“Hah! Hand me one of them glow-sticks you got from the camping aisle.” When Erik fished it out of his pocket, the biker snapped it to start the chemical reaction and bent down behind the counter. Erik could hear him rummaging around, tossing things and making a bigger mess.
“What are you doing down there?”
“Whoever these people were…the looters, I mean…they didn’t do a good enough job. They didn’t think to open the shelves down below the counter. See?” asked Hoss, suddenly appearing from behind the counter like he worked there. In his hand were two boxes of 12-gauge 00 buck shot and a brick of .22 cartridges.
“How much more is down there?”
“Hell there’s all kinds of sizes and shots…I’d say maybe twenty, thirty boxes worth. Probably ten, fifteen bricks for the .22s. It ain’t much, but it’ll help replace what we spent during the fight.”
“Damn straight,” said Erik. “Wait, what .22s?”
“These .22s!” replied Hoss. He stood up again from behind the counter, a Ruger 10/22 in each hand. “There’s six of them down here—five with scopes, one without. All of them have little tags around the trigger guard that say they were used as displays. Don’t look too bad though. I think this here little magazine,” Hoss said, examining the one in his left hand and bringing the light stick closer. “I think that means it’s semi-auto or something. But these,” he said as he put the two rifles down and grabbed a third. “These lever action Henry’s don’t need anything. I had one of these when I was a kid! Load ‘em on Sunday and shoot all week!”
“Well, they’re not M-16s, but hell, a .22 can do some damage in the hands of someone like Ted, I bet,” said Erik with a smile. “I’ll grab a shopping cart from up front, let’s start loading up. We’ve been here a half hour already.”
After cleaning out what was useable from the gun case, they quickly dumped a whole range of sizes of camouflaged gear into their shopping cart. Erik tossed in a dozen or so pairs of binoculars that the looters didn’t care for. They rounded the last aisle in the section and Erik froze in his tracks, his flashlight illuminating the Holy Grail.
“What is it?” asked Hoss.
“Look!” Erik pointed with the white beam of light. Straight ahead was another large display case like the ones the long-guns were in. This one held archery equipment though. It was broken, like the shotgun case, but there were still nearly a dozen compound bows and a few crossbows and cases of arrows and bolts stacked neatly in the display case.
“Sweeeeeet,” whispered Hoss. “But, uh…that shit ain’t much good against a shotgun.”
“Hoss, when the ammo runs out, that bow and arrow will be more lethal than anything else…’cept maybe a sword. And it’s reusable. Just retrieve the arrows!”
“Damn, we’re back in the Middle Ages. Camelot and all that shit,” muttered Hoss. He grinned. “We even got a castle and a Duke!”
Twenty minutes and two more shopping carts full of loot saw Erik and Hoss working their way back to the rear of the store. On the way through the stockroom, Erik tossed some boxes on the overflowing carts to give the people back at the complex some kind of idea of what they saw. Maybe someone might have an idea about using some more.
“Alright, let’s get this shit loaded up and get out of here,” said Hoss. “I’m getting nervous. It’s too quiet around here.”
Erik readily agreed and after a cursory check to make sure the vehicles hadn’t been tampered with, they loaded the shopping carts into Brin’s SUV, filling it about halfway with all kinds of camping and hunting gear, including the bows and more arrows than they could count. Erik shut the clamshell rear door and grinned. “That was a helluva shopping trip, wouldn’t you say?”
“Oh yeah,” said Hoss with a laugh.
“Let’s get the rest of that dehydrated food from the camping section and clean that out really well. If someone comes back, they may take it before we get the chance.”
“You got it,” replied Hoss. The two scavengers grabbed their carts and went back into the ravaged store. They quickly loaded up the carts with the last of the usable foodstuffs and camping gear then did one last pass through the outdoorsman’s section. The last of the fishing gear, mostly poles and tackle, went into the carts along with all the fishing line they could carry. Looters evidently didn’t care much for hunting and fishing.
After the camping and fishing gear had been taken, Erik had a brainstorm. “I just had an idea…come on, follow me over to the sports gear.”
“What are we doing over here?” asked Hoss, growing increasingly tense with every minute they spent in the store. “Feels like we’re grave robbing.”
Erik hefted a baseball bat, a solid wooden one. “This is what some of the attackers were using during the Battle. Pretty effective too,” he said, gently rubbing his still sore right shoulder. “Come on, let’s grab ‘em all—if everyone can’t have a gun or bow, they’ll have clubs!”
After the fifteen or so wooden bats were loaded in the carts along with the dozen aluminum ones, Erik got them to take what was left of the ice hockey pads and baseball catcher’s gear. Helmets and all. The looters hadn’t done so thorough a job of stealing this type of equipment as they had with the sports clothing and shoes. Either it wasn’t flashy enough or people just didn’t expect to play baseball or hockey any time soon.
“Why are we taking this gear? You gonna start up a bush league or something?” asked Hoss as he dropped an armload of expensive hockey upper torso and shoulder pad sets into a cart.
Erik said nothing but found an XL hockey torso set and put it on. “Hit me.”
“What?”
“Hit me—hard as you can. With that bat. Swing it at my chest. Come on, trust me.” Hoss swung a bat into Erik’s chest with a grunt. Erik crumpled and fell backwards but got back up immediately, trying to catch his breath.
“This shit is body armor, Hoss. The guys who play ice hockey would kill themselves if they didn’t have stuff like this on when they crashed into each other at thirty miles an hour. This is pure gold! It won’t stop a bullet…but for hand to hand fighting, this stuff will be great.”
Hoss grinned as Erik took off the reinforced pads. “I’ll be damned…”
Erik finished taking off his armor and tossed it in the cart. “Come on, let’s get the hell out of here before we get company. The sooner we’re back at the complex the better.”
“Amen, brother!” replied Hoss.
Once they were back at the vehicles, Hoss stopped them from leaving. “I don’t wanna just roar out of here. I’ve got this feeling that we’re being watched, and I can’t shake it.”
“Well, do you think someone could stop us? Let’s just floor it and race home.”
“Erik, I ain’t got three tons of steel around my ass on the bike. Someone with half a turd of luck could shoot me dead on. Now, think we can get to the roof? I wanna check out the lay of the land first.”
Erik pulled out a pair of the newly liberated binoculars, shucking the packaging and tossing it aside. Littering laws were a thing of the past. They found a roof access ladder hanging off the side of the building near the fire door. By climbing on the SUV they could jump and reach the hanging ladder then pull themselves up it to the roof, some thirty feet up.
Erik went up first, then helped pull Hoss, huffing and puffing up over the lip of the roof and onto the hot tarpaper and gravel surface. They rested for a few seconds and then cautiously worked their way across to the front of the huge building, crawling on hands and knees to keep a low profile.
Halfway across they saw the smoke. Moving quicker, they got to the front and dropped down to a completely prone position, peering over the edge of the roof towards the east and the interstate. There was a shopping center just across the street. There sat the Home Depot and Wal-Mart, a looted strip mall and a few fast food joints. Thick black smoke was billowing out of the Burger King in the parking lot.
“Soups on,” said Hoss dryly.
“See anyone?” as
ked Erik, scanning the far off parking lot with his new binoculars.
“No…” Hoss said, using his own pair, a camouflaged set. “Wait…there, coming out of Wally-World…see ‘em?”
Erik shifted his gaze. “Yep. Looks like three, no, I count four now. Dragging bags of something behind ‘em. Looters.”
“Like us.”
Erik looked at him for a second. “No, not like us. They’re probably stealing tennis shoes. We’ve got shit for an army. We’re here for survival against guys like them.” Hoss chuckled. Erik looked again.
“Look at that…in front of the store. They got four cars line up, backed up to the front, trunks open. Pieces of shit, though…all shot up.” Erik scanned the parking lot.
“Uh oh, there’s another car at the front of the parking lot. I see two guys inside. Behind the pine tree…see? There’s a gun sticking out the passenger window.”
“They got religion,” muttered Hoss.
“They’re organized too.”
Hoss checked out the street back to the main drag. “Good thing we waited…lookie there.”
Erik followed his gaze and spotted another car in the intersection. There was a man sitting on the roof of the car with a large rifle across his lap, drinking what looked like a can of beer. A driver sat at the wheel reading something.
“Scouts,” said Hoss.
“Good thing we came in the back way. If we had parked out front, they would have had our asses good.”
“Yup. I think we should wait and see what goes on…” Squealing tires from Wal-Mart announced they wouldn’t have to wait long.
“There they go,” remarked Hoss, watching the four cars swerve out of the parking lot, form a line on the road and head for the scout at the main intersection. The scout started up and after the gunman got inside led the four loot cars west towards downtown Sarasota. The car with the gunmen in the parking lot caught up and formed the rearguard. Erik could see the guns sweeping the sides of the road as the little convey drove away.
“There’s some serious dudes, right there,” he said. “They’re not just a bunch of gang-bangers. They knew what they wanted, took just that and left. Very ordered.”
“Sounds like what we should do. Let’s get the hell out of here,” suggested Hoss.
SARASOTA
To Secure Peace, Prepare for War
ERIK STOOD ON the ‘Common’, the patch of ground in the center of Colonial Gardens and watched his troops. He smiled, thinking of how odd it was that he, a civilian, considered these people in front of him his troops. The Battle had done wonders for the volunteer rate. Despite the fact that the families of the men who died treated him like the very Devil himself, about half of the available men in the complex had joined up, willing to put their lives on the line to defend the entire community. Their cadre of guards-in-training had tripled.
As Erik watched his select group of swordsmen practice the moves he had just demonstrated with his katana, he came to the conclusion that they needed a title. There was really nothing he or anyone else could award them, they were really just trying to survive. They didn’t have the luxury of medals or prizes. Perhaps a pair of binoculars or a bow and some arrows? He asked himself. He and Hoss had brought back a truckload of supplies. And other raiders had been dispatched. There would be more loot coming in soon.
Idly, he plucked at the bandage still wrapped tightly around his lower torso. The wounds from the Battle were healing nicely, but they itched now, a handful of days into the healing process.
He had started with three men wielding his swords during the Battle. One, a man named Roger Pansk had been killed. Erik had cleaned the Viking sword Roger had used so effectively and replaced it in his collection, then later loaned it to Hoss. The two other men who had borrowed his ninja swords—a shorter, straight version of his katana—had both survived the fight.
During the memorial ceremony the day following the Battle, Erik had made a great show of recognizing those who had willingly put their lives on the line for the protection of the complex. As a result, he bestowed on the two swordsmen his swords as gifts, one warrior to another. The two men were beaming from ear to ear for about 36 hours after that. They were warriors, not merely a financial advisor and a college student anymore. The swords they wore on their backs proclaimed them to be veterans. They had seen the elephant and survived to tell the tale.
The stories had already started, Erik remembered with a frown. People—mostly Hoss, Erik figured—had started talking almost as soon as the ceremony for the dead was over. People looked at him differently now. Especially after his idea to raid the sports store had panned out so well and swelled the stock of their armory.
Hoss had told the story of how Erik had waded into the front line of the attacking street toughs, his sword flashing like lightening and cutting down thugs left and right, fighting his way towards the bikers who were smashing their way through the rear of the attackers. The big biker took especial delight in telling the story to the children of the complex, much to their parents delight, as he usually toned down the violence and made it sound more like St. George and the Dragon, then the dirty, violent, half-crazed street brawl Erik remembered. Besides, it kept the youngsters entertained—something very hard to do now that TV was a thing of the past.
Erik cleared his head and focused again on his fledgling fighters. His sword collection contained twelve serviceable weapons. He actually had sixteen swords, but four were too poorly made as replicas to be used in actual combat. Erik watched the ten men—including his two veterans—move roughly as a group, stepping forward and swinging down with their quickly made wooden practice-swords. They didn’t have enough skill or confidence yet to use live steel. The last thing anyone needed was one of the recruits cutting off an arm or hand of another before they even saw their first fighting.
He watched the different men and their abilities, trying to figure out who would use which of his swords. He had a list in his head and every time they practiced, he reconsidered which man should get what sword. Some would have replica Roman swords, some the longer, slightly more curved samurai swords, and the rest would wield his Medieval European one-handed swords of one design or another. Erik’s two massive Scottish claymores were not to be given to anyone. He had to find someone large enough and skilled enough to use the two-handed brutes without killing himself or his comrades, first.
Step, swing, recover. Step, counter-swing, recover. Step, stab, backpedal, slash, turn, swing, recover. The drill continued for over an hour, until each and every man was sweaty and muscles were fatigued as the heavy wooden swords swished through the air. They had been made from the scrap lumber at the construction site the day after the battle. Erik and Ted did the cutting and sawing—again using left behind tools—of the models, then the recruits made their own swords. Each one was to learn to respect his sword from the start. Erik was as relentless in his sword training as Ted was with his physical conditioning and all around training of the guards. He walked up and down the lines, smacking shoulders and tapping heads with his own wooden training sword whenever someone’s stance was off. If it hurt in practice, it would kill in battle.
As the men rested in the shade of one of the larger buildings, Erik examined some plywood sheets abandoned by the construction workers a week and a half before. His two veterans joined him, catching their breath. They were the only ones who figured they had a right to be close to Erik. The Duke. The rest of the squad still felt like awkward students. They hung back and watched.
“Whatcha lookin’ at, sir?” asked Alan Jakes, the college student turned sword fighter.
“Dammit, don’t call me ‘sir’,” said Erik over his shoulder in a grizzled voice that belonged to a much older man. “I’m only two years older than you, Alan.”
“Sorry, Duke,” grinned the college man.
Erik sighed and ignored the title. “Alright people, bring it in!” he called out.
After gathering the students around him, he showed them a few
more moves with his katana.
He pushed the swordsmen-in-training harder than the regular guards who were being trained by Ted on how to use the surplus shotguns and pistols he had brought back the week before from the Sheriff’s department. They had added the odd assortment of handguns and shotguns the gang-bangers had left behind after the Battle to the Sheriff’s department stash and the “liberated” handful of .22s from the sports store, effectively doubling the Colonial Gardens arsenal.
Hoss’s bikers, increasingly known as the Cavalry, knew how to use their guns, and so they helped out the new guards as they could. It was a rough and tumble training process, designed to train as many people as well as possible, as fast as possible.
The Battle had scared everyone. They had decided to lock up all the loot from the Sports Giant raiding trips in the ‘Keep’. It was on the second floor of the most central apartment building. Spare keys were found in the office, so Lentz, Bernie, and Erik all had keys to access the storage rooms.
Erik dismissed his men after they all performed the ritual bow and cool-down stretch that Erik had learned back in his college karate class and later reinforced from his in-laws. The rest of the students jealously watched Peter and Alan head home carrying their gleaming ninja swords which they had brought to the training session. They carried their real swords with them everywhere. The others carried their practice swords with them everywhere. It was a status symbol now. The people of the complex could spot on sight someone who had pledged to put his life on the line by being a swordsman. They would be the front line. The Guards were there for defense. The swordsmen were there for offense.
Erik saw this and commented, “Soon, when you graduate from this little school we’ve set up, you’ll have your own swords.” Faces lit up. The group dispersed, walking proudly home or to other duties, wooden swords hanging from belts or across backs. A wooden sword wouldn’t deter an attacker, after all it was just a glorified stick. But someone trained in how to use that stick could bring a man down pretty quick, nonetheless. One couldn’t cut an arm or a leg off with a stick, but you could bring an attacker to his knees by breaking an ankle or a wrist. Erik figured a well placed shot to the head might render an attacker unconscious, stick or not.
Alea Jacta Est: A Novel of the Fall of America (Future History of America Book 1) Page 41