Righteous Sacrifice

by Timothy Van Sickel

  As I watch our convoy head off, I see my brother trotting into town on horseback with his large rangy dog, Badzy trotting alongside. Several local horse farms have traded out their stock. We traded a sow and a hog along with a dozen chickens and ducks for four good horses. I wait patiently as Paul ties up his steed.

  "You look good on that horse, Paul. A little John Wayne showing through. What brings you to town, big brother?" I ask.

  "Well if it isn't Lt. Dan, I mean General Mark! While you've been busy fighting the hordes I've been tilting with the windmills. I think we can bring power back to this town, little brother. I've got a meeting at the library with some of the other brainiacs, as you call us; walk there with me." The irony of his request goes completely unnoticed.

  He starts talking as we head down the street. "We can put those windmill turbines to work. The control circuitry is fried, but the generators should still work. We just have to get the generators off those towers and then find a way to turn them, maybe with a watermill on the stream."

  He is already five yards ahead of me with his long gait and sense of purpose. "Slow down, Paul! I'm with you on the turbine thing, but not on your pace."

  "Oh, Sorry," He says as he slows down for a bit. "Anyway, a couple of our refugees are wind grinders, the guys that service the windmills. They think it’s possible that the generators are okay. They're going to try and disengage the automatic brakes that woulda kicked in when the circuitry fried. Then they can see if the turbine is generating power."

  Seeing the potential I stop in my tracks. "You mean we could start generating power? Power up the sanitation and water plant? Power up other parts of town?"

  "We're not that far yet, Mark, but yes, we could start generating power."

  "Oh my God, that would be awesome!"

  "Well, even if the turbines still work, we gotta figure out a way to get them down. You asked us to think big, we are. You can join us if you want," he says as he and Badzy bound up the steps to the library.

  "No, I think you guys are five steps ahead of me, literally. Sounds like you may need some manpower to get it done. Let me know if I can help with that," I respond.

  "The mayor is already on top of it if needed. Keep us safe little brother, we'll figure this out." With that he heads into the library, greeted warmly by one of the researchers we rescued from Windber.

  I turn to Larson, who seems to always be at my side since I lost my leg. "That would be huge. There are tons of windmills out there. If we can repurpose them, make them an efficient and consistent source of power, game changer."

  "Yeah Pap. But, they need to get them off the towers and down to the river. How are they gonna do that?"

  "Ingenuity, manpower and God's inspiration." I reply as we slowly walk back up the street to the VFW.

  We pass the market place, which is setting up for the day. A cute young lady is setting out eggs, cheeses and dairy products. She catches Larson's eye. Larson has tarried at her booth before. I give Larson two clips of ammunition. "Go get us some fresh cheese,” I say looking at him with a wink. “My shadows will protect me," I state, indicating the two guards that Colonel Fisher always has trailing me. Larson nods and smiles as he heads over to the young lady's stand.

  A few minutes later I hobble back up the steps of the VFW. Sitting in my corner office space is Colonel Fisher. He smiles at seeing me, but the smile quickly turns to a frown. I know he has bad news for me before I even get inside the door.

  Once settled in the seat behind my desk I look at the concerned faced of the colonel. "You got bad news, lay it on me."

  "We're running out of ammunition," the colonel states bluntly. "We have twelve road blocks and three roving patrols that all need to be well armed. We can handle that. But as we grow, we need more roadblock. That requires more ammunition. We can spread around what we have, but we’re still going to have an ammunition problem."

  "We got to be better armed than anyone else out there. With what we recovered from the Wagerly's camp, and with what Zach brought in from the Murtha airport, we can't be facing anyone better armed," I state.

  "What you say is true, Mark, but we are protecting a large swath of land. We know a large amount of ammunitions and arms fell into the hands of the hordes that over ran the airport. A lot of those people are now moving our way. We are spread thin against an enemy that may be concentrated. Before you bring it up, that threat comes both from Windber on Route 160 and Richland on Route 219."

  "You’re saying one of our patrols or roadblocks could run into superior firepower. We need to evaluate allocation of resources, Colonel, and gear up a fast reaction group. Our southern and eastern groups can be armed thinner. Our northern and western groups need to be better armed. And, we need two of our best trucks geared up with twelve good men ready to roll at a moment’s notice. We also need to let Captain Albright know that he needs a quick reaction team in the Jennerstown area."

  "I was thinking along those lines," the colonel responds. "I'll get that moving."

  "But that is only a band aid," I respond. "We need a long-term solution. Intercepting and recruiting, or overrunning the groups that got the ammunition is one idea, but how do we do that? The other thing that has been burning at the back of my head is what the military is doing. Someone issued orders to hold the Murtha airport. Someone issued orders to institute martial law in Somerset. There was a sky cap mission running over the east coast. The active military is still out there. What are they doing? Who leads them? What are their intentions?"

  "You're getting too far beyond today, General. Let’s live through today, okay. Maybe God will come down and sweep us all up before we have to worry about all that," Colonel Fisher responds. "I like the idea of taking in the strong, or taking them out. Let’s explore those options. I think we should bring some more minds into this discussion, general, your step-daughter, Reverend Wysinger, the mayor. Some outside opinions could be helpful."

  "I'm good with that, XO. Get the fast action teams in place, and reposition arms and men as you deem needed. We'll meet back here at noon and discuss the ammunition situation with a larger group."

  With two hours to burn before this next meeting I head out the door for some fresh air and fresh ideas. My quest for fresh air is immediately denied. The rancid stench of death meets me once again. Here in Central City, far from the chaos of the larger cities, the grim reality of people dying cannot be evaded. The frail and elderly, the sick, those on life sustaining medications; as their drugs run out, so does their time here on earth. Add in those who have died of violence, it becomes more then the survivors can keep up with. So the stench of death is pervasive.

  My two military shadows follow me to Reverend Wysinger's church and the two of us talk briefly while I inform him of the noon meeting. From there we head on to the barter square, where Larson joins us, smiling from ear to ear as he leaves the cute young girl with a kiss.

  "What did I just see there, young man?" I chide him.

  "What do ya’ mean Pap?" he responds.

  "I saw that little smooch as you left. Not on the cheek but full lip contact!"

  "Hey, Pap!" Larson responds a little defensively. "She's cute, and smart. And she knows good cheese. Be nice to me and I'll get ya some good cheese."

  "Good looking, smart, and has food. Huh. Well, be careful, that's how your grandma roped me in," I say chuckling. "What's miss cutie's name?"

  "Jenny." Is the one word response I get.

  "Just Jenny? No last name?"

  We banter on about the young lady and her parents and their farm as we walk down the road. Eventually I get a pretty good background on the girl, and am glad for my grandson's happiness.

  We head on down to the library where the brainiacs are just heading out with the wind grinders to unleash a wind turbine. If the generator is still working, that will be a game changer. Getting the generator off its three-hundred foot tower will be a huge obstacle, but they are going to take it one step at a time.

  Fro
m there, we take the van over to the school which is now our refugee center. The people stranded at the Flight 93 memorial were processed and housed there after we rescued them from the ravaging anarchists. The lead doctor embraces me. Seven days ago, the place was full of refugees. Today, most people have been transitioned into the community, and only a few remain in quarantine. Part of the old school is still being used as housing, but more people are moving out into the community as laborers and security, than are being taken in. I let her know about the refugees now coming out of the Johnstown area. She is fully aware of their plight and they are getting ramped up for the challenge. The new massive wood fired hot water tank has greatly improved sanitation and made everyone's life a lot better. Food is not an issue but security is. She is worried that we may bring in bad elements that could cause problems. She and the "Ellis Island" people are working on better screening procedures.

  "What do we do with the people we think could be trouble?" I ask.

  "That's a very good question, and I’m looking for a very good answer."

  "That needs to be brought up with the council," I reply. "I don't have the answer, and it just doesn't seem right to turn some away just because we don't like them, or they don't ‘fit’. That just will make them mad, and on the outside looking in. Your concerns need to be addressed."

  I had not seen the facility since the new sanitation systems where put in place. She gives me a tour, and the cleanup is amazing. Seven days ago over a thousand hungry, dirty and sick people overwhelmed these grounds with improper water and sanitary systems. The fit and healthy have either moved on or found a place in the community. Only a few hundred people remain. They are clean, well fed, and working to keep the place clean, helping the sick and helping with the trickle of refugees still seeking refuge.

  "I don't know if you are a believer, Doctor, but I say God worked a small miracle here."

  "I am a believer, Mark," the doctor responds. "And my faith is growing. The transformation here, I never thought possible. When we were trapped at the Memorial Site, I thought all was lost. Now we are trying to figure out how we can do more, help more people. It’s amazing. Yeah, you're right, it’s a small miracle."

  I laugh and smile. "God works miracles every day, often through us. Sometimes we just need to step back and appreciate what He has done, through the talents He has blessed us with. And when you see it all, sometimes you just want to holler out 'Hallelujah!'"

  I look at her, wink and smile, then loudly proclaim, "Hallelujah, Praise the Lord!"

  I look at her again and we both shout, "Hallelujah, Praise the Lord!" People nearby look at us, several applaud and repeat the phrase softly to themselves, smiling.

  At ten till noon my guard contingent and I arrive back at the VFW. We watch as Zach rolls in on the Harley Sportster with his sister, Colonel Brit. As we walk into the building, the Reverend Wysinger rounds the corner. Our meeting is coming together.

  Chapter 9, The Resistance

  Boswell to Jerome

  9/27

  Our Coal Miners restaurant has another big crowd. Word had been passed along for them to be ready for a hundred or more people. A pig had been donated and barter compensation negotiated to accommodate the crowd. Captain Regis is tense and fired up, but he exudes confidence as he talks with his assembly of freedom fighters.

  He has already sent a dozen trusted scouts north, to reconnoiter the route they will clear today. Two of his best men, in a farm style ATV, taking back roads and trails, have already entered Jerome with needed ammunition and small arms. More importantly they bring hope. The town's small militia was told via CB that help was coming. But to see help actually arrive sends a vibrancy throughout their community.

  Jerome and the surrounding countryside is partially a bedroom community of professionals who work in Johnstown. Doctors, lawyers, researchers, engineers and businessmen own beautiful homes surrounded by their farming neighbors and the sprawling woodlands. Both the professionals and the farmers have been displaced by the refugees from Johnstown. Some fought to protect their homes. Some opened their doors to the refugees only to be run out of their own homes.

  A few far-flung farms and homes remain unmolested. Many of the displaced homeowners and farm families have gathered to these outposts. Because of the message sent by the local parishioners, many other folks and refugees have retreated into Jerome or made their way further south to Boswell or Jennerstown. Now they wait for relief. Some just to make it through the day, others work on plans to reclaim their homes and farms.

  Captain Regis and his band of loosely gathered militia have a big task in front of them. Along with the two dozen skilled fighters from Central City, another fifty militia arrive from Somerset. His own people add fifty men and some women. Over half those assembled are war veterans, most of the rest are skilled woodsmen and hunters. An additional two dozen are medics, runners and supply personnel.

  By the time they get organized, it is ten o'clock. They move their force east on Route 30 then head north towards Boswell. The lead vehicle displays a white flag, a bed sheet, on a twenty foot pole. On a standard six foot mast an American flag flies. The driver along with a local farmer are in the front seat. Four armed men are in the well sandbagged bed. The following truck is one of Central City's technicals with a swivel mounted SAW. A farm tractor with a sandbagged trailer full of fighters is next in line, followed by another farm tractor pulling a food wagon with two EMTs. It takes them an hour just to reach Boswell

  The mission is to offer peace and comfort to any refugees they encounter. The secondary mission is to oust occupiers who will not relinquish. Late word came in to Captain Regis to be on the lookout for any well-armed refugees, and to try and negotiate with them, bring them into our alliance.

  In the first mile out of Boswell, they pass several dozen homes and farms. Each one is scouted and cleared. The work of the scouts and the church parishioners is paying off. The homes that were occupied by refugees, and the two farms they pass are quickly given over. The refugees actually glad to see a sense of order being instituted.

  The easy passage is slowed as the lead truck emerges from a small wood lot to see a large and prosperous farm with over a hundred squatters camped out. The carcasses of several cows can be seen and over a dozen cooking fires are burning. The large group of people barely gives notice as the lead trucks of Captain Regis' convoy rolls into the open fields. The convoy stops and area security is set up, the Iraq and Afghan vets knowing all too well that a lax position can be fatal.

  Captain Regis dismounts from the large farm wagon with twelve men. He motions for the second technical truck to come up, and positions it just inside the wood line, where it can cover him and his men. He and twelve well-armed troops start walking across the field towards the large group of squatters and their cooking fire. He has one of his men carry a white flag, another carries the stars and stripes.

  The group he approaches makes no move. They continue to prepare their food and take care of their people. They barely acknowledge that he approaches them. Fifty feet from their cooking fire, where at least fifty men, women and children are gathered, Captain Regis stops.

  He is befuddled. His presence has not even been acknowledged. It is like he and his people are invisible. He does not like this eerie scene. "Yo, guys, let's set up a perimeter here, maybe try to keep things secure?" He states, trying to be nonchalant. His detail is already tactically staggered and spread out in a standard combat formation. They take up perimeter security stances. They are totally exposed in the field, but they are covering themselves.

  This action brings a few stares, along with a few laughs from the group around the cooking fire. The snickers confuse the captain even more. He has to take control of the situation, get a dialogue going.

  Fifty feet from this group of squatters, Captain Regis, on one knee, with the six foot mast adorned with a white flag, speaks up. He is usually brash, but he chooses his words carefully. "We'd like to know who's in charge of th
is here encampment."

  "What's it to ya, thief." A large woman responds.

  Not the response he expected, but he takes it in stride. "I was hoping to negotiate a safe passage for you all. We come in peace."

  "That's what the white man said to the Indian. That didn't work out to well,'' says a middle aged man sitting close to the fire.

  "We been through the shit and we're still here," the man continues. "We don't need safe passage through your lands. If we decide to move on, then we will move on. We like it here right now, so we think we'll stay here a bit. We got food an’ shelter, an’ we are ahead of the crowd for once. I think we'll stay here. We’re tired of moving on."

  "You sound like a reasonable man, sir. I appreciate your openness. You been in a few fights from what you say." The captain waits for the man's response.

  The man is wily and not prone to conversation. "Been in a few scrapes, but we're okay. Like I said, we got a good piece of land, with food. Leave us be."

  "So you all fled the city and been running from the chaos? Why didn't you settle in with that Jones guy in Davidsville?"

  "He's an ass. He chased us off a farmer's land that we were helping harvest. Sharing wasn't his goal, taking was his goal. Lost my oldest daughter and a good friend in that fight. Dave Jones is not my friend. He a friend of yours?" He asks angrily.

  "Don't know him, friend,” Captain Regis responds. “But, I don't like what I hear of him. Taking people's farms in the cause of fairness. People work those lands, make those lands produce crops and food. If the land don’t produce food, that ain't fair to no one.

  "You sound like fair people with good intentions,” the captain continues. “We need people like you. A few miles south of here you'll find good people. Join us."