Renegade - 13

by Joe Nobody

  The miles rolled by, an occasional road sign documenting his progress. Three hours later, the skyscrapers of Fort Worth’s outer ring appeared on the horizon.

  Abe had made the trek twice a month for the last two years. The trip had kept him and Eve alive. “Man cannot live on vegetables alone,” he smirked to the empty cab.

  The first sign that this venture was going to be different occurred as Abe steered the Chevy off the exit ramp. At the bottom, he noticed a checkpoint that hadn’t been there just a few days prior. Abe’s hand moved closer to the double barrel.

  Two police cars were positioned at an angle that would force anyone passing by to slowly zig and then zag to avoid a collision. A uniformed officer, upon spying the approaching pickup and trailer, stepped forward and held up his hand for Abe to halt.

  “State your business in Fort Worth, sir,” the blunt cop demanded when Abe rolled down his window.

  “I’m heading to the market to sell my tomatoes.”

  The officer scanned the interior of the pickup, his eyes pausing for an extra moment on the shotgun. Then with a grunt, he trudged toward the back, peering at the bushel baskets of vine ripened goodness in the bed and trailer.

  Evidently, Abe’s story passed muster, the cop returning to stand beside the driver’s window. “The market is closed today,” he stated without emotion.

  “Oh, no,” the farmer responded. “Do you know how long it will be before it reopens? Did something happen?”

  “I can’t say,” replied the officer. “If you want to sell this produce, I suggest you head to the marshaling yards at the Westside Mall. I hear they’re buying all kinds of food and supplies, and paying top dollar.”

  Abe didn’t know where Westside Mall was, but the policeman offered directions. “Be safe out there,” the officer finished, motioning the pickup through.

  Nervous, Abe considered turning around and going back to Mineral Wells. He was far past the point in life where adventure held any promise, the apocalypse draining optimism from even the hardiest of souls. Still, he and Eve needed the money and what it could buy.

  Again, his hand moved to the scattergun, drawing reassurance from the trusted weapon. “What do you have to lose, you old fart? Maybe this marshaling yard will be good for business.”

  He followed the cop’s directions, eventually entering an area that had once been the home of an upscale shopping district. Well before arriving at the actual mall, Abe began to pass electronics and appliance outlets, clothing stores, and a host of long-closed restaurants and gas stations.

  A mile from his destination, the farmer noted vehicles adjoining both sides of the road. These, however, weren’t relics like those that bordered the interstate.

  More and more cars and trucks were now moving both in directions, and men with weapons on their shoulders patrolling outside. Abe hadn’t seen so much humanity since he and Eve had won the raffle at the Elks Lodge. Two tickets to the stock car race had compelled the rural couple to venture into the city, giddy with the opportunity to enjoy some free entertainment and watch their favorite drivers in person.

  It soon became apparent why so many men were parking alongside the road. The mall’s expansive lot was absolutely packed.

  Another police checkpoint appeared ahead, and Abe was asked the same questions as before.

  “Pull around to the southwestern corner of the mall. You’ll see a large, white tent that looks like a circus big top. Someone will come out and deal with you there.”

  Just as Abe put the truck back into gear, this cop spoke into his radio. “This is Charlie Four. We have a load of tomatoes coming your way.”

  He found the canvas pavilion after maneuvering through a sea of trucks, vans, semis, and even a couple of military Humvees. People were everywhere, some standing around in small groups talking, others pacing with a sense of purpose or importance.

  “Whatever is going on must be really important,” the Abe whispered to the shotgun. “These people all look serious.”

  From the white tent exited a young man wearing a blue armband, marching toward Abe like he was a man to be reckoned with. Without a word to the farmer, the gent stepped immediately to inspect the produce. After lifting and squeezing a couple of samples, he returned to the cab and inquired, “How much?”

  “I was hoping to get 25 cents each,” Abe responded shyly. “If you buy an entire bushel, I can do a little better than that.”

  “How much for the entire load?” the young man asked, clearly in a hurry and not in the mood to haggle.

  Unprepared for the question, it took Abe a minute to count exactly how many baskets he had packed. “I’ll take $200 for the entire load, I suppose.”

  “Fine,” snapped the impatient buyer, reaching into his pocket for a pad of paper and a pen. Quickly scribbling a nearly unreadable series of words and numbers, he then handed Abe the page and directed the farmer, “Unload your produce over there, and then take this sheet inside the mall to the cashier. They will pay you in US dollars.”

  “Can I leave my truck here?” replied the stunned and confused grower.

  “For a bit, yes. Not too long though,” the buyer answered. The young man then pivoted and took two steps back toward the tent before stopping again. “If you have any more produce or meat to sell, we’ll be here for two more days. Bring all you have.”

  Abe began unloading his baskets, placing them in an area that was already brimming with melons, boxes of freshly picked apples, hanging sides of beef, and a variety of other foodstuffs.

  He noticed another man unloading crates of carrots and lettuce. “Do you know what’s going on?” Abe asked.

  Rather than answer, the other farmer’s eyes darted right and then left, looking to see if anyone else was nearby. Abe was a bit taken aback when the man held up a single finger to his lips, essentially saying, “Be quiet.”

  Shrugging, Abe mumbled, “And this is why I live in Mineral Wells. Such rude people here in the big city,” he grumbled while he continued unloading his product. When he was almost done, the other gardener appeared beside his truck.

  “Don’t ask questions,” he whispered like he was sharing the world’s best kept secret. “And you voted for Young if anyone asks.”

  Before Abe could digest the remarks, the man hustled off, heading toward the mall’s main structure.

  Abe followed a short time later, his last basket now resting in the tent’s shade along with enough other food to feed an army. “That’s it,” he whispered. “This is an Army. A marshaling area. All these armed young men walking around. The secrecy. Someone is getting ready for World War III.”

  As he strolled toward the entrance, Abe saw more and more evidence to confirm his theory. There were other shelters full of rows of cots, racks of rifles, and even two tracked military vehicles with the faded markings of the Texas National Guard on the side.

  As he progressed closer to the huge structure, the pace of humanity around him increased. These folks all seemed to have someplace to go, and they were in a hurry. Abe also noted that just about every man wore a blue armband. That is their uniform, he realized.

  Just before reaching the doorway, the sound of pounding footfalls caused the grower to turn and watch as a group of jogging men in perfect formation rounded the corner. A man in a matching green uniform was leading the 100 or so runners, chanting a military cadence to keep them in step.

  Abe entered the door to find himself facing two large men, each clutching a battle rifle across his chest. Their eyes zeroed in on his arm, both sentries becoming alert upon the absence of an armband. “Your business, sir?”

  The farmer handed them the sheet of paper given to him at the tent. “I’m looking for the cashier,” he said timidly.

  The older of the two pointed toward the front of what had been an upscale retail outlet. “Walk straight down this aisle. Don’t wander. You’ll see a sign that says, ‘Customer Service.’ Go there and wait in line.”

  “Thank you,” Abe nodded.<
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  Sure enough, the old customer service counter had been converted to the cashier, or so said the hand-drawn banner hanging by two pieces of twine. Abe found himself about a dozen folks back in line of other men with manure on their boots. His carrot-growing friend was up ahead but wouldn’t even make eye contact.

  The pace was slow, and after only moving forward two slots, Abe had an urgent need to use the facilities. Yet, he’d been warned to stick to the path.

  An important-looking man stepped down the aisle. Unlike most of the younger bucks Abe had encountered so far, this guy had graying hair and reasonable, if not friendly eyes.

  “Excuse me, sir, but would it be possible for an old farmer to use the restroom hereabouts?” Abe smiled. “It was a long drive this morning for this old body.”

  His smile was returned by the gent, who immediately pointed toward the far end of the store. “Sure. You’ll lose your place in line, but the facilities are located in that back corner.”

  “I won’t get in trouble if I go walking back there?”

  Shaking his head, the man answered, “If anyone stops you, just tell them Colonel Henderson gave you permission. You won’t have any issue.”

  “Thank you, Colonel,” Abe said.

  As he traveled further into the bowels of the store, Abe reaffirmed that he was indeed in the headquarters of a military camp. He passed clusters of card tables surrounded by anxious, young men, adorned with hanging maps, boxes of ammunition, weapons, and other fighting material.

  He didn’t spot a single other person without the blue armband.

  He found the restroom was clean, complete with running water and soap in the dispensers. After relieving himself and washing his hands, Abe’s curiosity got the better of him. Flush with confidence and with Colonel Henderson’s name on his lips, he decided to take an alternate route back to the cashier.

  Turning down a different aisle, the grower walked a little slower now, his ears taking in the chorus of conversations occurring all around. He heard men discussing medical supplies at one table, another huddle arguing over the logistics of gasoline and refueling.

  His next turn was blocked by two men loading boxes onto a cart. “We’ll be finishing up here in just a minute, sir,” one of them stated without looking up.

  As he stood waiting, Abe detected a conversation occurring over a head-high cubical wall. “We must eliminate any resistance in the towns along the road to Alpha,” a commanding voice said. “If we don’t, those supporting Diana Brown will constantly be hitting our supply lines and sabotaging our follow-on forces.”

  “So, you want us to burn down every little town along I-20?” another voice asked for clarification.

  “We must establish control. If we don’t, the wolves will constantly be nipping at our heels. Our first objective in three days is Mineral Wells. We’ll make an example out of those people, whether they offer any resistance or not. Word will spread through the countryside; President Young’s Army will not be denied.”

  “You can pass now, sir,” the loaders in front of Abe announced.

  Not wanting to draw attention to his eavesdropping, the old farmer mumbled a polite, “Thank you,” and continued back to the cashier’s line.

  Abe was stunned by what he’d just heard. Sure, the election had been contentious, the explosion in San Antonio a tragedy. He had no idea things had degraded to the point of war.

  Paid in cash, Abe’s substantial windfall now meant little as he plodded back to his truck. Now knowing that the men around him intended to burn Mineral Falls to the ground, he passed through the mustering forces with a new perspective.

  Governor Young was assembling a sizable military force, complete with food stuffs, logistical support, and a huge number of men. As he strolled past the cots, Abe began counting how many rows of them were housed in the tent. He then scanned the parking lot and began tallying tents.

  “Mother of God,” he whispered. “If all these circus tops are full, they have almost 10,000 men here. No wonder they’re overpaying for tomatoes.”

  His truck was exactly where he’d left it. Trying to steady his nerves and resolve, Abe entered the cab and slowly pulled away.

  He managed I-20 without incident, but the drive home was far from trouble free. “You have to warn your friends in Mineral Wells,” he declared to the shotgun. “We have to defend our land and homes.”

  Realizing he’d just committed an act of espionage, Abe quickly dismissed any thought of returning to sell more of his crop. “We need to get ready. We have to spread the word.”

  Abe’s first stop was at the Mineral Wells First Baptist Church. He was relieved to see the pastor’s old Chrysler sitting in the parking lot.

  It took the grower 20 minutes to recount his morning, the preacher listening with ever widening eyes and deepening scowl. “Are you sure about this, Abe? Absolutely certain you heard them correctly?”

  “There’s no doubt, Pastor. Their words were clear; I swear it.”

  The local leader nodded and then began to pace. “I’m a man of God, not violence,” he mumbled. “Yet, I fear the worst. For the past several days, I’ve heard troubling stories about a pending conflict. Rumors of a massacre outside of Meraton and militias being formed all over Texas. Evidently, my prayers aren’t going to be answered this time. From what you say, we need to spread the word, and we must do so now.”

  Like so many bergs in rural Texas, the church’s bell was a warning signal for the entire community. With no phones or radios, it was the one feature common in small towns and cities that would bring the surrounding residents in the event of trouble. The preacher didn’t waste another minute, opening the closet and tugging vigorously on the ropes.

  Before and after the collapse, the First Baptist bell tower had warned of tornados and serious storms. Later, in the dark days after the downfall, the bronze alarm had functioned as fire alarm, intruder alert, and as a call to arms for the town’s able-bodied men. More than one group of nomadic vagabonds and raiders had attempted to ransack Mineral Wells. They had all failed, piles of ashes and bits of bone still visible on the courthouse lawn.

  They streamed in from all over, the bell’s clamor reaching far into the countryside. Some rode horses, others walking quickly from the nearby business district. Within 30 minutes of the pastor’s initial tugs, the parking lot at First Baptist was overflowing.

  The preacher greeted them at the door, thanked them for dropping everything, and then urged them to sit down and wait until more arrived.

  Standing in the front at the urging of the pastor, a nervous Abe fidgeted with the faded John Deer baseball cap wadded in his hands. Beyond being nervous, he was slightly embarrassed by his worn overalls and dirty boots.

  The scene inside the old sanctuary struck Abe as foreboding. For a moment, he reminisced about the days when such gatherings were for services, or weddings, or the occasional funeral.

  Instead of his neighbors being dressed in their best, he peered out over a sea of anxious faces, many of whom carried rifles and shotguns, barrels pointing toward the heavens.

  Finally, the pastor determined that most had arrived. As he made his way to the pulpit, the hushed whispers of conversations ceased, all eyes on the man who had sounded the alarm.

  “Troubling news arrived just a few minutes ago,” the preacher began. “I felt it worthy of calling everyone here so we could decide as a community what course of action to take. All of you know Abe Sanders. He has something very important to tell you.”

  With that, the preacher motioned for the now-frightened farmer to step up to the lectern. On hesitant legs, Abe did just that, realizing that in all his years of attending services in this building, he’d never spoken before the entire congregation.

  Abe’s voice cracked several times as he began, obviously not a man accustomed to public speaking. Twice he apologized for his lack of oratory skills when his words and sentences didn’t come out just right.

  Still, he managed to tell the eag
er gathering what he’d encountered in Fort Worth.

  As his story progressed, Abe’s voice became stronger. Hundreds of lives were in danger; all that they knew and loved was being threatened.

  When he’d finished, the pastor stepped to the farmer’s side and said, “Excellent job, Abe,” and then turned to face the audience. “I’m sure many of you have questions. We’ll start from the front and go pew by pew.”

  At first, the people of Mineral Wells were divided in how they interpreted Abe’s story. The humble tomato producer fielded question after question, many of which were obviously aired in the hope that somehow he’d misunderstood what was occurring in the big city just three hours away.