by Z. A. Recht
Sheriff Keaton grinned and nodded. “I wouldn’t be averse to the idea, Sherman. But I have a problem. Or I might have a problem. And, frankly—with no offense meant by this—it’s your fault.”
Sherman took a step back, his eyes widening somewhat. “Our fault? What? What’s the problem?”
Keaton folded his arms across his chest and stepped forward, looking out through the chain link. “You rattled the hornet’s nest, Sherman. Stirred up those raiders. I didn’t tell you this because it didn’t matter to your mission last night, but I know the leader of those scavengers. He’s a real hard case. Locked him up three times for drunk and disorderly. Once for armed robbery. He was just about to come to trial for sexual assault when the pandemic hit. He goes by the name of Herman Lutz. Don’t let the name fool you—the guy’s stone cold. He should have been behind bars permanently years ago. He and his brother George put together this particular group of raiders and let me tell you—from what I know of Lutz, he’ll be out for blood. Revenge. You really bloodied his nose, he’ll want to bloody yours. And between you and him is Abraham. You see my problem now?”
“I’m seeing it,” Sherman said, nodding. “I’m seeing it very clearly.”
“So I’ve got a choice,” Keaton said, sighing heavily. “I can hurry Jose’s repairs up and get you and your compadres out of my town before Herman and George come looking for payback . . .”
“Or?”
“Or I can seal the gates and tell them to fuck off,” Keaton said with a grim smile. “Option number one means selling you guys out, and you really have done us a favor since you’ve been here. I’d feel like an asshole kicking you out of here just to be hunted by those scumbags down the highway a bit.”
“And what’re you thinking about option number two?” Sherman asked.
“If I do that, maybe I lose a lot of friends when they come knocking on the front door,” Keaton said, shaking his head.
“That’s a hell of a choice,” Sherman said. “If it’s any consolation, I’ve had to make tough calls before, too.”
“Oh, right, you’re a ‘general,’ ” Keaton said, chuckling. “Forgive me, but I’m still finding it hard to believe.”
“That’s quite all right, Sheriff,” Sherman said. “You don’t have to believe me. Just know that I’ve been there, and I sympathize. But would you be open to a little advice?”
“My mother raised me to always listen to advice. Whether or not I take it is up to me, she’d always say, but she always told me to listen first,” Keaton said.
“Wise woman. Sheriff, if I were you, I’d draw your battle lines, because from the sound of these scumbags, they’ll never leave you be until you show them why they should leave Abraham far behind—and that’s whether or not you send us packing. Even if we’re out of here tomorrow, I’d say fight these bastards. The next time they try to raid one of your outlying farms, send a vehicle with riflemen out there. Make them pay in blood. They’ll learn. They’ll learn fast.”
“Jesus, that’s cold,” Keaton said softly, gripping the chain of the fence in a white-knuckled grip. “But it also makes sense. George and Herman’ll just keep stirring them up until they own this town or all their men are dead.”
Sherman paused a moment, still standing at parade rest, and cocked an eyebrow. “Wait one second. What were the names of the leaders again? Lutz?”
“That’s right,” nodded Keaton. “Herman and George Lutz. Brothers. Herman’s the older. George came a couple years later.”
“Oh, hell,” Sherman said, posture stiffening. A hand wiped across his forehead as a sudden sweat broke out on his brow.
“What is it?” Keaton asked.
Sherman thought back to the firefight on the bridge, flashes of it playing out in his memory. Taking cover behind the open door. Trucks blocking their escape. And a man named George demanding they surrender.
“Keaton, could you describe these two for me?” Sherman asked.
“What, physically? Sure. I know them by heart. Herman Lutz is a big fellow, about six feet, two hundred pounds. Thinning brown hair. Large nose. Bit jowly. Starting to get a stomach. George Lutz was thinner, about the same height, maybe thirty pounds lighter. Longer brown hair. Same exact nose, no jowls. More of a square-jawed type, George,” Keaton said, rambling off the physical characteristics of the felons purely from memory. He was a small-town cop, and they tended to file away their repeat offenders in their heads rather than their filing cabinets.
“Damn,” Sherman said, shaking his head. The description of George Lutz was nearly a perfect match to the features of the man that Krueger had killed on the bridge during the firefight.
“What is it?”
“Sheriff, I think we’ve already killed George Lutz,” Sherman said. He went on to explain again about the ambush on the bridge and the man who demanded they pay a tribute to pass. He told the sheriff how one of the other men had called the leader “George” and that, plus the fact that he was out in front, had made him Krueger’s number-one target. “If he is this Herman Lutz’s brother, he’s lying facedown in a ditch about ten miles west of here.”
Keaton swore and kicked the chain link fence, yelling a curse at the sky.
“I don’t know if Herman’s heard about this yet or not, but I’m betting he has. He’s going to be pissed as all hell!” Keaton said, rambling off a litany of curses that would have made a sailor blush. “He’ll be coming for blood.”
“Well, then,” Sherman said. “I suppose we’ve only just begun to fight. I’m sorry, Keaton. Sorry I brought this down on your town.”
The sheriff was silent for a long while, leaning against the fence and staring at the ground. He gave the fence a final shove and spun to face Sherman, a range of emotions playing across his face. He calmed himself, took a deep breath, and spoke.
“It was coming whether or not you’d stumbled on us, Sherman,” he said. “You were right. These are the kind of people who won’t quit. Something needs to be done. You just provided the catalyst, that’s all. We’ll have to get ready. I just pray to God we make it through the storm.”
1234 hrs_
Keaton had called a town meeting. The mayor, an aging man named Nathan York, had been contacted and advised of the situation. Sherman got the distinct impression that the while the mayor was technically in charge, he was acting as little more than a figurehead. Sheriff Keaton had shown initiative and intelligence in the short time Sherman had known him, and that led him to believe that the sheriff was the true leader of the little town of survivors.
The town gathered slowly as word of mouth summoned the citizens from their homes to the freshly plowed field in front of the town hall. Sherman sat on the stairs of the old building next to the sheriff, watching the people gather. There were hundreds of them, most with families, and all looked apprehensive. According to the sheriff, the last town meeting had been called to decide to build the fence and quarantine the town in the early days of the pandemic. The citizenry was probably worried this new meeting also boded poorly for them.
If only they knew, Sherman thought.
Sherman spotted some of his group on the edge of the growing crowd, and excused himself from the Sheriff to go meet them. Mbutu, Ron, Katie, and Rebecca stood off to one side. They were watching the crowd with vested interest, and Sherman could see them muttering back and forth to one another as they watched.
“Good morning,” Sherman said as he approached, raising a hand in greeting.
“Early afternoon, actually,” Rebecca replied, smiling at Sherman.
“What’s with the party?” Ron asked, leaning heavily on his crutch—a real crutch now, not a makeshift one. He had received permission from the town’s registered nurse to help himself to one from the town clinic. “Did someone die?”
“No,” Sherman said, heaving a breath. “At least, not yet.”
“What’s that supposed to mean?” Katie asked, eyeing the general warily.
“I think it means we’re going to war,�
� Sherman said. “Spent the morning talking with the sheriff. Remember that guy named George who was leading the raiders we fought on the road? The one Krueger blasted?”
The assembled group nodded as one, and Sherman pressed on.
“Turns out he was the brother of the leader of this particular gang of scavengers and looters. The sheriff has files on both of them as thick as dictionaries. Real scum-of-the-earth types. Keaton figures we’ve got a day, maybe two, before what’s left of the raiders come to pay us a visit, and they won’t be looking for tribute. They’ll want heads.”
Rebecca groaned. “Oh, no. Not more of this. I have to get to the clinic. Maybe there’s something I can do there to help prepare.”
She took off at a jog without bothering to say good-bye, moving fast and with a sense of purpose.
The remainder of the group looked subdued. From the party the night before to the sudden announcement of incoming war, the mood was shifting too rapidly for them to feel comfortable. They shuffled from foot to foot, exchanging unsettled glances.
“Relax,” Sherman said, noticing their ill ease. “The sheriff’s already decided that the town’s going to meet these bastards head-on. If they want blood, they’ll get it, but it’ll be their own.”
“I hope you’re right, Frank,” Ron said, favoring his uninjured leg. “Last time I faced these guys, they took some of my blood. I hope the sheriff doesn’t think his hands won’t get dirty.”
“Give him more credit than that, Ron,” Sherman said. “Keaton’s a smart man. He knows people will die in this fight, when it comes. He’s ready to accept that. If nothing’s done about these raiders, they’ll just keep coming and coming.”
“That is true enough,” Mbutu said, speaking for the first time. “They are bullies. Bullies only understand violence and strength. If you show one you are stronger, he will never bother you again.”
“Exactly,” Sherman said, nodding at Mbutu. “So I’m hoping they come here full of piss and vinegar looking for a stand-up fight. That way we’ll be able to use a quick show of force to convince them to head somewhere else.”
“What’s the alternative?” Katie asked.
“The alternative is that this Herman fellow might be smarter than he seems,” Sherman said. “If that’s the case, we might need to get creative. I’m hoping the town will help on that end.”
“Afternoon!” came a greeting from behind the little group. Sherman and the rest turned to see Jack and Mitsui approaching. Between them was Brewster, moaning and leaning heavily on the two men. Denton brought up the rear with Krueger.
“Brewster!” Sherman said, feeling a smile crease his face, “You’re alive.”
Brewster moaned in response and tried in vain to raise his head. “It doesn’t feel that way, sir.”
“Who won the bet?” Sherman asked, turning to Krueger and Denton.
“Krueger,” Denton grumbled, jerking a thumb in the soldier’s direction. “Brewster made it to eight pints before he threw up and passed out.”
“I threw up?” a groggy Brewster asked. “Did I throw up on anyone?”
“No, it was in the grass—don’t worry about it,” Denton hurriedly reassured him. “And on the sidewalk on the way back to the mission house. And in the mission house bathroom.”
“And in a bucket in your room about three in the A.M.,” Krueger finished up, chuckling. “You know what you need to learn, Brewster? Limits. Moderation.”
“Moderation is for pussies,” Brewster slurred, looking dizzy.
“All right, all right, enough for now,” Sherman said. He raised one finger and spun it in a circular motion. “Gather up, group. We’ve got a few announcements to listen to that concern all of us.”
“What’s going on?” Brewster asked.
“Be quiet,” Denton reprimanded. “You’ll make your headache worse if you talk.”
“Won’t talk, then,” Brewster added.
“Good boy.”
Nearly all of the town had gathered on the field in front of the town hall by then, and the murmur of conversation was drowning out the normal afternoon sounds of the birds and breezes. Finally, after what seemed like a quarter hour or more, the mayor of Abraham stood up on the stairs to the town hall and raised his arms for silence. One by one, the conversations dropped off until a quiet calm fell over the assemblage.
“People of Abraham,” Mayor York began, “We are once more presented with a problem that may threaten our very survival. I’m asking all of you to do as we did months ago, and pitch in, do your parts. Do that, and we’ll all pull through this trial as we pulled through the pandemic. Sheriff Keaton will explain more.”
Mayor York yielded the floor to the sheriff, who took his place at the top of the stairs amid renewed murmurs from the crowd.
“All right, people, here’s the situation,” Keaton said, raising his voice to a commanding level. The mumbled conversations halted and all eyes turned to the man addressing them. “As you know, our recent guests dealt one hell of a blow to the raiders living in the old distribution center last night.”
A resounding cheer went up among those assembled, and continued for several seconds until Keaton waved his hands for silence.
“Unfortunately, that’s also our problem. We’ve confirmed that George Lutz was one of the raiders who was killed,” Keaton said. “As some of you may be aware, George Lutz is the younger brother of the raiders’ leader, Herman Lutz. Less of you may be aware of the fact that Herman isn’t the type to let this kind of thing go without an answer. I guarantee you, even now he’s getting ready to strike back at us, and we’re going to have to be ready.”
A voice rose up out of the crowd.
“He’s got maybe twenty men with him! We have seven hundred! We’re an army! Let him come!”
A renewed cheer went up from the crowd, and this time, Sheriff Keaton had to wave his arms for twice as long before the people would fall silent.
“He may be outnumbered, and even outgunned, but what he has are vehicles, mobility, and intelligence,” Keaton said. “Herman Lutz might be a criminal, but he’s not a stupid criminal. We’re in a static location. We can’t get up and move. We’ll have to watch for attacks from any angle, any location, at any time. They might try and come at night, or at dawn. We can’t let our guard down. I’ve already doubled the watches along the town borders. However, that means my deputies are going to be strained to their limits. They’ll be dog tired by tomorrow morning. I’m asking for volunteer deputies to help with the guard duties. More than that, I’m looking for volunteers to help build up our defenses. Last night, our new friends showed us how easy it is for three people to break into a facility defended exactly as our town is and wreak all kinds of holy hell on it. We can’t let that happen to us.”
“So what’re we doing?” came a shouted question from the crowd.
“To start with, anyone of able body and mind who wants to volunteer as a deputy, meet me after this discussion. Secondly, anyone who’s able to dig a trench or fill a sandbag should meet with Mayor York. We’re going to start reinforcing our walls and defenses.”
Suddenly the meeting was interrupted as one of the Sheriff’s deputies came pulling up alongside the town hall in one of Abraham’s off-roading Jeeps, squealing his brakes. He dove out of the driver’s side door and bolted toward the sheriff. Everything about his movements and expression screamed emergency.
Sheriff Keaton ran down the stairs to meet the man halfway and the two had a hurried, quiet meeting. When it was over, the deputy nodded, spun on his heel and ran straight back for his Jeep, tearing off down the streets in the direction of the main guard towers and entrance. Sheriff Keaton jogged back up to the top of the stairs to address the town.
“People of Abraham!” he shouted, quelling the murmurs that had sprung up during the interruption. “It seems we don’t have that time to prepare I was hoping for. Wes in the guard tower out front says he’s spotted a mass on the move coming this direction from the north. He say
s it looks like infected, numbering in the dozens. We’re going to need riflemen—if you’ve served on the front line before, grab your weapon and meet us at the main gates. That is all.”
Sheriff Keaton ran down the stairs of the town hall, past Sherman and the Mayor and the assembled civilians, and headed off full-tilt in the direction of the gates.
“I suppose that means we should help,” Sherman said, arms folded across his chest.
“Time to play hero again,” Krueger said.
“I don’t know if I can handle a rifle right now,” Brewster protested.
“Very well,” Sherman said, quirking an eyebrow at Brewster. “Jack, Mitsui, let him drop where he’s standing. Both of you get your weapons from the Sheriff’s armory and meet us at the front gates, too.”
The two men grinned, let go of Brewster, and headed off after the sheriff. Brewster hovered in place a moment, knees buckling. His face turned a light shade of green at the sudden movement, and he let himself collapse to the ground, one hand clutched over his mouth and the other held over his stomach.
“Maybe that’ll teach you moderation,” Denton chided, looking down at the soldier.
“Fuck you,” Brewster said, and immediately regretted it, fighting back a retch.
“Come on, let’s go,” Sherman said to the remaining members of the group. “I’m sure every rifle will be welcome.”
1302 hrs_
Sherman climbed the last rung of the ladder that led up to one of the makeshift guard towers of Abraham. In the small space on top, he was met by Sheriff Keaton, Mayor York and a deputy with a hunting rifle and a large pair of binoculars set up on a tripod.
“Sherman,” Keaton greeted, shaking Frank’s hand. “Good to see you managed to join us. This is Mayor York, and Deputy Willis.”
“You can call me Wes,” said the deputy, shaking Sherman’s hand in greeting.
“What’s the SitRep?” Sherman asked, looking out across the flat fields.