by Jeff Kirkham
Deer had disappeared from the cemetery and Jimmy hadn’t been able to figure out how to dry deer meat, so they would need more deer in the next couple of days. From what he had seen, hunting up Tellers Canyon was a serious challenge. The mountain crawled with hunters and survivalists, almost all of them armed. Working around the competition and finding deer would be tricky.
Jimmy didn’t honestly want to hunt with Redmund. From his new point of view, on this side of the Apocalypse, Jimmy could see Redmund was a blowhard. Despite Redmund’s massive build, he fell drastically short in cardio fitness. But the social pressure was more than Jimmy could handle. He would go with Redmund, but Jimmy would insist on running the hunt.
It turned out to be a non-issue. By the time they had hiked four miles up the bottom of Tellers Canyon, Redmund was breathing like a blown pony. Jimmy was no picture of cardio fitness either, but he had been dropping Redmund on the climb, having to wait for him every quarter mile. The football player didn’t have the wind to argue about anything, so Jimmy stayed a bit out in front, the default expeditionary leader.
They reached a tiny stream spilling into the canyon bottom over a moss-covered waterfall. Jimmy decided they had climbed far enough to get above most of the other starving hunters, and he turned up the tributary without consulting Redmund.
Redmund followed as they began the more serious climb. The stream cut through a deep gorge, and the woods around it filled in thick, like a thatched barricade meant to hold out man, but allowing deer to pass. The steep climb became twice as hard as the men ducked and wove between trees, deadfall and thick gooseberry. They crossed the stream back and forth, working around cutback embankments and impassable brambles. After half a mile, Jimmy began the even steeper climb out of the stream bed.
Their rifles snagged on branches every few steps, and several times they crawled on hands and knees through grown-over passages in the scrub oak. The back of Jimmy’s neck filled with sharp chunks of bark and dead sticks, which then dropped down the back of his shirt into the waistband of his underwear like malignant thorns searching for a home. The frustration of the climb nearly overwhelmed Jimmy and he swore under his breath, hating the hunt, hating the mountain, and hating fat-butt Carl Redmund.
Why had he agreed to this?
After forty-five minutes of torture, Jimmy emerged onto the ridge. Thankfully, the trees and scrub opened up. The summer heat prevented anything from growing more than two feet tall out on the sun-baked, gravelly side of the mountain. Jimmy got his bearings while Redmund struggled up behind him.
As Jimmy had hoped, the number of hunters this high was far less than in the lower canyon. He saw about thirty guys, but that was on both sides of the canyon and mostly below them. They had maybe five guys within a mile to worry about. Jimmy watched them from afar and hated them like he had never hated other men in his life. He remembered something his brother always said on opening day of deer hunt. “The only guy I despise more than an anti-hunter is another hunter across the canyon from me on opening morning.”
Yeah. No kidding, Jimmy thought. I can’t even stand the guy I’m with.
As soon as Redmund caught up, Jimmy took off again, not really caring if the big man caught his breath or not. Jimmy hadn’t seen any deer yet and he wanted to get even higher, even farther away from the other hunters, before the “golden hour.” The last hour before dark always produced the best hunting—maybe twenty times as good as midday. After the climb, Jimmy was hell-bent on hunting to the bitter end of the day, even if that meant carrying an animal home seven miles in the dark. He knew it would be miserable, but at least it would be downhill and at least he would have meat for his family.
After ten more stops to wait for Fat Boy, Jimmy sat on a rock and took another look around. The light still hung too high in the sky for golden hour, so Jimmy didn’t sweat the fact that he saw no deer. For the tenth time that day, he kicked himself for not borrowing binoculars. He would have loved to use this time waiting to scan the tree line for animals.
He could look for deer through his rifle scope, but holding the rifle up for any period of time exhausted his arms. His arms would start shaking. With the rifle shaking, he couldn’t see a thing.
Redmund caught up. This time Jimmy waited for him to catch his breath. Jimmy needed to form a plan of attack for the evening hunt. They were near the top of the main ridge and it would place them above deer coming out at sunset. That was a good thing. So long as they stayed off the ridge, the deer would have a hard time seeing them, since the deer would be looking into the setting sun. The wind was another problem, since it blew downhill.
How were you supposed to hunt with the sun at your back if the wind’s also at your back? Jimmy wondered.
The old hunting saying went: “Hunt with the sun at your back and the wind in your face.” But what if the wind goes wherever it wants and the sun sets wherever it sets? How were you supposed to control that? If you had to pick one, which one should it be, wind or sun?
It didn’t really matter, since Jimmy wasn’t about to hike any more than he must. The wind and the sun could blow and shine whichever direction, and Jimmy wasn’t going to walk a single extra step. He was too dog-tired.
His stomach had been growling for the last three hours. His legs throbbed. His thirst had reached epic proportions. His mind felt muddy. Jimmy dreamed about stuffing his face with a bunch of venison cooked at the site of a deer kill, assuming they could pull it off.
It looked like they would need one more big push to make it to the top. Jimmy set off without talking to Carl, and they climbed straight toward the pinnacle, their hands pushing on their knees with each step, both of them struggling. Across the trail, a piece of barbed wire blocked their way. Without a second thought, Jimmy lifted the wire up for Fat Boy, grateful for the brief respite. A sign jangled to the wire, something about private property and hunting, not that it mattered to Jimmy.
Redmund could barely climb under the wire and Jimmy’s irritation flared. He couldn’t be expected to lift the wire over the huge man. Finally, Redmund made it under and snagged his rifle barrel, jamming the barbed wire into Jimmy’s hand. Jimmy’s irritation went stratospheric, and he would have exploded with rage if he wasn’t so completely exhausted.
“Whump!” A spray of rock dust erupted from a boulder ten yards from the two men.
“Booooom.” A shot rang out, the sound delayed.
Jimmy’s first thought was that someone had shot a deer and his mind raced, but his thoughts came out jumbled, lost in his heavy breathing.
He searched, glancing back and forth across the hillsides, looking for a deer—maybe a wounded animal or something running from other hunters.
Then he saw it―something not quite right on the ridge above them. A tiny glint of light. Probably a reflection off something man-made. Jimmy’s curiosity kicked in and he shucked the rifle off his shoulder sling for a better look.
• • •
Winslow commanded this section of the perimeter—the high ridge—which made a lot of sense since he was a former Marine Designated Marksman.
Jeff had assigned a dozen men to this sector, running two overworked shifts of six men twenty-four hours a day. Jeff promised more guys within a few days, so Winslow and his shooters were making a good show of it, hanging on and staying frosty.
These combat conditions were even more fucked-up than Iraq. Shooting evil men, like the fundamentalist dickheads in Iraq, dragged a man’s soul through the mud. Shooting American citizens, hungry and maybe a little stupid, would seriously fuck him up. It wasn’t a responsibility Winslow was eager to shoulder.
Here, the enemy combatants were regular Americans. Under his ROEs, if the guys turned around at the wire—then they were harmless hunters. If they came through the wire into the Homestead, the lookouts were supposed to shoot to kill. Winslow preferred clear orders. It wasn’t a responsibility he wanted for himself, who to shoot and who not to shoot.
He’d been watching two fat guys
working their way up his ridge for the last two hours. They looked like they were headed straight into the Homestead “area of control.”
Jeff had made it crystal clear: no person was to cross the line by more than ten meters. After that, the risk for the Homestead was too great. Any intruders who reached the ridge would disappear almost immediately into the forest. The forest continued, uninterrupted, for two miles right down to the Homestead lawn. In a nutshell, anyone entering the forest could be shooting at women and kids within twenty minutes, and there would be nothing they could do to stop them once they got under cover of forest. Also, anyone cresting the ridge could see directly into the Homestead. They could recon the Homestead positions, track their shift changes, observe their defensive strength, and ultimately mount a well-informed attack.
The rules were clear, and Marines didn’t screw with the rules. When a person crossed the wire and ignored the signs, they would get one warning shot. After that, it was lights out.
The secondary position to the left of Winslow luckily could see these knuckleheads, so they would be able to place a solid warning shot. The shooter over there, Crandall, was a great aim for a civilian, and Winslow trusted he would make the six-hundred-fifty-yard shot, no problem.
Winslow’s spotter, Eric, was still learning, and he sat back in their dug-in spider hole.
“Eric, come forward and spot for me. These guys are crossing the line,” Winslow ordered. Shooting at two guys meant the second guy would be moving fast after the shot. If Winslow was forced to shoot, his rifle would buck and there would be a split second when he would lose sight of the targets. If the second guy bolted, Winslow would need to know where he had gone.
Eric slid up to the spotting scope on the ledge.
“The guys are two ridges over, right at the boundary line.”
Eric panned the spotting scope toward the setting sun.
“Boooom…Whump!” Crandall made his warning shot and busted a boulder right below the guys.
That should make them think twice.
But the two guys just stood there like idiots. Eric panned the spotting scope a bit more.
Winslow saw one of the men look straight at them, as if startled. The man unslung his rifle.
“NO, NO, NO,” Winslow shouted in his mind.
• • •
Jimmy levered the 30-06 up to his shoulder to get a better look at the glint through his scope. Through the magnified glass, he saw a puff of dust from the same spot as the glint.
Then Jimmy had his last thought, actually more of a feeling.
“…mistake…”
Something slammed into his chest, like when he had been kicked by a goat as a child. He dropped to his knees and rolled over backward, tumbling head over heels.
Sky, ground, sky, ground, sky, ground and then a tangle of trees.
Jimmy gazed at the beautifully random tangle of tree branches and sky. The pain in his legs and his bumps and bruises drifted away on a gentle wind.
He exhaled, but the exhale went deep, so impossibly deep that he couldn’t bring the breath back.
The last thing he saw in this world was Olivia. The light of his life, in her Disney Princess pajamas on Christmas morning. Then darkness.
• • •
Winslow wanted to scream. He wanted to yell at the dead man and call him a STUPID MOTHER FUCKER. But the Marine in him held back.
Winslow tracked the second man in his rifle optic, his emotions barely held in check.
The other man—a huge man—ran like a rabbit in the easiest direction possible―straight downhill. When the guy hit the barbed wire, he ran through it, flipped ass over teakettle, jumped up, lost his rifle and charged blindly down the hill.
Winslow gave thanks that he wouldn’t have to kill this man, too. He was running away from the boundary now, no longer a threat.
When the big man bounded clear of the threat zone, Winslow put his rifle on safety, grabbed his jacket, buried his face into the wadded fabric and screamed at the top of his lungs.
“MOTHERFUCKER, MOTHERFUCKER, MOTHERFUCKER, MOTHERFUCKER!”
Winslow looked up at his spotter, who was staring back in disbelief.
“We need to displace. Now,” Winslow barked. He grabbed his kit and his rifle and slid out the back of the sniper hide. His spotter followed.
10
[Collapse Plus Nine - Thursday, Sept. 28th]
Shortwave Radio 7150kHz 1:15 am
“ANOTHER CALL FROM MY FAVORITE hottie on comms with the 5th Fleet in the Mediterranean Sea. Seems our admiralty has decided nobody gives a shit anymore about the Middle East and the entire task force is sailing home. Just in time to sweep up the ashes of America. Brilliant call, y’all…
“Also, I heard from a Drinking Bro holed up in the Blue Ridge Mountains of Tennessee… He just fought off a bunch of bandidos with his wife and father-in-law. Stay frosty, lads…”
Ross Homestead
Oakwood, Utah
Jeff sipped his third coffee of the morning, mostly in an effort to drive back his fatigue. Coffee had always been the booby prize for a sleepless night. Get crap sleep—enjoy a half-gallon of coffee the next morning. Except, as always in life, the easy solution was a junk solution. Coffee might keep his eyes open, but it sure as hell didn’t improve his attitude.
This morning, Jeff felt like strangling someone.
He had returned late last night from the refinery and it had taken forever to get to sleep.
When his family originally arrived at the Homestead, Jeff had taken a couple of racks in the barracks as their temporary home. There wasn’t time for him to fool around with tents and the area called the bunkhouse had been the simplest option.
Jeff didn’t mind all the bodies and the snoring in the bunkhouse. He’d had plenty of that in the military. Jeff did, however, mind that his kids couldn’t sleep with seventy people around making inexplicable noises. The kids fussed with him and Tara constantly throughout the night. He would lose it pretty soon if he didn’t get some real sleep.
“Good morning.” Jason walked around the colonnade in front of the office, greeting Jeff. Jason had his own coffee.
“Morning. Hey, before the day kicks off, could I ask a favor?” Jeff wanted to get this sleep thing fixed before the day got hairy.
“Sure.”
“Can Tara and I get a room in the big house? I’m going to murder someone if I don’t get some sleep, and the kids aren’t sleeping for a damn in the bunkhouse.”
“Yeah,” Jason replied. “I’ll ask Jenna to figure it out. No problem. Everyone appreciates you guys, despite the complaints from the peaceniks. Without you… dude, I wouldn’t be sleeping at all.”
“Okay. Thanks.”
“How did it go with the hospital and refinery yesterday?”
“We got it all buttoned up. We’re holding the hospital and two pharmacies. We don’t quite own the refinery, but we’ll get it soon. It’s safe for now.”
“Wow,” Jason glanced back at Jeff with raised eyebrows, “you did all that without going to war with the town?” Jason’s unspoken question was clear: did you have to kill anyone?
“No. We didn’t shoot anyone. Actually, I added a few members to your—our—shindig here. One cop, one doctor, a security guard and a couple of pharmacists, and their families.”
“Okay.” Jason looked to the sunrise, making mental calculations. “That should work. Can someone on your team get me more info about the families? I already met the cop yesterday. Jacobs, right? Seems like a good addition. I need to keep my mind around our numbers.” Again, the subtext: you can add people, but there’s a limit to how many we can feed.
“Yeah. The cop will fit right in. Talk to Alec. He should be rotating back in this afternoon from the hospital. He’ll get you the details on the additions.”
Jordan walked around the office wing and waved at Jason and Jeff. There was an OHV parked in the round-about and Jordan liked to keep the grounds tidy and the vehicles parked where they
belonged.
Jordan jumped in the OHV and gunned it around the corner, probably waking people in the bunkhouse.
Jeff went back to talking about the assaults the previous day, filling Jason in on the chain of events. He hadn’t quite gotten to the part about sending Evan and ten guys out to the Army Depot when a commotion erupted behind the bunkhouse. Someone shouted and animated voices began cranking up, like an old forty-five record picking up speed.
Jordan came roaring back around in the OHV and jerked to a stop beside Jeff and Jason.
“Did you know there’s a body back here?” Jordan said in a loud voice, pointing to a tarp in the back of the OHV. In fairness, Jordan couldn’t speak in anything but a loud voice. He had clearly jumped into drama mode, so now he was virtually shouting.
A crowd of Homestead people poured out of the bunkhouse, heading for Jeff, Jason and the dead man in the OHV. A chill went down Jeff’s spine, a realization that he had missed a step and now he would pay the piper. Jeff had meant to talk to his security forces about what to do with a deceased intruder. He had known they would kill someone soon enough, based on how often they were turning intruders at the wire, and it had occurred to Jeff that he would need to cover this eventuality and issue orders. But it had fallen through the cracks, lost in the shuffle of the hundred other things he had to do.
“That’s trouble,” Jason stated the obvious as the crowd surrounded the OHV.
Alena, the nurse, yanked back the tarp and sprang into action, checking the body’s pulse. Apparently, the body had cooled sufficiently to make the verdict certain. It was a dead body and everyone was staring into the man’s open, glazed eyes.
“What the hell is this?” Alena pointed at the body, consumed with fury. She shot daggers at Jeff and Jason.
“I don’t know,” Jeff replied matter-of-factly. He set his coffee down on the rail and walked over to the truck bed of the OHV. The dead man was curled up, probably so he would fit in the cargo area. It wasn’t anyone Jeff knew, and the man had a bullet wound in his chest. To Jeff, it looked like a .308 rifle hole.