by A. American
“They’re good. They don’t ask about their parents anymore. I guess they’ve accepted it. Of course, Bobby was hard on them. But there’s enough people around here and everyone checks on them. They’re doing well.”
I nodded and asked, “How about you?”
There was a long pause. After a moment, he replied, “It hurt you know, a lot. But there wasn’t anything I could do about it and so many people have lost someone. I guess it’s just the way of it now.”
“We need to change the way. We can’t just accept the fact that this is the way things are now. I can’t, won’t.”
Danny nodded. “You’re right. I’m really hoping that what you guys did last night changes things for us. Something has to.”
“Yes, it does.” As I replied, I heard a diesel engine rumble to life. “Sounds like the festivities are about to start. Guess I need to go get my shit together.”
“You guys be careful,” He said as I got up from the chair.
Going back to the house, I found Mel in the kitchen, preparing breakfast. She was at the Butterfly stove and looked up when I came in. “We’re now out of sausage. This is the last of it.”
“We have hogs. I’ll get with Thad and talk to him about butchering one,” I replied.
“We have plenty of eggs. Just no meat.”
“Do we have any bacon?” Little Bit asked.
Her sisters laughed, and Taylor said, “Mom just said we didn’t have any meat. Bacon is meat.”
Little Bit smiled and rocked in her seat. “Bacon’s not meat; it’s bacon! I wish we had some.”
I tussled her hair as I walked past her. “I’ll talk to Thad and see if we can make some.”
A smile spread across her face and she asked, “You can make it?”
“Maybe,” I replied. “We’ll try.”
“What are you doing today?” Mel asked.
“We’re going back to get all the hardware at the auto auction. Those Russians and Cubans had a huge load of stuff and we don’t want the wrong people to get their hands on it.”
“Is there anyone there?”
“Yeah, a couple of our people stayed there last night. Do you not remember our conversation when I came to bed?”
Still looking at the pan of eggs she was cooking, Mel replied, “Nope. Sure don’t.”
Laughing, I replied, “Of course not. I was talking and we both know your brain can’t detect that particular sound pattern.”
Glancing at the girls and seeing them not paying attention, she gave me the finger. I smiled and stepped over and kissed her cheek. “That’s my girl.”
“You want to eat before you go?”
“Sure! I’m starving.”
In honor of the last of the sausage this morning, Mel made tortillas. She prepared me a couple of burritos with fresh tomato. Thank you, Thad. I got my gear together as she fixed them and stopped by the fridge to refill my tea before heading for the door.
“Can we come with you?” Taylor called out as I gripped the door knob.
I had to remove the burrito I was holding in my mouth and looked back. “Sorry, but no. I’ll be back later today.” She looked deflated but didn’t try and argue with me. “Hey,” I said, “I’ve got a project I need your help with later. When I get home, I’ll show you what it is. We’ll have to go out into the woods for something to help all the injured in town.”
Her very unenthusiastic reply was simply, “Ok.”
I needed to do something with the girls. They were bored and getting antsy. They weren’t little girls anymore and I shouldn’t be treating them like they were. It’s a hard thing to face, your kids growing up. All those memories of them when they were young are hard to let go of. But there are new memories waiting to be made as they grow. Hopefully, they will get better than some of the ones we’ve made recently.
Knowing there was a lot of stuff to bring back, I hopped into the Suburban. With a little prayer, I turned the key. The old Cummins rumbled to life and I smiled and took another bite of burrito while I headed towards the gate.
Thad was out in front of his place as I pulled into the drive. He was beside the little red truck and I called out to him. “You taking that today?”
“Yeah. We might need the extra room.”
I waved, “Alright. I’ll see you at the old man’s place.”
As I turned onto the road of the old man’s place, I was greeted with a fog of blue smoke. The tank sat in the road idling as well as the only remaining two-ton truck and a Hummer. It looked like there were a lot of vehicles headed to town. The problem was drivers. Sarge stood in the road with Jess and Wallner and two other Guardsmen. I assumed these were our drivers.
“Is this all we have?” I asked as I walked up to the old man. He was leaning against the Hummer, drinking coffee.
He looked around and nodded, “I reckon it’s all we need.”
“Of course, it is. I’m here,” Jess said.
Then Doc came out of the house with a pack slung over his shoulder. I smiled and nodded in his direction, “Here comes your boyfriend.”
Jess looked back over her shoulder, then back at me and gave me the finger. “Don’t be an ass,” she added.
I shrugged, “You can deny it all you want.”
“Knock it off you two,” the old man barked. “We ain’t got time for this shit. It’s time to get on the road.” As he spoke, Thad pulled up. Sarge looked at the little pick-up and my Suburban and asked, “You two planning on driving those?”
I nodded. “Looked to me like there was a load of shit there that needed to be hauled back. I figured the more we had, the better.”
Sarge nodded, “Probably a good idea. Let’s load up and get on the road. Jess, you drive the Hummer. Wallner, get one of your people in the two-ton and the rest of you in the Stryker with me. Everyone, keep your radios on and pay attention. I’ve already talked to Teddy, and he said there are no surprises waiting for us. They didn’t have any problems last night, so this shouldn’t be any trouble. We’ll get the shit loaded, blow what we don’t take and head back.”
Everyone loaded into their respective vehicles and we moved out with me in the lead. The old man didn’t want the Stryker at the head of the column and most of the others didn’t know where we were going. So, I was at the head of the line of vehicles as we passed through Altoona. The market was bustling this morning. I’d noticed in recent weeks that the markets were getting busier with more and more in the way of offerings.
Food, naturally, was one of the most commonly traded commodities. But other things were showing up as well. Clothes and shoes were becoming a big seller as people wore out the cheap disposable footwear that was so common in the Before. Boots were highly sought after, and a person could just about name their price for a high-quality pair.
But I was also struck by another item on display that was becoming more common. In each of the markets there was generally a knot of two or three young, and sometimes not so young, women offering their personal services. I wasn’t at all happy about seeing this particular activity and thought it was something that would have to be addressed. Or maybe not.
Prostitution is often called the oldest profession in the world; and for the moment, it wasn’t a problem. They were consensual encounters between two people. For certain, we would not tolerate anyone being forced into the sex trade. It was something I was torn over. I certainly wouldn’t want my daughters doing it. But in some cases, what else would these women do? They’re probably trying to feed a family or at least their kids. It was definitely something that needed to be addressed, one way or another.
But that was for another day. There was another task at hand today. I blew the horn on the truck when we passed Baker and her people. They were in Umatilla working on the lines. Baker waved, and I saw Terry look over his shoulder from the bucket. He was cutting a side-line with a pair of ratcheting cutters made just for aerial powerlines. These lines aren’t just aluminum as they appear. There’s a steel support cable in t
he center of them to help hold the weight and they will positively destroy conventional cable cutters if used.
Leaving Umatilla behind us, my mood changed. Driving into Eustis wasn’t like it used to be. It wasn’t something I wanted to do. But we had to pass through town, through what was left of it at least. The column had to slow to navigate the cratered streets and piles of debris. It reminded me of scenes from Middle Eastern cities during the seemingly never-ending wars. Burnt out shells of cars. Shoes, something that always struck me for some reason, lying in the road.
I don’t know what it is about seeing a shoe in the road like that; it gets to me. Maybe it’s the fact it’s usually just a shoe. The thought that it had been on someone’s foot until it was blasted away. Or they ran out of them in sheer terror as they tried to get away from the hell that was raining down on them. The shoes I saw today weren’t on a video from Iraq. They were right here in my town and they only served to worsen the feeling.
Eustis was disturbingly quiet. I only saw a couple of people on our ride through town. Eustis was normally bustling with people. The lakeshore was always crowded with people fishing or working nets, gathering water or tending to other daily tasks. But the worst site was the armory. A pile of blackened twisted metal was all that remained. As I looked at what was left of a building I’d been into many times, all I could see in my mind was Sheffield and Livingston’s faces.
A sense of relief washed over me as we made our way out of the downtown area. The rest of the ride was uneventful, relaxing even. As we passed through Zellwood, I saw a number of people. They were friendly, if nervous at the sight of the odd convoy of vehicles. After a short ride to the auto auction, it was time to get to work.
We pulled up to what was left of the auction building. Everyone was gathered up there, except for Dalton and Mike. I imagined Dalton was still out looking for Russian souvenirs, and there’s no telling what the hell Mike was up to. The tank rolled to a stop and the old man appeared out the top. Ted walked towards him with a devilish grin on his face.
“I’ve got something for you,” Ted said as he shook the old man’s hand.
Sarge looked around, “Yeah? What’s that?”
Ted whistled, and Dalton appeared from the ruins of the building. But he wasn’t alone. Mike was with him; and between the two of them was another man, his hands bound, and a piece of cloth tied around his head.
As they approached, Ted held his hand out in a welcoming gesture. “I’d like to introduce you to Colonel Aleksei Vodovatov.”
“Well no shit?” Sarge growled.
Dalton tore the blindfold off the man’s eyes. He blinked and squinted against the early morning sun. Sarge took a couple of steps towards the man, inspecting his uniform. After a moment, he said, “He’s not wearing a Colonel’s uniform.”
“Yeah,” Ted replied and held out a small card. “But his ID says he’s a Colonel.”
Sarge took the ID and inspected it. Then he smiled broadly and said, “So you changed uniforms, huh? Think that was going to help you out? Or were you afraid the actions you ordered against our little town would come to bite you in the ass?” The man didn’t reply. He just stared directly back at the old man. “Does he speak English?”
“Oh, he does,” Dalton replied. Then he leaned in close to the Colonel and said, “Otvechayte cheloveku, ili ya slomayu vashiyaysta.”
The Colonel gave Dalton a sideways glance, obviously considering what he’d just heard. After a moment, he returned his gaze to the old man. His back straightened, and he replied in perfect English with a Russian accent, “Yes,” he looked Sarge over for an indication of rank, “Sorry, but I do not see any rank insignia.”
“I’m a Colonel too.”
The man smiled, “Colonel, then good. I did change my uniform. Most of your people would not know our insignia at all. But when we were hit by the bombers we knew we were dealing with regular military. Not a bunch of civilian rabble.”
“Civilian rabble like the ones you killed in your Grad attack?” I asked.
The Colonel looked me up and down. His eyes stopped on the star on my chest and he asked, “And you are, cowboy?”
“I’m the county Sheriff.”
The Colonel was confused and looked at Dalton. In reply, Dalton muttered, “Shef politsii.”
The Colonel smiled and nodded. “Ah, yes, you are, how you say, police man?” I nodded. “Well then, I will address the Colonel. This is not for local—,” he stumbled for the correct word and looked over at Dalton and said something I couldn’t hear.
“Bureaucrat,” Dalton replied.
“Yes, bureaucrat.”
“Sorry, Ivan. But you will have to deal with me,” I replied.
He ignored me and looked at Sarge. “Well, Colonel, are you the one in charge of this—” he paused and sought the proper word again, “group?”
“Hey, Ivan.” I said. He ignored me, so I repeated it. When he ignored me the second time, I delivered a vicious slap to his face and shouted, “Suka!” I don’t know much Russian, nor any other language. But I do know how to start a fight in several languages; call it an interesting hobby. This is Russian for bitch and is akin to being called a punk in prison.
The Colonel stared at me. His face was expressionless, though I could imagine just what he was thinking. Sarge interrupted the standoff by stepping between us, “Alright. Enough flirting. We’ve got work to do. Morgan, you and Thad go over there and check out those Ural trucks. See if they run. We’re going to start loading all these weapons and ammo.”
Thad gripped my shoulder, “Come on, Morg. Let’s go.”
As we walked towards a row of trucks, several of which were charred wrecks, I thought about what we were doing. Kicking an indiscernible hunk of steel lying on the ground, I said, “I sincerely hope this is the last of the bullshit.”
“I thought you was going to shoot that Colonel,” Thad replied.
Glancing up at him, I replied. “Yet, Thad. Yet.”
“I think you should leave him to the old man. We’ve got plenty of other tasks that need tending.”
I nodded. “You’re right. Let’s get this crap loaded and get the hell out of here.”
We found two of the trucks that would run. One of them had the Grad launcher mounted on it. The other was for transporting the rockets. We loaded rockets on it until it wouldn’t hold anymore and strapped them down. But there were more, many more rockets. Thad said he was going to look for another truck and I went to find Sarge.
I found him at the two-ton truck. It was mounded up with ammo of all varieties. Rockets, RPGs, ammo for AKs, DShK (the Soviet version of the fifty cal) as well as grenades, both the handheld type and VOGS, like our 203. There was a pile of AKs. PKMs, RPKs and the Soviet sniper rifle, the SVD. There were more weapons here than we’d ever use. But leaving them here, for just anyone to pick up was out of the question.
We loaded every vehicle we could, even managing to find a couple more functioning Russian trucks. Aside from the weapons, there was all the other equipment that a modern military force required. Radios, night vision equipment, rations, medical supplies, batteries, shelters, sleeping bags. Deciding what we’d take and what we’d leave was a monumental process.
We took every bit of the medical gear. It was sorely needed at the gym where all the wounded were being cared for. The food was likewise loaded as a priority. Dalton was piling his personal stash into the Suburban. It included one of just about every variant of rifle and machine gun he found. He even threw an RPG in there and a SPG-9, the Russian recoilless rifle that fired a seventy-three-millimeter projectile. He added in pistols, knives, shelters and pieces of uniforms. He was having a field day.
Everything we couldn’t get loaded onto a truck or trailer was piled up. The ammo was going to be blasted in place. Any weapons we couldn’t take were laid out on the ground and the Stryker was repeatedly run back and forth over them. We left non-lethal items that folks might be able to use. Things like clothes and boots.
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I saw Perez off in the distance patting down a prone corpse. He had a dump pouch on his hip overflowing with packs of Russian cigarettes. I imagine he’d checked every single body looking for them. The particular body he was searching startled me when it raised a hand. Perez didn’t flinch however. Instead, he knelt down beside the stricken man.
Curious, I walked over to see exactly what was going on. The soldier was Cuban and mortally wounded. How he’d managed to live this long was a mystery. But Perez knelt beside him and shook a smoke from a pack and lit it. He gently placed the cigarette into the dying man’s mouth. In a feeble voice, the man muttered, “gracias.”
I took a knee beside the two men. The Cuban looked up at him as he tried to take a drag on the smoke. A fly landed on his face and I waved it away. With the cigarette bouncing, he asked, “agua.” I took a canteen from my belt and opened it. Perez took the cigarette and cradled the man’s head as I slowly poured water into his mouth. He swallowed with much effort and Perez placed the smoke back between his lips. An expression came over his face, almost like a smile but not quite. Then the cigarette fell from his mouth and he was gone.
Without saying a word, Perez and I wandered off on our own missions. I helped Ian and Jamie load a 120-millimeter mortar onto a truck. Along with crates and crates of ammo for it. We had enough of this commie hardware to start an army. Sadly, a lot of our army was killed in the attack on Eustis. But we have everything we need to build one.
However, an army was something I hoped we’d never need again. I prayed that this action, this final task, would remove the need for further such actions. That we’d finally be safe and be able to start rebuilding. Of course, there would always be individuals that would need to be dealt with. But the thought of facing a large organized force was hopefully a thing of the past now.
It was late evening when everything was finally loaded. Mike had prepared a large pile of munitions with explosives we took from the Russians. We lined all the vehicles up, even more now that we found several Russian trucks that ran, on the far side of the lot closest to the highway. Mike stretched out the det cord and prepared the blasting machine.