They all waited for the sound of the rocket and the ensuing explosion. Both came, but not as they expected.
What they had missed in their escape from the SUV and ensuring efforts to take cover was a well-placed shot from the Kill King still perched atop the garage adjacent them. The shot struck the heavy machine gunner in the head, dropping him lifelessly to the ground.
The King’s second shot occurred just as the man with the rocket launcher prepared to fire the round that would have demolished Jake and Ava’s SUV. It stuck the man square in the chest, spinning him around to the right. As he fell, the rocket launcher fired, sending the projectile hissing toward the warehouse office and directly at the steel barrels where the trader and his bodyguard were taking cover.
The Kill King’s shots and the rocket’s impact instantly quieted things down around the armory grounds. As Jake and Ava recovered, they could still hear some light fire coming from inside the main garage from what they assumed was their men mopping up. Moments later, they saw the Fallback Man and Steel Will exit the garage. They waved the all clear, and Jake, Ava, and Switchblade made their way up to where they stood. Shortly thereafter, they were joined by the Kill King.
“Good work up there,” Ava said to him.
Jake ignored her comment. He didn’t like giving credit; he only liked taking it. He felt that his men were rewarded handsomely for their efforts, so he didn’t think it necessary to go groveling to them with gratitude after a job well-done. It was their job, and they should do it right without his having to thank or compliment them.
“What’s the situation inside?” Jake asked, nodding at the garage.
“We lost two of the newer guys,” Steel Will said. “And there are two of your boys left,” he nodded to Ava. “They’re itching for their payment.”
“Give it to them and drop them off,” Ava said to Johnny Switchblade. “Find a vehicle around here and take that. Make sure you get their guns. I know they’ll try to keep them.”
Switchblade nodded and left to go find a new vehicle, round up the couple remaining junkies, and give them their fix.
“I don’t think they’ll be up for another of our raids,” Steel Will said. “They seem pretty shaken up.”
“Who gives a shit,” Jake spat as they walked over to where the final rocket had impacted near the warehouse office. Smoke still rose from the pile of jumbled and shredded steel that had once been stacks of fuel drums. “Junkies are a dime a dozen. They don’t want to fight anymore, then fuck ‘em.” He kicked aside a drum that had been torn in half to reveal what they all took to be the remains of the trader. He’d been ripped in half at the waist. His bodyguard lay dead nearby in a pool of blood. “Let’s get to the important stuff,” Jake said to Steel Will, turning and heading toward the garage. “What’d we get?”
They followed Will inside the garage through the rolling door that had been forced off its tracks by the armored SUV as it punched its way through. Several of their men were dragging dead bodies into a far corner of the structure; others were reloading weapons or tending to minor injuries.
A generator was running nearby. Extension cords snaked their way from it and to an array of overhead lights and power tools stationed between three hulking armored personnel carriers. Ava recognized them as the Stryker armored fighting vehicles that her intelligence gathering had informed her would be at the armory.
The Stryker was an 8-wheeled vehicle, weighing between 16 and 18 tons depending upon the particular model and armaments. It had 14.5 millimeter armor and could reach a top speed of 62 miles per hour. Standard armament was the Protector M151 Remote Weapon Station. The station could be equipped with a .50 caliber machinegun, 7.62 millimeter M240 machinegun, or the Mk-19 automatic grenade launcher.
Jake walked over for a closer inspection, ogling his prizes.
One Stryker looked set and ready to go and appeared to be armed with a .50-cal machinegun. Another Stryker – armed with the M240 machinegun – was in disrepair and had an array of engine components scattered on the floor around it. It appeared that the trader and his men had been in the process of stripping down this particular vehicle for parts to use for fixing the third vehicle that was armed with the Mk-19 automatic grenade launcher.
“Glad they didn’t have time to open up one of these bad boys on us,” Jake said, staring at the monstrous vehicles around him. “Don’t think we would have come out the other side of that engagement too well.”
“No shit,” breathed the Kill King.
Jake walked around the vehicles, his minions following him. “Extra tires,” he pointed to a pile beside one vehicle. “Looks like more ammo over there,” he pointed to several large crates stacked against the wall. “Will, you think you can get these up and running?” he asked.
Steel Will stared at the machines. “Well…” he paused, considering, “…that one looks okay,” he pointed. “This one here…” he walked over to the one with parts strewn around it, “…looks pretty well shot. That one over there,” he nodded toward the one that was in the process of being repaired, “it looks promising.”
“Two outta three ain’t bad,” Jake nodded. “Tell you what,” he said, the little emperor taking over, “King, you and Fallback round up the rest of the men. Search the place…the barracks, the warehouse, anywhere there might be some loot. Have the guys pull out anything of use. Make sure they get that heavy machine gun and the rocket launcher they used on us during the attack. Load all that shit up into the pickup. Once you’re done, Fallback, you take the truck and two guys back to base and get it unloaded. You stay there as security, but send Rambo down here. Rambo will help Steel Will get these Strykers fixed up. We’ll have to conceal them once we get them back to base, but we’ll deal with that later. King, you stay here with anybody else who’s left as security and help with the vehicle repairs. Make sure we take these extra tires, ammo, parts, tools, and whatever else is of use laying around here for the armored vehicles. It’s not like we can pick up spare parts for this shit whenever we need them.” He looked around at his men. “Any questions?” He stared at them.
They shook their heads.
“No?” said Jake. “Well then?” he stared. “Get the fuck moving.”
The men all departed to get started on their various assigned duties. Jake stood there, arms folded, proudly watching as his soldiers scurry off to do his bidding. Then he turned to Ava. “Not a bad haul,” he said.
“Not bad at all,” Ava nodded her head.
“A bit more fucking dangerous than I thought it’d be though.”
Ava was about to respond with something to the effect of, “It is an armory. Did you expect them not to have weapons?” But he didn’t give her the chance. Instead, Jake stepped close, glaring at her.
“You need to get your shit straight before we really get our asses handed to us one of these days. We almost got blown the fuck up back there. If it hadn’t been for the Kill King, we’d be blobs of shit to be scraped up off the fucking pavement.”
“That’s why I put him up there,” she tried to defend herself. “He was to handle situations just like…”
But Jake interrupted, “You put him up there? You mean I put him up there.”
Ava opened her mouth to speak but Jake smacked it closed.
“You get this through your thick fucking skull,” he glared at her. “You might be one fucking fine piece of ass, but don’t get to thinking you run this show. I let you give your input so that you feel good about yourself, and every once in a while you get lucky with one of your schemes. But these guys...” he gestured around him to the men working, “…they don’t fucking respect you. They respect me. To them, you’re just another sperm bank, and without me here to keep things in line, you’d better believe they’d be passing you around until you were all used up, then they’d toss your ass out on the street…if you were lucky. So remember that. You go prancing around here all high and fucking mighty like you’re Queen of fucking Sheba or Cleopatra or some shit, an
d you’re gonna get your fucking ass beat. You fucking got me?”
Ava stared at him silently and then slowly nodded.
“Good,” Jake said. “Now, let’s go have a look around at some of these buildings. I want to see what else we got.”
Ava knew what Jake really wanted, and she’d give it to him – for now.
CHAPTER 11
As April eased into May and then June, we began to fall into a groove in Olsten. It had been a wet end to spring, so our water supply had been holding out reasonably well, especially after Bessie had moved on to that great green pasture in the sky. But the last week had been dry; and yesterday, we’d made our first trip in about three weeks over to the pond to bolster our water reserves.
By this point in our stay, almost everyone was healed and healthy. It was nice not seeing anyone in need of a cane or crutch for support or hearing anyone hacking and coughing miserably due to illness.
All of us were beginning to find our niches and fall into a regular routine of sorts.
Many of us would start our day by helping Sharron and Sarah in the garden before it got too hot. That’s where much of our water supply had gone since the last rain, keeping our crops from wilting in Georgia’s severe afternoon sun.
We’d built a nice little fence around the garden to help keep critter damage to a minimum. However, since Cashmere was truly enjoying the run of the place, Sharron was having a hard time keeping her from turning the garden into her own vast litter box. I tried to explain to Cashmere that she didn’t need to help fertilize the crops, but she didn’t seem to pay my words any heed. I figured she just felt she was doing her part to contribute to the collective group effort.
I had built our family pet a little kitty door in the store’s back entrance. She’d trip-trop in and out at will. Occasionally she’d proudly bring in a bird – sometimes dead, sometimes not – often jumping up and casually depositing it atop our sheets early in the morning after a long night’s hunt. More than once, I awoke to Claire scrambling out of bed in terror as a wounded bird flopped its way around the covers. I’d get up and remove the poor thing while Cashmere sat perched upon the bedroom window sill gazing curiously upon us, watching to see how her masters dealt with the gift she’d presented.
The garden itself was coming along nicely. Things were starting to bud, sprout, and flower, and Sharron said it wouldn’t be long before we could start harvesting certain items like tomatoes and peas. The rows of corn she’d planted had sprung up to about ankle high and were well on their way to meeting the old farmer adage of “knee high by the fourth of July.”
During our labors as farm hands, we’d take direction from Sharron on what needed to be propped up with stakes or fencing for support, what needed to be watered and in what amounts, and where things needed to be trimmed or thinned out.
There was still a bit of burger meat left from old Bessie, but not much more than a few meals worth, so we were doing our best to ration it. And while the supplies we’d hauled in from Mary’s diner were holding out, the addition of fresh vegetables would certainly help bolster our supplies and add variety to our diet. We hoped that we’d be able to grow enough of certain items to can or dry in order to provide us with food for the fall and winter seasons. With the poor hunting we’d encountered around Olsten, we had no illusions that things could get a little bleak during the colder months if we weren’t able to stockpile ample food reserves.
Thankfully, we’d discovered a few apple trees nearby along with a couple peach trees which added to our food stocks. And Sharron had pointed out various trees from which we could harvest nuts in a few months time.
Most days, we typically tried to get our most laborious chores done by noon. Then we’d clean ourselves up, have lunch, and enjoy what were commonly becoming extremely hot afternoons either by having siestas inside or sitting in the shade of the front porch.
Each of us had our particular chair of choice out front. I had the old oak rocker we’d brought from upstairs. Claire had chosen a wicker rocker from a nearby home. Will selected a recliner we’d hauled over from one of the trailers. Sharron preferred a straight-backed and terribly uncomfortable-looking dining room chair from one of the homes that she said was ergonomically correct and great for posture and back support. From her upright position she’d often mend clothing or knit little items for the kids to wear during the upcoming winter. She had already created a litany of booties, blankies, hats, mittens, and more for Ray and Pam’s baby. They were extremely grateful, but I couldn’t resist giving my sister-in-law a hard time, telling her that if we were back in the old days, I’d consider renting her out as labor in a third-world sweatshop.
Joanna had rigged a hammock in one corner of the front porch that the group often rotated taking turns napping in. She had posted a sign-up sheet beside the hammock to reduce arguments about whose day it was for some luxurious lounging in the gently soothing sway of its roped confines.
Emily and Dad had chez lounge chairs at the far end of the porch, away from the yapping of the younger generations and where they could read or do puzzle games and crosswords in books they’d acquired from the resale shop across the street.
Ray found a love seat on which he and Pam could sit comfortably together.
During most of our afternoons on the porch, the kids would first get a “lesson session” with one or more of the parents. With each of us having a particular expertise or strong background in at least one particular academic area, we felt that we provided a general and all-encompassing education upon which our youngsters could draw. We of course worked on the standard subjects like math, reading, writing, history, and science, but much of our time was devoted to topics like general hygiene, health, diet, weapons handling and training, and survival skills. In our new world, we felt that these subjects were even more important focus areas than the book learning. In addition, we also agreed that some of the most important educating came by helping in Sharron’s garden. This work provided adults and kids alike with the skills and knowledge necessary to grow and harvest their own food.
After this early-afternoon school time, Jason would get a story and then a nap while the three older kids went off to play. Jason would typically sleep for an hour or two and then join them.
Hats and sunscreen were requirements when the kids were outside, but often, the scathing Georgia sun would keep them in the shade of the front porch or inside the store’s first-floor play area, at least until evening when the sun’s fierce rays began to subside.
The range in ages between the kids made them surprisingly self-sufficient for the most part. The older kids could handle Jason, and the age differential between them all meant that they were more willing to play with and care for one another rather than compete and fight with each other which took some pressure off the parents.
We’d collected a slew of toys from the houses around town as well as the resale shop to help keep our youngsters entertained. It was wonderful to watch them play together and use their imaginations. It was also interesting to see how their play had changed over the months since the flu. Television shows, movies and video games were rarely discussed except for maybe an occasional passing reference to a show, term, or character that was once common knowledge among children. It was kind of weird realizing that Jason would likely grow up never understanding such references.
I think that while all of us seemed to be enjoying our situation in Olsten, the kids were adjusting the best. They would often play around the building or on the side of the street in the shade of the storefront, filling up toy trucks to haul rocks and dirt, or they’d build streets and racetracks in the gravel where they could push toy vehicles. Jason loved filling little dump trucks full of stones and gravel at the bottom of the store’s front steps and pushing them a short distance to dump their loads and then reload them to repeat the process over and over again. He could literally spend hours there playing quietly by himself. Sometimes the boys would set up platoons of tiny army men up on the si
de of the porch or along the steps, often accompanied by toy tanks, trucks, and jeeps, and have battles in which pebbles were used as rockets, bombs and artillery. They’d sit a few feet away and bombard one another’s forces until one was declared the winner, and then they set up their troops and start all over. Sarah usually sat out these little wars, content to dress a doll and play with it nearby or pick flowers and dandelions.
But it seemed like the activity the kids most enjoyed playing was “store” inside our own general store’s first floor. They would set up a variety of items that were “for sale” on the store’s long oak countertop and inside the glass display cases. There they would pretend to sell all sorts of stuff. Dandelions, sticks, rocks (or “gems” as they called them), wood blocks, faux pieces of plastic food, books, other toys, and sometimes even pieces of real candy if we doled them out as special treats. All fair game when they were playing store. What they liked best about the activity was that they got to use real money since we adults no longer had a use for it. The kids found using real cash “cool,” so we made a conscious effort to accumulate as much cash and coins as we could find from our searches of the homes and stores around town. The kids loved it when we would come home from searching an area and plunk down a bag of change or give them a wad of now worthless bills. Sometimes they’d divide their little group up so that one of them operated the store, one (usually Paul) ran the bank, and the other two acted as customers. I found it interesting to watch them interact and run their little businesses or negotiate a bartered deal of some sort for their purchases. The adults all agreed that transacting their commerce in negotiated trades would likely be the best training for a future in which there was no guarantee that a standard currency as we once knew and utilized the US dollar would ever be necessary again.
As things wound down most afternoons, we’d start getting dinner ready. Sometimes we’d cook a little Bessie on the grill out back. Since we were trying to conserve our supplies, we’d typically make tiny sliders, mostly just to get the taste of the meat, and then combine them with sides of things like dehydrated mashed potatoes, pasta, rice, and other filler food to extend the dish. Most evenings – much to Sharron’s delight – we’d end up going vegetarian or using tiny bits of Paul’s collected squirrel meat, marinated in a sauce of some sort, to work into a dish for flavor, substance, and some protein. Sharron usually ended up eating a similar meal to ours but with various nuts or beans mixed in rather than squirrel meat for her sources of protein. Sometimes, just one or two of us would cook; other times it would be more of a family affair depending upon the intricacy and size of the meal. The kids often preferred cereal as their dinner of choice, and most of them had become accustomed to having it in a powdered milk mixture. Paul still complained about the “funny taste” occasionally, but there wasn’t much choice about the matter.
The Systemic Series - Box Set Page 68