Fifth Column: Post Apocalyptic EMP Survival Fiction (The Lone Star Series Book 5)

by Bobby Akart

  Lucy led the boys toward the oak tree and visually identified a straight line between the base of the tree and the corner fence post.

  “Boys, using this tape measure, find the halfway point between this tree and the fence corner. Then stand there.”

  The guys took the fifty-foot tape and systematically measured the distance between the two landmarks. When they agreed upon a center point, Lucy called out to them.

  “Okay! How many feet between the two spots?” She readied her pencil to write down the numbers. She’d already sketched out the landmarks.

  “Right at a hundred feet!” Riley shouted back.

  Lucy began to walk it off although she knew what she intended to write down for the distance.

  With her last step, she made a mental note of the number.

  “Now, boys, I want each of you to walk in opposite directions and count your paces each way. Don’t take big, long man-size strides, either. Walk casually as if you were strolling down the sidewalk with a young lady on your arm.”

  Her sons took off in each direction, and Lucy laughed as she watched them struggle to maintain an equal stride. It was impossible to do, which was why she always marveled at the police relying upon walking as a field sobriety test. She couldn’t walk a straight line, heel to toe, if her life depended on it.

  Within a couple of minutes, the boys returned with their answers.

  “Coop, you first,” said Lucy.

  “Sixteen up and seventeen back.”

  Lucy didn’t write it down.

  “Riley?” she asked.

  Riley, who appeared puzzled, hesitated to answer.

  Lucy tapped her pencil on the notebook. She finally tilted her head and looked at him.

  “Um, eighteen and eighteen?” he responded in an inquisitive tone.

  Lucy closed her eyes and shook her head. “Is that what you really got?”

  “No, ma’am,” he replied sheepishly. “I got the same as Coop, sort of. Both of mine were sixteen.”

  Cooper started laughing. “Well, then why did you say eighteen?”

  Riley shot back. “Momma didn’t write your steps down, so I figured you got it wrong, so I guessed eighteen instead.”

  “Good grief, dumb—” Cooper was about to berate his brother when Lucy stepped in.

  “Look here, you two, the correct answer is twenty paces, and here’s why. The average person’s stride, or pace, is thirty inches. Fifty feet is six hundred inches. Six hundred divided by thirty is twenty. Twenty paces.”

  Lucy presented them her drawing so they could see. The cache map located the fence corner and a few of the posts in each direction. She drew a circle to represent the oak tree and then marked an X equidistant between the two. She wrote 20 paces to represent the length from the oak to the hidden cache.

  “How the heck am I supposed to figure that out in my head?” lamented Riley.

  “Well, maybe you could take up bull ridin’ like me. A couple of kicks to the head and you’d be able to do simple math too.”

  The boys continued to bicker with one another as Lucy walked away, wondering if she shouldn’t have picked Sook and Palmer for this job.

  Chapter 24

  January 19

  Lamesa, Texas

  Duncan and his team at the TX-QRF were much better prepared for today’s call than the proverbial Chinese fire drill, which accurately described their initial response to the crisis in Seminole the other day. Ordinarily, a newly formed unit like the one in Camp Lubbock would have extensive training sessions, advanced planning, and dry runs before being deployed to respond to a situation. Despite their initial confusion, his team had come together and done a stellar job in rounding up the refugees in Seminole without loss of life to any of the locals.

  Duncan took the interim day to debrief his men and discuss ways to improve upon their response. A full day with his lieutenants and Espy helped them hone their response skills so when the emergency call came from the Lamesa Police Department, the team was assembled and geared up within thirty minutes. Now they were racing down the highway for the sixty-mile drive to the town with a population of just under ten thousand, not counting the hundreds of refugees who had begun to appear overnight.

  Lamesa was a little over sixty miles from the Hobbs border checkpoint and forty miles due east of Seminole. A pack of several hundred refugees must’ve circumvented Seminole and come back together on Highway 180, which ran into Lamesa and then farther east to Gail, which was a little too close to home for Duncan’s comfort.

  He’d become concerned about the travel patterns of the refugees. After interviewing border patrol agents and compiling the notes taken from conversations with refugees, the adjutant general’s office had come up with a figure of sixteen to seventeen thousand refugees who’d entered Texas illegally.

  This posed problems on many levels, including what to do with the refugees when captured. Austin was still wrestling with housing the illegal aliens temporarily until a suitable means of deportation could be determined. Complicating the matter was Washington’s refusal to take them back despite the fact they were American citizens.

  It was a game of political chess that didn’t interest Duncan. He had a job to do, and that was to round up the refugees and deliver them to the nearest state prison facility per instructions from his superiors at Fort Hood. Yesterday, the refugees taken into custody at Seminole had been transported to the Preston E. Smith Prison Unit a mile east of Lamesa. At least today Duncan could accomplish same-day delivery.

  “Where’s the rally point?” asked Duncan as Espy neared the outskirts of town.

  “Middle of town,” replied Espy. “Both the Lamesa PD and the Dawson County Sheriff’s Office are within a couple of blocks of each other. They’ve asked us to meet them at the Dawson County Courthouse.”

  “Gee, Espy, why do we need to get bogged down in the middle of the town?” asked Duncan. “This place is five or six times bigger than Seminole.”

  “From what I gather, the county judge wanted to provide a show of force. You know, to make an impression.”

  In Texas, the county judge acted as the head of the court system as well as the chief administrator of the county. They acted as the liaison between their county and Austin, as well as coordinated economic development, financial expenditures, and infrastructure management.

  “Let me guess, he’s impressing his constituents for votes. Don’t these people rest?” said Duncan dryly, showing his contempt for politicians and their grandstanding.

  “I guess not,” said Espy as he maneuvered through a barricade manned by local police officers. They didn’t bother to stop Duncan’s convoy.

  “Listen, I know this isn’t Mosul, but I don’t like our people pinned down with limited maneuverability. Next time, let’s identify a rally position on the outside of town, not one that makes the county judge’s star shine more brightly.”

  “Yessir,” said Espy as he slowly drove around the county courthouse to allow the rest of the vehicles to enter.

  “C’mon, Espy. Are we part of a dang parade?”

  Espy shot him a glance and scowled. Duncan smiled. He suspected Espy had heard enough of his squallin’.

  Lining First Street, Austin Avenue, and Main Avenue, which encircled the courthouse, were hundreds of locals waving miniature Texas flags. The scene was reminiscent of the reception Patton’s 2nd Armored Division received when it entered the small town of Palermo on the island of Sicily in the summer of 1943. Families of all ages waved American flags as Patton arrived victorious into the Sicilian capital. Hours later, the armored forces of British General Sir Bernard Montgomery, Patton’s rival, entered Palermo, seeking accolades for freeing the region from the Nazis. The townspeople quickly changed their allegiance and began to wave the UK’s Union Jack.

  Duncan watched in amazement as a group of local officials poured out of the courthouse to greet him. One man in particular stood out as he grinned from ear to ear and proudly held his western-style gun
belt sporting two pearl-handled revolvers.

  “Espy, wait here,” said Duncan. “We won’t be long.”

  Duncan jumped out of the Humvee and strutted up the sidewalk to meet the entourage.

  “Welcome, young man. I am County Judge David Foy, and it is my pleasure to welcome you to our little corner of the world, Lamesa, Texas.”

  The man extended his hand to shake, and Duncan did so briefly. His annoyance with the whole situation was building inside him. As they stood in the open, his eyes darted to the rooftops around the perimeter of the courthouse. He had no reason to believe that snipers would be present, but his instincts prevented him from letting his guard down.

  “Who’s in charge here?” asked Duncan brusquely.

  “Well, son, I am. I’m the county judge,” replied Foy.

  “No, I’m referring to law enforcement. Where’s the chief of police or your sheriff? I understand there’s a hostage situation that needs to be dealt with.”

  “Well, um,” Foy began to stammer, “they’re at the middle school about seven blocks from here.”

  Duncan exhaled and looked around for a uniformed police officer. Standing several paces behind the county judge and his group were two deputies. He pushed past Foy, leaving the man standing with his mouth open.

  “Deputy, has your sheriff established a perimeter around the school and set up a command post?”

  “Yes, sir. It’s about seven blocks west of here. I can lead you down there.”

  “Thank you,” replied Duncan. “I need to unwind this snake of a convoy, which is stuck around your courthouse. Point me in the right direction.”

  The deputy looked at the number of vehicles in Duncan’s convoy and then provided him directions to get back onto Second Street. He said he’d retrieve his patrol car and lead the convoy to the school.

  Duncan began to trot back toward his Humvee when the county judge yelled after him, “After you round up these interlopers, you’re welcome to come back here for refreshments and a ceremony!”

  Duncan shook his head as he reached the truck and mumbled to himself, “Idiot.”

  After several minutes of maneuvering the vehicles and displacing the growing crowd of revelers, the TX-QRF arrived across from Lamesa Middle School. He ordered his men to position themselves across from the front entrance of the school and await further orders. Then he sought out the sheriff.

  The deputy who led them to the parking lot across from the school pointed him in the direction of a small concrete building with a sign painted across the top, which read LMS Shop. The outbuilding was used to teach kids when school was in session, but today acted as the command center for local law enforcement.

  Duncan entered the building and was greeted with a flurry of activity. Spread out across several folding tables were schematics of the middle school complex. Several sheriff’s deputies were dressed in SWAT gear, including body armor and fully automatic weapons. Duncan was somewhat taken aback by the appearance of the deputies. After all, this wasn’t a big city like Chicago, which would become a war zone during the apocalypse.

  He was greeted by an older man with a hearty handshake and a smile. “My name is Sheriff Dawson, just like the county. My family settled these parts in the 1830s following the Texas Revolution.”

  “Sheriff Dawson, I’m Commander Duncan Armstrong with the Texas Quick Reaction Force. Thank you for calling—”

  “Wait, did you say Duncan Armstrong, as in Major Duncan Armstrong?”

  “Yes, sir, he’s my father.”

  “Well, I’ll be, son. Our families go way back. My dad and your grandfather, I guess, were old poker-playing buddies. They’d bet everything from gold to cattle to land. It’s a real pleasure to meet you. How’s your dad?”

  Duncan smiled and enjoyed the conversation with Sheriff Dawson. They exchanged information on how the Armstrongs and the Dawsons were faring considering the recent events. Unlike the county judge Duncan had just met, Sheriff Dawson had his head screwed on straight and his feet on the ground.

  “What’s the situation inside, Sheriff?” asked Duncan.

  “After they stopped teaching school a week or so ago, they turned the middle school into a refugee center. But it’s a refugee center designed for our people, not those folks who busted through the fences. A lot of our residents inside are poor or infirm. They ran out of food early on, and the local churches stepped up to help them. As gasoline shortages began, the local meals-on-wheels program got shut down, and we had to ask those who needed help to gather in one central location.”

  Duncan leaned over the table and began to study the drawings. Sheriff Dawson’s men politely stepped away to give Duncan plenty of room.

  The sheriff continued. “Just after dark yesterday, the first wave of illegals began to enter the west part of town. At first, they were calm and respectful as they went door-to-door looking for food and shelter. However, as the night went on, they were turned away time and again. Their attitudes turned belligerent and the trouble began. Homes and garages were broken into. Local stores were looted, and a group of nearly a hundred descended upon the middle school because they were told it was a refugee center.”

  “Which it is,” added Duncan.

  “Yes, but for our people, not theirs.”

  Duncan nodded out of understanding, but not necessarily out of approval. He was still having difficulty accepting that Americans were the enemy.

  “Sheriff, are they armed?”

  “We don’t know for certain. One of the church helpers escaped as things turned ugly inside, and told my deputies that they had hammers, baseball bats, and anything else you can imagine to beat someone with. So far, we have no evidence of that happening, but it could at any time.”

  “Have you attempted to make contact with them?”

  “Not yet. We were waiting for you.”

  Duncan turned his attention back to the drawings.

  “Where are they within the school complex?” asked Duncan. He stood to the side so the sheriff could point to the site plan.

  “The gymnasium is used for serving meals, and the classrooms are set up as dormitory-style rooms. The administration offices are used for special-needs families and those who are weak but not sick enough to warrant a hospital bed.”

  Duncan looked up at the sheriff’s deputies in their imposing riot gear. He considered his own attire, which looked like he was ready to enter Mosul or another hot spot in the Middle East. This situation didn’t call for a show of overwhelming force. If the refugees were spooked, they might turn violent against the mostly defenseless residents in Lamesa.

  He’d made a decision. “Sheriff, sometimes the best approach is to lie.”

  Chapter 25

  January 19

  Lamesa, Texas

  “What do you have in mind?” asked the sheriff.

  Duncan walked him through the operation. “The first step is to get your deputies out of their intimidating riot gear and into street clothes with concealed-carry weapons at the ready. They will cover all of the exits and be prepared to enter the school at the first signs of trouble.

  “Second, I need the keys to the school buses parked at the back of the lot. My men are going to pull them up to the entrance to load the refugees up for resettlement.”

  “Resettlement where?” asked the sheriff.

  “Leave that up to me,” said Duncan. Duncan studied a map of the county on the wall and found what he was looking for. He told the sheriff to get his men ready and to be in position within the hour. At this point, the situation hadn’t escalated to violence, and there was no sense of urgency to make a move. Duncan wanted to get all the pieces in place before they got under way.

  Duncan exited the trailer and located Espy. He laid out the plan, and Espy considered it unconventional, but it might just work. He agreed to accompany Duncan every step of the way.

  Before an hour had passed, Duncan received word that the sheriff’s men were in place, as were the buses. With the help of
a local hardware store, heavy-duty chains and padlocks were placed near the exit to the school.

  “Ready?” Duncan asked Espy.

  Espy took a deep breath, felt for his sidearm, which was now hidden under his untucked shirt, and nodded.

  The timing was perfect, as lunchtime had arrived and it was time to feed the displaced Lamesa residents and the refugees. Since the takeover of the facilities, food had not been prepared in the temporary refugee camp.

  Duncan and Espy entered the administrative office, ostensibly to use the public-address system. When they arrived, three men were holding two very frightened ladies from the church hostage. Without outwardly showing his sense of relief, Duncan was pleased to see no firearms were involved. The men, who were most likely the leaders of the illegal aliens occupying the school, were holding baseball bats and a butcher knife. Lethal weapons, to be sure, but not with the ability to kill like a gun.

  “Good morning, everybody,” announced Duncan cheerfully as he entered the room. He gave no indication that the men were hostile. “I take it that you are our newcomers. Welcome!”

  Duncan’s odd behavior immediately confused the men. They gave him a puzzled look until one of them decided to get mouthy. He stepped forward and raised his bat in a menacing manner toward Duncan.

  Please give me an excuse, Duncan thought to himself.

  “Who are you, motherf—” the man began before Duncan cut him off.

  He raised both hands and said, “Hold up. There’s no need for that salty language in front of these nice ladies from the church. I’m from the government, and I’m here to help.”

  “Whatchu gonna help, man? We’re hungry and nobody’s feedin’ us. We wanna eat!”

  Duncan turned serious. “Well, sir, I had no idea. I was just dispatched from Austin to get things squared away for you folks. I’m with the Texas Department of Refugee Resettlement. My job is to place you in appropriate housing, get you fresh clothes, and, of course, get you fed. You know the old saying, three hots and a cot.”