by James Cook
“Exactly. And while it’s unlikely, there’s also the nuclear threat. The last President stated publicly it wasn’t off the table. The people of the Alliance don’t want any part of that, and wisely so.”
“So what was the point, then? Why go after Hollow Rock? What did the Alliance think they were going to gain?”
“Gain? Nothing. The Legion was cannon fodder. It wasn’t about what the Alliance stood to gain, it was about what the Union stood to lose. We lost troops, we lost Special Forces operators, we lost ammo, and explosives, and an AC-130 gunship. They’re not making any more of those things, you know. With every bullet we fire, every soldier we lose, every aircraft that crashes, our capabilities are diminished. It’s not a quick, fiery death the Alliance has planned for us. It’s the death of a thousand cuts.”
The sheriff went quiet for a while, leaning back in his chair, one hand over his mouth, gaze vacant and brooding. I listened to the generator buzzing through the wall and thought of how strange it was to hear manmade noise after nearly three years of silence.
“How long do you think this is going to drag on?” he asked, finally.
“Probably until the Alliance government decides it’s not worth it anymore. Maybe the ROC will launch an offensive and force everyone’s hand. I don’t know. All we can do is keep our ears to the ground and wait.”
“That’s the part I hate. The waiting.” He leaned forward and made a show of opening his stapler and turning it so I could see the finger’s width of tiny metal brackets within.
“So what’s this conversation worth to you, Gabe?”
NINE
It was never my intention to go into the salvage business.
I blame Eric.
One night, not long after the destruction of the Free Legion, when First Platoon had settled in, and the other troops sent to aid us had departed, my oldest and best friend showed up at my doorstep with a broad smile and a bottle of Buffalo Trace. I was surprised to see him; he had left town two days prior to scavenge for supplies and wasn’t expected back for at least two more.
I pointed at the hooch. “Where, might I ask, did you find that?”
He held the bottle up and turned it, letting the candlelight catch fire through the amber liquid. “Long story,” he said. “How about a drink?”
I waved him in and took a seat in the kitchen while he poured us both a tall one. The whiskey was just as smooth and crisp as I remembered, and I felt a sudden mournful longing for my home state of Kentucky. Many years had passed since I gazed across the rolling green pastures or walked among the limestone hills, and I missed it terribly. Strange, considering how during my teenage years I yearned so badly to get the hell out of there. Didn’t know how good I had it, I guess.
Eric spun a chair around and sat across from me, arms draped over the back, cocky grin creasing his month-old beard. “Gabe, my man, you and I are about to be very, very rich.”
Leave it to the Blonde Wonder to start on a dramatic note.
“All right,” I said. “I’m listening.”
“You remember how the Legion had all those supply depots scattered around their territory, right?”
“You mean the ones the Army just spent the last six weeks cleaning out?”
“The same.”
“What about them?”
He leaned closer and lowered his voice. “They missed a few.”
My hand stopped halfway to my face. There was no sound in the room for several long seconds.
I said, “Is that a fact?”
“It is.”
“How many?”
“Four that I know of. Maybe more.”
From one of his cargo pockets, he produced a hand-drawn map and smoothed it out on the table. “I got this from Grayson Morrow before I infiltrated the Legion. It shows the location of eight supply depots, four of which I know for sure the Army didn’t find. I’m guessing Lucian didn’t know about them, forgot they existed, or neglected to mention them during his interrogation. Considering what Steve was doing to him at the time, the oversight is understandable.”
I remembered the departed, yellow-eyed Green Beret, and the coldness I had seen him demonstrate on occasion. I remembered the things Eric had told me about him, such as his penchant for severing the Achilles tendons of captured enemy combatants. I thought about finding myself on the wrong end of one of his interrogations, and shuddered.
“And this map can tell us where they are?”
“It can.”
I took another sip of bourbon. “How much are we talking about?”
“Can’t say for sure, I’ve only seen one of them. But let me tell you, Gabe, it was a fucking gold mine. Crates of AKs with 20 rifles each, whole shelves of ammunition, boxes of home-canned vegetables, dried meat, medical supplies, toilet paper, sugar, coffee, even a few crossbows. Shit like that is worth a fortune.”
When I put my whiskey on the table, my hand did not shake, but it was a near thing. I said, “That’s a lot of weight to haul around, Eric. How do you propose we bring it here?”
“Funny you should ask. Before I came over, I stopped by the VFW hall and had a word with my friend Ethan Thompson. I asked him what it would cost for a private audience with his commanding officer, and he got me in for the paltry sum of a fifth of Captain Morgan.”
“I heard the lieutenant was a cheap date. What did you talk about?”
“You know Central Command is sending us one of those Facilitator guys, right?”
I nodded. “General Jacobs mentioned something to that effect.”
“Well, as it turns out, they’re sending a shitload of equipment along with him. It’s en route by train, scheduled to arrive the day after tomorrow. According to Lieutenant Jonas, the shipment will include a pair of multi-fuel troop transports. He says they’re supposed to be like ATVs, only bigger, and can cross just about any type of terrain.”
“Interesting. What else did he say?”
“First Platoon will be responsible for most of the equipment, but they’re only taking one of the transports. The other will belong to Hollow Rock, care of Mayor Elizabeth Stone.”
I felt my face stretch into a grin. “Municipal use only?”
“That would be my guess.”
I turned my glass on the table a few times and tried not to look too smug. “I’m a fair hand at most things mechanical. Somebody’s going to need to put that thing through its paces when it gets here. I’ll wager I can talk Liz into letting me take it for a spin.”
Eric finished his drink and reached for the bottle. “I bet you can.”
Nine days later, we were two of the wealthiest men in Tennessee.
*****
The business occupies two buildings.
One is a rather sizable freestanding auto-repair facility, long since disused, which I bought for next to nothing. After clearing out anything not worth trading, Eric and I hired our good friend Tom Glover to help us mount bars over the windows, wall up the bay doors, and install a circle of iron pilings to keep out anyone with access to a vehicle. A short time later, we improved it further by adding battlements to the roof that could stop a heavy machine gun, and set up an overlapping perimeter of concrete highway dividers in the parking lot. The warehouse is where I store the majority of my inventory, less a few hidden caches scattered throughout the surrounding area, of course.
Contrary to popular belief, I am not paranoid.
I am aware.
There is a difference.
The other building is the Hollow Rock General Store, also purchased on the cheap from its world-weary octogenarian proprietor. It is the public-facing part of my operation, and is managed quite competently by Miranda Grove, a former slave of the Free Legion.
Long story short, Eric freed Miranda from horrifying sexual abuse at the hands of the Legion, and she is now fiercely loyal to him. Additionally, she has a good head for business, is as pretty as she is personable, and keeps the con men, thieves, and hucksters at bay. All in all, a great pers
on to have running your business for you.
I was on my way to said business, having just left the police station and dreading the contentious task of divvying up yesterday’s salvage, when I heard the unmistakable sounds of a struggle echoing near Benny’s Barbershop.
Moving quickly, I eased along the wall to where it turned into an alley, stopped, peeked out briefly, and stepped back. The alley was empty, so I turned the corner and advanced silently, rolling my weight on the sides of my boots until I reached the back of the building. Out of instinct, my hand crept toward the butt of my pistol.
The rear of the barbershop stood parallel to the back of another set of buildings one street over, most of them standing empty. In the snow-covered space between, two young boys were engaged in a vigorous fistfight. I recognized both of them.
The bigger one was tall, sandy haired, pimple faced, and strong in a wiry, adolescent sort of way. He was fourteen years old, his name was Uriah Cranston, and, despite his size, he looked to be getting the worst of the exchange.
Uriah, much like his father, Roy Cranston, was a vicious, loudmouthed bully who took great pleasure in causing misery among his peers. He had never been caught doing anything serious enough to garner the attention of Sheriff Elliott, but he wasn’t entirely off the radar either. Everyone knew his reputation, and made sure their kids steered clear of him. But in a town surrounded by a twelve-foot wall with only one school, there was only so far the other kids could go. Uriah knew this, and used it to his advantage.
The thing about bullies like Uriah Cranston is they operate in a mental vacuum. They do not understand the concept of relativity. They inflate their egos by preying on those they perceive as being weak, and thus delude themselves into thinking they are strong people. This belief persists until they run up against the real thing, and when that happens, all their narcissistic, ego-supported walls come crashing down, leaving them struggling with the cold reality that they are not nearly as indomitable as they thought they were. Judging by Uriah’s opposition, I had a feeling I was about to witness the end of his ill-perceived invincibility.
As I watched, he threw a wide haymaker that sailed over the smaller boy’s head and cost him a one-two combo to the floating ribs. The punches staggered him back a step, arms clutching his sides, breath whistling through a bloody nose. He gritted his teeth and moved in again, trying to rush the smaller boy with a flurry. Two punches deflected from elbows and forearms before the smaller kid deliberately ducked his head, allowing a straight left to land on the crown of his skull. The bone on that part of the human head is dense and strong, and Cranston howled as his knuckles ran afoul of the laws of physics. I winced in sympathy, hoping he hadn’t just broken his hand.
“Had enough yet, Cranston?” the smaller boy asked calmly.
“Fuck you, you little shit!”
A chuckle. Shake of the head. “You’re insulting yourself, idiot. Maybe you didn’t notice, but this little shit just kicked your ass. But hey, if you want to keep on being stupid, go right ahead. I got all day.”
Cranston answered by throwing a handful of snow at the other boy’s eyes and following it up with another kick aimed at his groin. The smaller boy avoided both by simply turning and hopping back. The momentum of the kick caused Cranston to slip on the ice and topple over backward. The smaller boy’s eyes hardened as he rewarded Uriah’s efforts with a boot to the same ribs he had punched only seconds before. As Cranston curled up into an agonized little ball, the smaller boy threw another, less vicious kick at his temple. There was a dull thud, and Cranston’s eyes went blank.
For nearly a minute, he lay in the snow, face slack, breath coming in involuntary spasms like a fish out of water. When he again had his wits about him, he groaned and tottered to his feet, wobbling on unsteady legs.
“This ain’t over, faggot,” he said, speech slurring.
“I hope not. Busting you up is the most fun I’ve had in months.”
Cranston stumbled away, hunched over, crimson drops staining the snow in his wake. The smaller boy watched him go, stance loose, hands curled at his sides, breathing steady, just as he had been taught. Only when his enemy had rounded the corner did he permit himself to relax.
“That was nicely done,” I said.
The boy jumped about a foot in the air and turned to face me, feet braced, hand reaching for the Buck Nighthawk in a sheath at the small of his back. I held up my hands and laughed.
“Easy now, son. Don’t go all Ginsu on me.”
Brian Glover lowered his hands and broke a relieved smile. “Sorry Gabe. Didn’t realize it was you.”
“That’s all right. No harm done.”
“Listen, don’t tell my mom and dad about-”
“Don’t worry, kid. I’ve been there. There’s nothing wrong with standing up for yourself. Especially not to a little bastard like Uriah Cranston.”
“Thanks. You know how my parents are.”
“No worries.” I hooked my thumbs in my belt and tilted my head toward the street. “Hey, I’m headed over to the store. Why don’t you come with me? I found some shoes I think might fit you while I was out yesterday.”
He smiled and trotted over, the too-old sternness of an Outbreak survivor fading slightly. I like kids, generally speaking, but it pains me to talk to them anymore. Young faces shouldn’t look so harsh and…well, grown up. I turned and headed back down the street, Brian falling into step beside me.
“Hey Gabe?” he said.
“Yeah?”
“What does Ginsu mean?”
I sighed deeply, causing a blast of white vapor to paint the air in front of me. “Brian, I love you to death, kid. But sometimes you make me feel old.”
*****
The crew was already standing around the front porch, huddled in their coats and shuffling impatiently.
Tied to a rail around the side of the store was a surly-looking draft horse, muzzle in the snow, snuffling around for scraps of grass while Hicks carefully brushed its thick fur. He had unhitched the massive animal from a nearby wagon, which the troops would use to haul the crew’s payment back to their respective barracks.
Knowing how anxious they would be, and unable to resist an opportunity to mess with them, I whispered to Brian hang back. He gave me a conspiratorial wink and slowed his steps. I approached the store at a leisurely pace, whistling a little tune and gazing around at the brilliant dusting of sparkles reflecting from the snow. Seventeen anxious faces watched me, their body language growing agitated. There should have been nineteen of them, but Riordan and Fuller were not going to be up and moving any time soon. They deserved a visit and a plate of hot breakfast from Mijo Diego, but that would have to wait until I paid my crew.
“Nice of you to show up, chief,” Holland said. “We were starting to think you forgot about us.”
I shrugged indifferently and stopped to break a few icicles from the awning. “You know, it always strikes me as remarkable how you jackasses show up at the crack of dawn on payday, but when it’s time to hit the road, I have to send runners to hunt you down. Why is that, do you suppose?”
“Hey, I’m always on time,” Hicks said, glowering.
I turned to him. “You know what, you’re right. You are always on time. In fact, you’re the only one who is.” I turned to Brian and gestured at the lanky Texan. “What do you think, compadre? Should I give him head-of-the-line privileges?”
Brian put a hand to his chin and made a show of giving Hicks a stern appraisal. “You know, my dad always tells me it’s important to be punctual. Says it shows respect.”
“Indeed it does. Step on up, Specialist. You earned it.”
The soldiers raised a chorus of insults and curses, a few of them hurling snowballs. Hicks flashed a rare grin, crossed his hands in front of his hips, and made a crude pelvic-thrusting gesture.
“Suck it, bitches. That’s what you get for bein’ lazy.”
I unlocked the front door and stepped inside, followed closely by Hicks. Bri
an stayed outside to join an impromptu snowball fight rapidly escalating between Delta Squad and Sanchez’s militiamen. Being that the Army contingent was outnumbered, the boy elected to reinforce Cole’s diminished fire team. I allowed myself a quiet smile, listening to the good sounds of laughter and camaraderie. It reminded me of some of my better days in the Marines, the ones not stained with memories of violence. Those were hard years to be sure, but even the darkest times have their bright moments.
Miranda was already there, like always, moving among the crowded shelves, muttering, and updating inventory logs. Her long blond hair was coiled in a severe bun and stabbed through with a couple of pencils, forming an X on the back of her head. Though bundled in shapeless, rough-spun clothes and completely without makeup, she was a stunner. She straightened when I came in and blasted me with a full-lipped, blue-eyed, dimple-cheeked smile. A ray of sunlight splashed across her face, turning her eyes into gleaming jewels and making my heart skip a beat. I kept walking, but behind me, I heard Hicks’s footsteps scrape to a halt.
“Morning Gabe,” she said brightly, bustling over and flipping through pages on her clipboard. “I’m just about finished adding up yesterday’s haul.”
“How’s it looking?”
She paused long enough to stand on her tiptoes and give me a light peck on the check. I tried to ignore the tingling on that side of my neck as she held up her paperwork. “This is the log from the day before yesterday. We haven’t moved any of the new stuff over yet, so the info for the warehouse hasn’t changed. Sheriff Elliott signed out the transport this morning and sent Deputy Reid to pick up a shipment of firewood down near I-40. I reserved it for the rest of the day when he gets back.”
“What about the stuff we’re not selling? Did you hire some guys to help us move it yet?”
She tilted her head at the roughhousing numbskulls beyond the front door. “The boys already volunteered to do the heavy lifting.”