back.
Kyle took off his glove and shook her hand. “Nice to meet you, too,” he said.
“Can I get you something to eat?” she offered. “I know you said you weren’t desperate, but you sure don’t look to be packing any extra weight either.”
“I’m fine, really,” Kyle said. “But I appreciate the offer.”
“You have kids, Kyle?”
He nodded.
“Wait here. I’ll be back in a minute.” She smiled at Frank and headed down the hill.
“Damn woman’s too nice,” muttered Frank. “I try and scare the hell out of people, and she’s Mrs. Claus. Don’t let here fool you though, she’s a better shot than I am. She can take down a deer at over a thousand yards.”
“Can I pick my guns up?” Kyle asked.
“Do you like your arms, the ones attached to your shoulders?”
Kyle nodded.
“Then I suggest you leave your weapons there. You can take them when you leave, but for now it’s best that only I’m armed. You are on my property after all.”
“Fair enough,” Kyle answered, less nervous but still wary. “So what all do you have here, Frank. I can’t see much beyond a few animals, but eight years of prepping is a lot of time. You must have quite a bit.”
“Kind of nosy, aren’t you?”
Kyle shrugged. “Just making conversation.”
“That’s not information you need to have.”
“Sorry. Forget that I asked. Can I ask how you knew this was going to happen?”
“You can ask that. Let’s go sit down.” Frank motioned Kyle around the front of the rock outcropping to a dry patch of grass where he could sit. Frank sat on a rock, and Copper lay down at his feet. “How much do you want to know?”
“I don’t know, enough to make sense, I guess.”
“Hmm,” Frank stroked his beard as he thought. “I guess the beginning it is.” Frank leaned forward, looking directly at Kyle. “You have any military experience?”
Kyle shook his head.
“I do. Joined straight out of high school. My dad and grandfather were army, so I decided that was the place for me. I spent time in Kuwait, helping to kick Saddam Hussein’s ass out of that country. Stupid Iraqi army had no idea what hit them. Anyway, after that they thought I was smarter than some of the other grunts, so they sent me to school, and I ended up in military intelligence. Last ten years there I was analyzing the Middle East and its threats. You do that long enough and you understand that we’re screwed.”
“That’s a bleak assessment, don’t you think?” Kyle asked before catching himself. “Of course, I guess we kind of are screwed, aren’t we?”
“Five months ago people laughed at me when I shared my concerns. ‘America this, America that,’ they would say. And they were right, to an extent. We had an amazing military, still do for the most part, but they didn’t understand our enemy. The damn Musl
ims don’t think like we do. When mothers send their own sons out to blow themselves up, then celebrate when they do, that’s an enemy that should scare the stuffing out of you.”
“Scare the stuffing out of you?”
Frank shrugged. “Brenda doesn’t like me to swear. I have to use substitutes.”
“Got it.”
“Anyway, when the women think like that, that’s one screwed up culture. The leaders have no constraints. They can put their soldiers or the entire flipping country at risk.”
Kyle snickered.
“Shut up, Kyle. I could blow your damn head off if I wanted to.”
Kyle looked at Frank and raised his eyes.
“She lets me say damn,” he replied. “And hell, too. So I hope I don’t offend you with my French.”
“I’m sorry,” Kyle said, trying to hide his amusement. “Please continue.”
Frank cleared his throat and spit again. “I can stop talking, if you’d like. We can just sit here and wait for Brenda.”
“No, no. Please. Go on.”
Frank wiped at his nose. “You need to excuse me. My system doesn’t love this cold weather. But as I was saying, the Muslims don’t think like us. They are willing to sacrifice everything in this life, for the promise of what’s in the next. When you couple that with an absolute hatred of the West, it was obvious to me that they would forever do everything they could to bring us down, and an EMP was their best shot to get us. They paid a heavy price, but what do they care. They’re up there with Allah.”
“What kind of a price? I haven’t heard any news for weeks.”
“About three weeks ago the CIA traced the ship that launched the bomb back to Iran. Once we had sufficient proof, we went in there hard. Unloaded a hell of a lot of missiles on them. Any place suspected of having anything to do with their government or military is now a pile of rubble. Israel had already taken out Syria and Egypt and kicked Iran between the legs, but now with Tehran gone, the whole Middle East is in chaos. I sure as hell would hate to live in Israel right now, because there’s a butt load of angry Arabs. Those Jews always seem to be able to handle themselves though.” Frank laughed for a second. “To be honest, I bet right now the Jews are pretty glad that they aren’t Americans. At least they’ve got flush toilets and electricity.”