Homefront: A Story of the Future Collapse

by Matthew Gilman

  “They must think the fence will take care of most of their problems,” Clive commented.

  From the opposite side of the gate Dallas watched a short convoy of logging truck approaching. The gate was raised and papers were handed to the guard. The trucks passed through and polluted the air with their diesel exhaust. Budd tried not to cough, the rest of the men held their breath as the black smoke dissipated.

  “You see enough?” Budd asked.

  “Ya. I think so. Let’s head home.”

  Chapter 19

  The smell of the decomposing leaves reminds Dallas that winter is coming. He has been dueling the same deer for the past week. Sitting in his blind he looked over the wall of sticks and logs waiting for his chance to shoot his bow. After three hours he starts to wonder if he is going back to camp empty handed, again. He wanted the deer. He has lost fifty pounds since the Day and wanted to be big like he once was as a body builder. The small game that he had been able to get didn’t provide the protein he would need to maintain a large size.

  Hearing a rustle of leaves, Dallas glances to his left expecting to see a squirrel running around as they have since he entered the forest. Instead, he sees a large brown doe running towards him. It’s breathing heavy and has been running for a while. He pulls an arrow from his quiver and looks down to notch it on the string. His eyes peer over the blind to see the deer sprinting by. He hopes it will stop so he could take the shot. It’s less than ten yards away when he notches the arrow. The deer never slows down and he watches the white tail appear and disappear between the trees as it escapes into the woods.

  Sulking in the blind Dallas contemplated going back to the camp. He had no reason to believe the deer was coming back. Standing up, he leans against the wall of the blind letting his legs adjust to standing. It’s a long walk back to camp and he wonders if he will get anything to bring back. After tours in Afghanistan and Iraq it’s not like him to feel failure while hunting. He had tracked down Taliban leaders and former Iraqi Bath Party members. He had photos with himself standing in front of large stockpiles of weapons his unit had discovered. He was able to pinpoint the location of a sniper that had shot two of his men and call in artillery to take the man out. He could do all of these things, but the deer was smarter than him. He really wished he could hunt with his .308 rifle, but the men all agreed they had to stay silent and save the ammo for the Chinese.

  Resting the end of his bow on the ground, he looked down and cleared his head for the hike home. The crack of twigs and rustling of leaves caught his attention. Turning his head slightly he saw the deer walking back towards him out of the corner of his eye. He was fully exposed and yet the deer hadn’t noticed him. He had already put the arrow back in the quiver and was angry at himself. A deer had caught him with his pants down. The deer was about fifteen yards away and as it walked behind a large tree trunk Dallas grabbed an arrow and stood up notching the arrow. The deer’s head reappeared from the opposite side of the tree. Dallas pulled the bow back. It saw him and stopped behind the tree. Instantly, it ran in the opposite direction. For the second time in ten minutes the deer was running away with its tail in the air; its ass was the last thing for Dallas to see.

  Relaxing the bow, Dallas started to feel more irritated. He had heard men say that you haven’t really hunted until you hunted men. He had hunted men and was good at it. Now he was being outsmarted by a deer and that frustrated him more than anything.

  Behind him the rustling had started again. He knew it was too good to be true for the deer to be back. He turned around and a few feet away was a fox squirrel on the ground, looking at him. The squirrel stayed closed to the ground trying to hide itself, but it still waved its tail. Dallas pulled the bow back and hit the squirrel through the torso, pinning it to the ground. The squirrel squirmed around trying to escape. It wasn’t the meal he wanted.

  Pressing the squirrel down into the ground with his foot, Dallas took his knife out and severed the neck, putting it out of its misery. Pulling the arrow out of the ground with the squirrel dangling from it, he found the arrow head gone and the tip broken. Making an arrow takes about a day from start to finish. As a group they cut the time down, but the effort put in should amount to more than a squirrel. He pulled the squirrel off the arrow and placed it in his bag. He sighed, disappointed. Placing the broken arrow in his quiver he started his walk home.

  Returning back to the camp, two deer were hanging from trees with some of the men removing the meat. Smoke huts and fires were spread around the camp as dinner cooked and jerky was being made. Dallas dropped his squirrel on the ground and went into his tent.

  “Hey, you get anything?” a voice said behind him.

  “Nothing worth mentioning,” Dallas said, placing his bow and quiver next to his cot.

  “We got another doe and buck tonight. Looks like we should be good for the winter if we keep this up.”

  Dallas felt inadequate for the first time. He had been a powerhouse in everything he did. His size and athletic ability had always given him a place of respect among people. Now the focus was on the other men who had grown up hunting and living off the land. He never shot a gun before joining the military. Hunting is something that was foreign to him. To the others, like Ben, it was second nature.

  On a small table in the tent laid a topographic map of the area. Little red pins marked the places that they had spotted Chinese soldiers and loggers in the forest. Yellow pins marked where Dallas had seen signs of deer and other large game in the area. His attention was drawn to the yellow pins on the map instead of the real enemy. He focused on the red pins and checked his note pad for the dates that the sightings had taken place.

  “Time to do some real hunting,” Dallas said to himself.

  Changing his clothes, he put on his vest with extra magazines for his .308 rifle. He checked the chamber and made sure it was loaded. Sunset was only a few hours away, but he knew that a few men would want to go out and get their adrenaline going.

  Putting his boonie hat on he, exited the tent and watched as the men continued to butcher the deer that had been brought in. One of the men ran his hands down the back of the deer as the knife slid between the spinal cord and the back strap. The three feet of muscle formed into a separate entity as the knife moved behind the mass and slid down the back, detaching the muscle that fell into the arms of a second man collecting the protein.

  The smoke huts worked at turning the muscle into long distance snacks for the men as they traveled into the forest. They had learned which types of wood they preferred for the taste of the jerky. With the water removed from the flesh the jerky became lightweight and a great source of energy for long distance recon. Dallas found some guys in their bunks paying cards and reading books to pass the time.

  “You going out Sarge?” Kelly asked.

  “Who wants to go for a walk?” Dallas said shifting his gun from one hand to the other.

  The men put their cards and books down and quickly grabbed their gear. Dallas left the tent and grabbed his rucksack. He didn’t need to check the contents to know what was in it. He threw it over his shoulders and added some leaves to his hat. Before he was finished the men were out of the tent with painted faces and ready to go.

  “Where to Sarge?”

  Year3

  Chapter 20

  The wave of Chinese arriving on shore put purpose back into Jack’s life. Decades after Vietnam he spent his days at the VFW getting drunk and telling the same stories time and time again.

  First the Day happened and he said for years that it was coming. When the nuke went off he savored the notion that those bastards finally got what they deserved, followed by a wave of sadness. The flu went through the country and killed a good portion of the people that hadn’t already starved to death. He watched the world fall apart, but he still didn’t have an enemy to fight. He fought hunger and he fought the cold in winter, but he missed the men in black pajamas that haunted his dreams.

  Less than a year a
fter the Day the first ships arrived on shore. People ran through the countryside spreading the word. He remembered sitting in a bar, one of the first establishments to start over again after the Day, when the runner came in saying the Chinese were invading. He sobered up that day and pulled out his old M14 that he stored away. Boxes of ammo sat in his basement. He blew the dust off the steel cans and started loading magazines. Finally, someone had come to start a fight.

  The area of Seattle was home to two regiments of army airborne and Rangers. Multiple generations made this their home during and after their tours. Men came out of the woodwork and met at the VFW to discuss the best course of action. They quickly formed into rank and got started on their supplies and tactics of getting the Chinese back into the ocean.

  “This isn’t conventional warfare, this is resistance,” a retired Major said. Some men had experience, some had extensive training, and others simply had the heart to fight. The men were broken into five man teams and had orders to create as much damage as possible.

  Some men worked hours a day making thermite devices for sabotage. Most of the men had weapons and ammo at home for their newfound task.

  The guerilla groups attacked every chance they had and ruined every piece of equipment they came across. The Chinese never made it more than a few miles off the shore that first year.

  The Rangers were well trained, organized, and pissed that their former ally was now trying to take over their home. The Vietnam vets impressed the younger members with their knowledge and experience and the young guys impressed the vets with the new training and equipment they had never seen before.

  The Rangers didn’t know what was happening elsewhere in the country. They worked an old Ham radio to try and get the word out, not knowing if anybody was listening. Some refugees came from the south with word that LA had been invaded by a fleet before the refugees turned inland, trying to escape from the Chinese.

  The Rangers were accustomed to being left to fend for themselves. It was in their nature never to expect backup. If the Chinese were going to come to shore and expect an easy job, they had another thing coming.

  A month after the Chinese came to shore, Jack had several notches carved into the wood of his M14. His beer gut was gone and he was running along with the young bucks that he thought were kids. His beard grew and he painted his face with charcoal and ash. Suddenly he was thirty years younger and had a purpose again. The Chinese would regret ever stepping on shore.

  Jack had been drafted into Vietnam in the early 1970’s. He had hopes of being in the motor pool and having a job when he was out in the civilian world. He trained during boot camp and was on his way to being trained further in the states as a mechanic. His test scores were high in math and science.

  On graduation day the soldiers lined up for the ceremony and waited to be freed from the strict discipline they were under. Jack stood upright thinking about the classes he would be starting in the coming weeks. Maybe the draft wasn’t as horrible as that the college students had made it sound.

  A General approached the podium and tapped the microphone. He introduced himself and Jack ignored most of the things this man said. Then things became interesting.

  “I need volunteers for airborne,” the general stated. “Any volunteers?”

  No hands raised in the air, nobody stepped forward. The thought in everyone’s mind was about being dropped behind enemy lines and killed. Jack was set in his future: motor pool. He had no desire to change that plan and try to get himself killed.

  “No volunteers?” the General asked. “Ok then, everyone in the last row is now volunteering for Airborne.”

  Jack looked around. He looked behind him. The space was empty. He was in the last row.

  Profanities ran through his mind. He didn’t know if this would really hold up. Then a man went around and wrote down the names that were on the uniforms of everyone that stood in the last row, including him. He wondered if he could still do the motor pool after being Airborne, but history would have another plan for him. His plan had been to join the motor pool, be trained, and come back home with the prospects of getting a good paying job at one of the local automotive factories. That was not how his life turned out. Jack went through Airborne training and then was dropped into Vietnam with the notion they were fighting the communist. Hadn’t they already done that in Korea? Look how that turned out. Now Jack was watching karma come to bite America in the ass. Sure he was angry at the VA and the Federal government, and every president that followed Nixon, but at the end of the day he loved his country. If you asked him to explain it, he would have compared the thinking to the women that had come and gone in his life.

  “Sure, I knew they were bad for me and not loyal or dependable, but they sure were beautiful.” That was how he thought about his country, his homeland. It was a beautiful place that had treated him bad and ruined whatever pursuit of happiness he might have planned, but at the end of the day he still loved her regardless of how destructive the relationship was. Maybe Jack was a glutton for punishment.

  Later, he felt bad thinking about the cheer he gave after the bomb. It might have been the same guilt others could have felt following the two nuclear detonations in Japan or the bombing of Dresden during the European campaign. Many people felt little or no remorse about that and Jack found himself feeling guilty unlike those people. Why? Because the event he had cheered was the killing of US citizens. He had been so self-indulged in his own personal battles over the decades that he had forgotten the people that died in that blast and the ones that died the days, weeks, and months later from radiation poisoning. There was a guilt that he had tried to drink away and once he had someone to focus his guilt and remorse on, the drinking stopped.

  Now pushing seventy, Jack was in the best shape he had been in for decades. Without a purpose or a goal, a man will lose himself while wallowing in his own self-pity. Jack had done that for long enough and now he had a bone to pick with the same slant-eye bastards that were responsible for so many of his buddies not coming home from that damn jungle.

  The cosmoline that Jack had encased his M-14 in was a pain in the ass. Luckily he had thought ahead and considered his lazy nature when he put the rifle in storage. The grease, dirt, and grime was a few hours of work followed by more polishing and oiling to get the rifle back to working order. Once he was finished he slid the magazine into the receiver and heard the click that brought back one of his few memories of the 1970s. After all, if you can remember the 1970s then you weren’t really there.

  Outside of the small shack he called home, Jack cultivated the poor excuse of a garden he had started after the Day. He figured if those little men in the rice paddies could feed themselves he could do the same thing. The locals had become crafty in how they made alcohol after the Day and kept their bars open, taking trade in things besides money. Once D.C. was destroyed there was nobody to back the currency and it became useless. In a way, the local breweries and bars had become the rum runners of the west coast, taking trade for anything with flavor or sugar to trade small amounts of alcohol back in return. The scheme worked and the locals played along, not wanting to invest the time or effort into making their own alcohol. The breweries thought it was a great investment, only needing to spend time and the regulation of temperature to create a product. Jack played along at first trying to grow beets, but found that he was a better hunter and fisherman than he was a gardener, at least that was what he told himself. He had luck considering he planted carrots in the garden and the deer had a nose for carrots, stripping his garden clean until he started to awake in the early morning hours to put down the buck that was in the group. That was the start of Jack’s entrepreneur conquest of the leather and venison trade. Sure others were doing it, but he felt like a top dog again. Hell, shooting at something while making a profit made him feel like a man again. He had not felt like that since…

  Once the Chinese were said to be on the shores and bringing supplies into the country, Jack knew what w
as happening. He felt sorry for the poor bastards who were left trying to deal and barter with the Chinese. They claimed they were bringing humanitarian aid, but Jack knew better. He kept his rifle close and when the news about the refugee camps started to spread he packed up his shack and hiked out into the woods. He hoped there would be others like him to build a resistance. What he found surprised him. There already was a resistance. Deep in the forest of Washington state he came across a group of men he believed to be military. They had the gear and the training. Of course, they weren’t like him. After all, he did sneak up on them. The training he had received decades before had come back and he was now the unseen man in grey, the bane of the Vietcong’s existence. Like him, the men he was watching wore natural colors and blended in with the surroundings. Faces were painted and the whites of their eyes stood out to those that were looking for them. Jack hid in the bushes and took notes on the men he was sure to be a resistance group. He was sure he could teach them a thing or two when the time came.

  “Hey old man,” a voice said behind Jack.

  Son of a bitch, Jack raised his hands in the air and slowly turned around.

  “How long you been there?” the young man asked, aiming a rifle at the vet.

  “Long enough, if you don’t know.” Jack tried to be smart in his response, desiring to strike a nerve in the young man’s pride.

  Jack’s rifle was handed to another man with a gray painted face.

  “M14. Nice,” the man commented, looking at the rifle.

  “Damn right, that rifle saw me through two tours in’ Nam while you boys were swimmers in your daddy’s nut sacks.”

  “Who are you?” the man in charge asked.

  “Jack Simon. Corporal. Army Rangers. Sniper.”

  “How many chinks you take with this?” a smaller man asked.

  “Count the notches yourself,” Jack responded. He had not been keeping track, wanting to add it up after everything was done or get the final tally from St. Peter if he didn’t see this through to the end.