Sunfall (Book 3): Impact

by Gideon, D.

  “Father Bill talked about her a lot,” he said.

  “So she’s like a prison celebrity?”

  “Something like that.”

  They watched the crowd flowing around Dotty and Bill, each person stepping forward to make introductions and shake hands. Sheriff Kane leaned against his squad car, arms crossed, staring in the direction the MRAP had gone.

  “Friggin’ creepy,” he heard Ripley mutter.

  Truth be told, it was, but he understood it. Prisoners would latch on to anyone on the outside who showed them the smallest bit of kindness. Either to use them in some way, or just to remind the prisoner that there was someone out in the real world who still gave a shit. For years he’d been hearing stories from Father Bill about what Dotty had been up to, and the pastor had brought things from her every week. Books and magazines, seeds for the garden, even baked goods showed up now and then. The little woman had nearly reached the status of exalted saint among some of Bill’s prison congregation, and she’d never even met any of them.

  Creepy or not, he’d take it. If Dotty had a small army of adoring fans, that might make protecting her a little easier. He still didn’t want people he didn’t know coming by the house, though, and he didn’t know any of the women in the group.

  A tinkle of bells interrupted the silence, and an older man’s voice called out. “Hey mister? You there, at the tree. Big fella.”

  Preacher and Ripley both turned. A skinny man, maybe in his early seventies, was leaning out of the hardware store and waving to them.

  “That’s Teddy,” Ripley said, voice low. “He runs the hardware store. Grams used to work for him. Be nice.”

  Be nice?

  Preacher frowned at her, and she fixed him with a scathing look.

  “I’m serious,” she said. “He gets cranky sometimes, but he’s harmless. Don’t kill him.”

  “Fine. But only because you said so.”

  Her eyes widened for a second before she realized he’d been joking, then narrowed into a glare.

  “Come on over here,” Teddy called. “I need to talk to you.”

  “Not. Funny,” Ripley hissed.

  Preacher smirked and stepped out from the tree, heading over to see what the little old man wanted.

  Preacher

  Teddy kicked a worn wooden stop under the door and leaned against the frame, crossing his arms. He looked over the two of them with a critical eye as they approached.

  “You Dotty’s new prison stray that I heard about?” he asked.

  Preacher bit back a response and looked at Ripley.

  “Preacher, this is Teddy. Teddy, Preacher. He’s come to live with us,” Ripley said.

  “So you are her new stray.”

  “She took me in,” Preacher said, cautious.

  Teddy scratched a short, patchy beard. “I’ve seen you, every mornin’, heading off to the river. See ya heading back with a load of wood a while later. You gettin’ that wood for her?”

  “Need wood to make it through the winter,” Preacher said.

  Teddy nodded and looked towards the crowd at the corner. He pointed to the wheelbarrow.

  “You’ve got a good work ethic, son, but all I ever see you with is a big axe and that wheelbarrow. That all you got?”

  “It’s all Dotty has.”

  “You could’ve asked my dad,” Ripley said. “I thought you used that axe because you wanted to.”

  Preacher shook his head. “I work with what I’ve got.”

  Teddy clicked his tongue. “Hell of a thing, the Sheriff puttin’ you out with nothing but the clothes on your back.”

  “The Sheriff did more than he needed to,” Preacher said.

  Teddy gave a little grunt that said he had his doubts, then nodded to himself and straightened.

  “A man needs tools if he’s gonna make a go of it. You know how to cut lumber? Build things? You good with a hammer? A wrench?”

  “What do you need done?” Preacher asked.

  “I ain’t askin’ you to do nothing,” Teddy snapped. “I’m asking if you’ve got skills, son. I’m asking if you’ve got the capability to make yourself useful, besides usin’ that brawn to bust up some old rotten trees.”

  “I do, but-” Preacher started, and Teddy interrupted him.

  “Yeah? Well get on in here and pick yourself out some tools. I’ll know whether to believe you by what you bring back.”

  Preacher shook his head. “I don’t have money.”

  “Did I ask if you had money? Did I say you had to buy anything? You need tools. I’ve got tools. What the hell am I gonna do with two dozen hammers and another dozen saws? Build another case to hold my fifty thousand nails?”

  Ripley gave a little snort and quickly cleared her throat, staring hard at the ground.

  “What’s the catch?” Preacher asked. Nothing ever came for free.

  “There ain’t no catch,” Teddy said. “You use it to take care of that girl.” He gestured towards Dotty. “She goes on about people not havin’ no sense, then does fool stuff like bringin’ home the biggest, baddest, meanest-lookin’ sonofabitch she can find. She probably baked you cookies.”

  Preacher snorted and felt the edges of his mouth lift a bit. Dotty had baked cookies that first night, using the Miller’s gas oven.

  “They were oatmeal raisin,” Ripley said, her smile wide. “She made them from scratch.”

  “See? That’s what I thought. Fool woman.” Teddy looked into the store, looked back at Preacher, and huffed. “You hard of hearing? I’m giving you tools. Go get ‘em.”

  “He won’t take no for an answer,” Ripley said. “Grams calls him a stubborn old goat.”

  “Might be the only thing she’s right about,” Teddy said, stepping aside so Preacher could pass him.

  Preacher didn’t move. He definitely needed the tools, but life had taught him that everything came with a price. A steep, bloody price. And if you didn’t acknowledge it up front, it would come back to bite you at the worst possible time. The old man seemed sincere, but Preacher was already walking a thin line. There wasn’t room for trusting strangers.

  “I don’t mean to sound ungrateful, sir, but say I take some tools. What’s to keep you from saying I stole them? The Sheriff’s got a bullet waiting for me if I step out of line.” He shook his head. “Thank you, but no. I’ll make do with what I have. You have a good day.”

  He could hear Teddy cussing and griping as he walked back towards the crowd and Dotty’s rusted garden wheelbarrow.

  “Hold on,” Teddy called. “What if I made you a trade for the tools?”

  Preacher didn’t even bother to turn. “I don’t have anything to trade,” he called back.

  “You got those muscles, and you said you got skills, right? I do have a thing or two that you could work on.”

  That stopped him. A trade for labor, he could do. The Sheriff had thrust them out into this community and given them a couple of directives. The first had been to make themselves valuable to the community; integrate themselves. Use their skills as currency. That was part of why they met up each morning; for the Sheriff to keep tabs on what they all were doing and where they’d be, and to see if anyone had taken on a project that needed more hands. The other thing the Sheriff had them preparing for…well, hopefully that would never come to pass.

  He walked back to the little man and saw that Ripley had gone inside the store. “What kind of work?”

  Teddy huffed and made a face like he’d swallowed something sour. “Just to make sure we’re clear, I ain’t asking for help. I don’t need help. This is a job offer.”

  “I’m listening.”

  Teddy studied Preacher’s face for a moment, then nodded. “I can’t stay here. Been sleeping here for days to keep them fools from breaking in at night. They ain’t brazen enough to try during the day. Yet.”

  “What about your house?”

  “That’s the thing, ain’t it? Can’t be two places at once.” Teddy scratched at his beard a
gain; a motion that Preacher had caught himself doing often. A week of not shaving had covered his head and jaw in fuzz. It hadn’t caught up to his goatee yet, but it was getting there. He’d thought about having Marco look for a straight razor on one of his clandestine scavenging trips, but then realized he’d fit in better if he left it alone. All of the male prisoners the Sheriff had brought out for the New Home program had been bald when they were released. It made them too easy to spot.

  “So far they’ve been leaving my house alone. They’re just trying to loot out the stores. I gotta get what’s here in my store moved to the workshop at my house. I got a truck you can use and some full gas cans in my shop. Should get you by if you’re careful. You empty the store into my workshop, and I’ll pay you in tools,” Teddy said.

  Preacher looked into the store, considering all the rows of shelving and bins. Ripley had pulled out a roll of chicken wire and was comparing it to a panel of heavier gauge stuff.

  “That’s not exactly a one-person job,” Preacher said. “Not if you want it done fast.”

  “I don’t necessarily need it done fast, I just need it done. And if it’s going to take a while, someone needs to sleep here at night until it is done.”

  Preacher considered it. “What if I get help? Same deal? Pay in tools?”

  Teddy crossed his arms. “Your guys, your deal. But you might want to put restrictions on it. Say, only as much as they can carry in their bare arms.”

  “If my pay is more, that could cause issues.”

  “Tell them to suck it up. A foreman gets paid more than a grunt,” Teddy said. “And I ain’t gonna stand here babysitting y’all. Both of these projects will be your responsibility.”

  “Both?”

  “I need an outhouse, like what Seth Miller built. Close to the house, but far enough from the well that it don’t get tainted. I’ve got an old barn at the back of my property that’s been falling in for a while. Tear that down, use the wood for the outhouse.”

  “I want in on that,” Ripley called. She stood, brushing her hands off on her cargo pants. “I need some wood for rabbit hutches.”

  “There’s plenty to be had, if you ain’t too picky,” Teddy said.

  “I’ve never been picky,” she said, joining them at the door. She adjusted her rifle strap and thumbed back over her shoulder. “Me and the guys help Preacher out, and in return I get some wood and some of those 14 gauge wire mesh panels? The one-inch by half-inch stuff?”

  Preacher checked the crowd and saw Dotty coming towards them. The sound of hammering started up inside the church; Seth Miller must have arrived to do more work. He heard a throat clear, and realized the old man was waiting for him to say something.

  “What?” he said.

  “I said it would be your responsibility,” Teddy said. “You find the labor, you work out a fair deal.”

  “Why me? There’s plenty of guys over there-”

  “Because you’re the only one I see busting his ass every morning. Because you wouldn’t take a handout—I respect that. And because once I tell Dotty that we made a deal, she’ll hold you to it while I’m gone.” He grinned, a sly look on his face. “Insurance.”

  “Wait a minute. Gone?” Ripley said.

  “My daughter and grand babies are up in Salisbury. They shoulda been here by now. I’m gonna go see why they ain’t,” Teddy said. “Bring ‘em home.”

  “You do not want to do that,” Ripley said. “You don’t know what it’s like out there-”

  “Young lady, I’ve been to war. And I see these traitors toolin’ around on our streets, harassing people while wearing our uniforms. I know exactly what it’s like.”

  “Traitor is a harsh label, Teddy,” Dotty said, coming up to put her hand on his shoulder.

  “If they don’t want the label, they shouldn’t be actin’ like it,” Teddy said, shooing Ripley out of the way and closing the shop’s front door. “I remember my oath. Enemies foreign and domestic.”

  “I agree that what they did earlier was a little over the line, but they’re just trying to keep the peace,” Dotty said.

  Teddy snorted and pulled a folded paper from his back pocket. “I was back in the workshop yesterday getting Millie packed up. Heard some engines come and go. When I went back up to the house, I found this stuck in the door.”

  Ripley plucked the paper from his hand and opened it. Her brows furrowed. “FEMA Disaster Assistance?”

  “There was a note with it saying I’ve got two days to fill it out and turn it in or they’ll come back for a mandatory inspection,” Teddy said. “That’s not happening.”

  “Who’s Millie?” Preacher asked.

  “Not who, what,” Dotty said. “It’s his tank. And why are you packing it up?”

  “How many times I gotta tell you? She’s not a tank, she’s a track. A personnel carrier. You gettin’ memory loss already, woman?” Teddy said.

  Dotty shook her head. “As far as I’m concerned, if it has those tread things, it’s a tank.” She looked back up at Preacher. “He went to at least a dozen government auctions before he found it and dragged it all the way back here.”

  “Millie kept me alive in Vietnam,” Teddy said. “I wasn’t gonna let her get turned to scrap. Brought her home and fixed her up right.”

  “He pulls it out every summer for the Fourth of July parade, and pulls people out of the ditches with it in the winter,” Dotty continued. “In between I think the old fool rubs it with a diaper.”

  “It’s a chamois,” Teddy growled. “Keeps the water marks off.”

  Preacher pointed down the road where the soldiers had gone. “Like that thing? Big gun on top?”

  “Nah, that’s just a truck,” Teddy said. “Millie’s a one-one-three diesel. She did have a gun, originally, but it had been removed when I found her. Getting a replacement would’ve taken all kinds of extra paperwork and I didn’t want to go through the trouble. Wish I had, now. But she’ll keep me safe from small arms fire, and there ain’t much that can stop her. I can even cross rivers if I have to.”

  Ripley had finished reading the paper, and was flipping it over repeatedly.

  “The type is different,” she muttered. Preacher held out a hand and she passed it over.

  “See?” She pointed. “The typeface on the front isn’t the same as on the back. Like…they printed it out, and then printed more stuff on the back from a different program or file. And what they’re asking is just…ridiculous. They don’t need to know all that.”

  “Damn right they don’t,” Teddy said, fishing through a ring of keys and locking the bolts on the door.

  Preacher flipped it back to the front and scanned it. Homeland Security was printed across the top with FEMA Disaster Assistance right under it, and then a big block of small print about how the information would be used. The form on the front was relatively simple: name, address, date of birth, phone number and social security number. There was a little box to check certifying that the applicant was a US citizen. There was a place for a signature and date, and then a bunch of empty boxes for administrative use with a warning not to write there or the application would be delayed.

  “You still haven’t said why you’re packing Millie,” Dotty said.

  “I’m going to Salisbury to get Bree and the kids,” Teddy said. “And don’t give me that look. My mind’s made up. Save your breath.”

  Preacher knew that wasn’t going to happen. As the two started arguing, he stepped away so he could concentrate on the back of the application. Ripley moved with him, although still out of arm’s reach.

  She was right. The letters on the back were smaller, and the print was different. He’d done some work in the computer room at his first prison when he’d been working on getting transferred, and if he had to guess, someone had whipped this up in Microsoft Word.

  Ripley huffed and moved up next to him, so she could point out specific sections.

  “First, they want every bit of info of every person staying in th
e house, their relationship to the applicant, and check this out: home address, if different than applicant’s. They’re specifically looking for out-of-towners.”

  “Or prisoners,” he said. He pointed to a checkbox on the right. “Checkbox for convicted felons.”

  “And okay, I can understand the are you in food distress and the medical distress questions, but then to ask how many pounds of food are in the house? That can’t be legit. It’s like they’re taking inventory.”

  The form also asked if anyone in the home had a medical condition, and if so, to list out each person’s condition and the medications—including dosage and amounts—that they had on hand. That could be taking inventory, too. Then again, it could just be seeing if someone needed help. Preacher had to give them credit; the wording had been carefully done.

  “And look here,” Ripley said, moving her finger further down. He tried to ignore the yellowish-brown bruises on her knuckles. Seeing them made him want to teach someone some manners.

  “They want you to list all the makes and models of your vehicles, whether they’re gas or diesel, and how much fuel you have for each. Why would they need that?” she asked.

  “Maybe they’re planning on taking it.” But the fuel question was followed up by something interesting: Are you planning on evacuating the area? If so, on what date? Beneath that was a space to leave a forwarding address.

  He pointed to the address box. “What do you think about this?”

  Ripley thought for a moment. “During the Great Depression, a lot of families lost their farms because they couldn’t afford the annual property tax. Maybe they’re planning on sending out tax bills so they can say there was no response, and then seize the properties?”

  “Or handing out fuel to evacuate?”

  She frowned. “I’ve never heard of disaster response teams doing things like that before. I’ve heard of them chartering buses, or even using military trucks to get people out of the disaster zone…but not handing out fuel for trips. For generators, maybe. But not trips.”

  Yeah. Both of these ideas were too convoluted. Occam’s Razor said that the simplest solution was the most likely solution. That meant seizing the food, medicine, and fuel. Maybe even the vehicles, too.