“Thunder and his club do a great job.” Steele nodded at Thunder. The biker was emotionless. No smile. No frown. He was purely flat. Tess hoped that the plan her and Steele had to train Little Sable Pointers would not push the Red Stripes away. Power shifts from nation-states all the way down to small-town politics never came without a fight.
“I’ll train up a group of volunteers to shoot and move like a unit. They will be called upon for defense of Little Sable Point against infected or otherwise.”
“There aren’t enough of us to put up a fight against the dead,” Jack said.
Steele looked down at him. “You’re right. But we will hit and move fast against foes that are dead or alive. There are people here who are familiar with this area. We will take the best terrain and fight battles on our terms.”
People nodded in agreement. Steele took a deep breath, preparing for his steamroller of a speech.
“We have a choice. We can hide, dreading the day of our demise. Sure, we live for awhile, maybe even in relative peace, but someday the dead will come, or those fools at the power plant will come and put us down like dogs. Worse than that. They’ll eat you alive or cut you to pieces.” He paused, letting the fear of the situation sink into their brains and guts.
Hackles rose on the back of Tess’s neck. Goose pimples replaced hair follicles.
“But we don’t have to live in fear. We can stand up. Train up. Expand our reach. Defend ourselves against all enemies, dead or living, and fight. Fight for something greater than ourselves.”
“What’s that?” someone screamed.
“If the people to your left and your right aren’t worth fighting for, maybe you should find a new community. We can fight for each other. We can fight for life.”
“Fight for Sable!” Tess shouted next to him. He gave her a sideways glance. She looked back, surprised by her outburst.
He lifted his hand slowly as a fist in the air. “For Sable!” he shouted.
“Fight for Sable,” they shouted together. She raised her fist in the air with every shout.
Soon people in the crowd took up the chant.
“Fight for Sable! Fight for freedom! Fight for life!”
For the first time since the outbreak, she felt an odd sense of hope. Her fist pumped in the air alongside this rock of a man. She smiled up at him and he down at her. She grabbed his hand, holding it high in the air. The people of Little Sable Point clapped and cheered.
Gwen stared up at them from below, a twisted look on her face. Was it anger? Malice? Envy? It didn’t matter because whether Gwen liked it or not, Steele was tied to her now. A man like him never backed out on his word. Tess lifted their hands up higher in the air.
STEELE
Little Sable Point, MI
He looked into the blank faces of the people in front of him. A young orange-haired kid, that couldn’t have been more than sixteen shifted on his feet, nervously bouncing.
“This is all of them, out of over two hundred?” Steele asked Tess.
“You said volunteer, not a draft.”
Thunder and a few of his Red Stripes stood nearby offering their prior military training but not volunteering for the Little Sable defense unit. I couldn’t have expected club members to quit their brothers and tie themselves in with a bunch of people that would probably get gunned down by more experienced fighters. No, gunned down by more experienced men.
Volunteer fighters who had a stake in defending their land, family, and the person beside them always fought harder than those conscripted or forced into service. Ancient landowning Greeks had set the foundation of the citizen soldier in western society, a tradition that had lasted through millennia and was imprinted on the souls of all free patriotic men. This tradition had been adopted by the Founding Fathers of the United States and built directly into the Bill of Rights as a fundamental safeguard.
And all that answered the ancient call were ten people. Even after these men and women had been forced to scavenge, fight, and survive on their own, only a few wanted to provide for the common defense.
Seven men stood before him. Three were beyond service age and one appeared to have come from a nursing home. There was a boy who couldn’t be more than sixteen and a woman pushing sixty; she looked like she could handle herself better than the lot of them. What am I going to do with them? Where do you even start with a group like this? Front leaning rest for pushups? No, they’d quit by twelve o’clock noon. The old man will definitely die.
Steele paced slowly in front of them, thinking of a way to begin. He had kept his badge out on his chest, hoping that it would strengthen his position in their eyes. He eyed Kevin and Ahmed standing nearby. Ahmed raised his eyebrows at him. Kevin stood, lanky arms crossed over his chest. They both were in their ACUs and had their M4s. They will fight, but it’s not enough.
“Everyone’s here for their own reason. Something has lit a fire in your hearts to stand before me, and that’s good because I can’t fight for you.”
He continued walking. “However, I can train you to be more effective in a fight and maybe help you stay alive longer out here.”
He stopped in front of the boy. Big ears stuck off of his head. Freckles dotted his nose and cheeks. A mop of wavy orange hair sat atop his head. “Why are you here? What can you provide this unit?”
“You even shave yet?” Garrett hollered over at the boy. The boy gulped, trying to stick out his narrow chest.
Steele gave Garrett a sidelong glance. “Let the boy speak.”
“So I can hear about his high score in a video game,” Garrett said, with a grin. “This is real life, boy,” he yelled at him. “Can’t respawn here.”
“I said enough, Garrett.” Steele outfaced the big biker. Steele’s hand itched up his sidearm. Garrett stuck his chin up, towering over Steele.
“I don’t care where you been. I bet I been worse,” Garrett said, looking down at Steele trying to minimize him. Steele contemplated which way he would strike the man to bring him down. Larger opponents would usually try to overpower their smaller opponents. As the smaller of the two, Steele would distract the man with a kick to his knee and move to disarm him. Then he would have to deal with the responses from Thunder, Half-Barrel, and Bird. If they didn’t kill him on the spot, they would certainly beat his face inside out and his great experiment would be over.
“Your little badge don’t mean nothin’ out here.”
Just a piece of metal now, but it symbolizes a layer of trust between the government and the people. “Might not, but I told you to back off.” Steele’s hand found his tomahawk, eyes never leaving Garrett’s. Steele shifted his feet under him, bracing himself. I’ll break his jaw with the flat-ended piece before he can blink.
Garrett glowered down, fists clenching at his sides, nose flaring out.
“Enough, Garrett,” Thunder bellowed. “These are our friends.” Garrett let himself shrink an inch.
Steele turned toward Thunder and nodded. Thunder weighed him.
“That’s outta respect for Little Sable. If it was just us, I’d let you two fight it out.” Steele had no delusions of where he would end up in that brawl with Red Stripe fists raining down on him.
“I understand,” Steele said. He turned his back on Garrett. Either he was brave to turn his back, stupid, or confident. He marched back to the boy. His boots swept the sandy soil.
“Who are you and why are you here?” Steele asked the boy, putting his best drill instructor face on.
The boy stuttered. “I…I…I…I’m Max. I’m here alone. My parents.” The boy stopped a moment, collecting himself. “My parents are gone and I wanna, wanna learn how to fight.” The look on the boy’s face made Steele wonder how he had survived this long. Steele almost wished he hadn’t asked, feeling a pang of guilt in his gut, but he pushed onward. If the young man couldn’t face his reality, he would never be able to kill a man.
“I can teach you to fight, Max. But do you have what it takes to win a fight?” Steele
put a finger harder than he wanted to on the teenager’s chest. “Do you have what it takes inside?” Max’s eyes bugged out from his head.
“Ye-ye-yes, sir,” he exclaimed. Steele almost had sympathy for what he was about to do. He gave the kid a quick jab to the gut. Not hard, but enough to knock the wind out of his surprised victim. Max coughed and sputtered, dropping to his knees as he regained his breath. His eyes looked betrayed as he tried to breathe in air that eluded his lungs.
“How can I depend on you in a fight when you can’t even take a punch to the gut? How can these men and women standing around you depend on you to do what you have to do to win?” He needed soldiers, fighters, at the very least athletes, not teenage boys who didn’t have parents. He paced again. Ahmed held him in cold regard.
Kevin leaned forward as he passed. “A little harsh on the kid, don’t you think?” His breath reeked of alcohol.
Steele glared at him. Kevin’s eyelids were only half-open like he could fall asleep at any minute, a sign that his friend was already well into his drinking for the day. “A little early to be hitting the bottle so hard?”
“Who said I stopped from last night?”
Steele shook his head. “Is he still there?” Kevin looked over his head.
“Yup.”
“Then maybe I’m wrong about him,” he whispered.
Steele crossed back the way he had come. Eyes followed him back and forth, awaiting the enlightenment that martial prowess gives. It was as if he held the golden ticket to survival that only the misery of military discipline could provide the answer for.
“Do any of you have any prior military or law enforcement experience?”
One of the older men raised his hand. A patchwork beard grew haphazardly over his face. He looked like a man who had shaved on the regular to hide his beard growing deficiencies but hadn’t had access to a razor in about five weeks.
“Sir, eight years National Guard.”
“What’s your name? And do not call me, sir. Jesus.”
“Larry Capers, sir?”
“MOS?” Steele demanded.
“I was a 92G, culinary specialist, sir.” His military experience is a goddamn cook.
“Thank you,” Steele said, trying to hide his disappointment. Attitude is a reflection of leadership, and he didn’t want them running themselves down at the very beginning.
A man in the middle of the group raised a tired, worn hand. When Steele drew near, he wondered how he had escaped the nursing home and made it to the coast.
“Yes, elder.”
“Name is Bengy Sloman, sir.” His voice crackled. “Owned a hardware store until recently, and before that, I fought in Korea.”
“Korea?” Steele said. The Forgotten War? “Like you were stationed in Korea?”
The old man wrinkled his large downward-curved nose. “Nope. Fought there in ’52.”
This guy can’t be serious. “How old are you?”
“I’ll be eighty-three in December, sir.”
Steele reached out and gently squeezed Bengy’s bony shoulder. He leaned close and dropped the level of his voice. “You don’t have to be here. You’ve served enough for your country. Let the younger folk take up the fight. You can rest.”
Bengy frowned. His face was lined and worn with speckled skin. “It’s a privilege to answer the call. I’d rather fight than have my kids stick me in some nursing home, but I don’t think that’s likely now.” Steele released his shoulder and glanced at Thunder.
“He’s a volunteer, ain’t he?” Thunder rumbled with a nod.
“Yes, he is. If you get too tired, take a break. I don’t want you getting hurt training.”
Bengy’s mouth twitched, regarding the biker with disdain. The men were the product of two wars in two different times. One war forgotten. One war despised. Bengy had grown up in the shadow of the Greatest Generation while Thunder was a by-product of the counterculture Baby Boomers.
Bengy’s hair was still cut short like a fresh recruit, and his face still managed to be cleanly shaven. Thunder’s long hair hung down to his shoulders, and his gray beard touched his chest.
“I walked out of Unsan. Not many of us did. I’m not worried about a couple of laps around the compound with you kids.”
“Thank you. Feel free to pass along any insights as we train.”
Bengy smiled, revealing crooked brown stained teeth. “I’m sure things have changed, but I’ll help where I can.”
Steele nodded his acknowledgment. Tough, ancient SOB.
Retracing his steps, he passed in front of Max. The boy stood erect back in his place.
“You’re still here?” Steele addressed him. “Why?”
The boy looked scared like he might try to run. “I-I-I, yes, sir,” Max stammered. “I want to fight.” Put somebody through enough and they will either quit or be your worst enemy.
“Don’t call me sir,” Steele said again.
“Yes, sir,” Max piped up. He looked down again. His eyes darted between his older peers.
Steele ignored the boy and continued his inspection, stopping in front of the woman. The only woman to answer the call. She had spoken during the meeting the night before. “Why are you here, ma’am?”
Her ear-length hair held more gray streaks through it than her natural auburn color. Her chin was narrow and her mouth wide, making it seem like her face needed more room. She licked her dry lips before she spoke.
“I’m tired of killing those shamblers with a shovel. I want to learn to shoot.” Her eyes went downward on the ends making her seem perpetually worried.
“What’s your name, ma’am?” he asked.
“Margaret Goodspeed. I lost my husband weeks ago.” Even through her downturned eyebrows, her eyes grew cold. “And my kids are at university.” Her eyes told him to not ask any more questions about it. Steele nodded, leaving it alone.
“Have you ever used a gun?”
“Never. Anti-gun my whole life,” she said, clenching her jaw as if the thought gave her anxiety, however determined she might be.
“Times change. We’ll teach you.” Steele continued walking. “And you three?”
An average-sized man in his forties with wavy brown hair nodded. “I’m Steve, used to be an engineer.” Should have you planning our fortifications, not manning the barricade with the grunts. Steele moved on.
A lean black-haired man with pale skin smiled. “I’m Jason.”
“Former occupation?”
“Used to be a dairy farmer.”
“Good. And you?” Steele looked up at a tall black man with graying hair at the temples.
The man lifted his chin slightly. “I’m Nathan. I was an accountant before all of this.”
“And you?” Steele stared at a twenty-something college-aged kid.
“Name’s Alex Jones. I was in college in Grand Rapids. Hitched a ride out here with an old couple.” The sandy blond young man avoided eye contact with Steele.
“Prior weapons handling experience?” Steele barked at them. Nervous eyes answered.
Their answers came out broken and not even close to being in unison with one another. “No, sir.”
Steele sighed. How many of them will I need to add to my list before the end of the week? You, Steve? You, Larry? All of us? He wrestled his mind knowing that at some point they would be added to his list.
The last man stood with his bolt-action deer hunting rifle on his shoulder. He had a goatee and longer brown hair with the look of a country boy.
“And you?”
“Name’s Trent. Lived up ’bout ten miles that way.” He gestured with his head.
“Why aren’t you still there? Seems isolated enough up here.”
“Those wing nuts burnt my house down. Barely made it out with my family.”
“Sorry to hear it. Glad you’re here. What do you have there?”
“It’s my Winchester XPR .30-06 Springfield. Bagged some big bucks with it.”
Trent held it up for Ste
ele to see. Steele took it from him. It weighed about six-and-a-half pounds. Camouflaged synthetic stock. Steele eyed the scope atop the rifle.
“Leupold optics. Good choice.” Steele held the rifle to his shoulder and looked through the scope. “Can you shoot?”
Trent nodded. “Yes, sir. Deer hunt every fall. Set me up anywhere and I’ll knock ’em dead within at least four hundred yards.” He gave Steele a cool look.
Steele smiled. Finally a shooter. A glimmer of hope amongst the dim prospects of his volunteers. He turned toward Thunder. “Let’s have him help instruct. No use retraining him on a new weapon.”
“No problem,” Thunder said.
“Glad to have a shooter onboard,” Steele said. Trent grinned.
“I tried to get the rest of them knuckleheads to join up, but some folk need more warming up to do. Not too trusting of new folk, especially ones like you claiming they’re from the government and going to help.” He reached up and touched Steele’s bicep. “But I’ll say, I believe you. Damn, boss. You work out?”
“Ha. I used to when I had the time.”
“Don’t look like you stopped.”
“Wish I hadn’t. Welcome aboard.” Steele turned back to Thunder. “The floor is yours. What do we have to train them on?”
Thunder came forward and dropped a large bag in front of Steele. It clanked on the ground. Thunder grunted as he bent low and unzipped the black bag.
Removing the items one by one, he set them back atop the bag.
Two .22s, a 12-gauge shotgun, an M1 Garand, two .30-06 hunting rifles, and an old Colt AR-15. Thunder bent down while unloading the guns and handed them out to the volunteers.
“Make sure Max gets a .22,” Steele said under his breath to Thunder.
“Good idea. If he shoots one of us, maybe it won’t be so bad,” Thunder said.
“Where’d you get that antique?”
Thunder smirked. “I know you’re a former agent ‘n’ all, but let’s not get into too much detail about how these guns were acquired.”
Steele eyed the man. He’s right. What’s it matter now? As long as they work, it doesn’t matter. “Point taken.”
The End Time Saga Box Set [Books 1-3] Page 91