Joshua (Book 1)

by John S. Wilson

  “Mister Ackermann.”

  “Oh sorry, what was I saying? Yeah, late in the second day the army came to help the police but by then not much could be done. They would put down a riot here, and then it would pop up there the next minute. It was completely out of control, no one could stop it by then. The riots started over in Louisville three days after ours but they didn’t get as bad, well, not as fast anyway. That same day the governor declared martial law and that’s when it really went from bad to worse.”

  “What do you mean?” The man hadn’t heard any of this before. This was during the time he was trying to get home.

  “Well, the governor ordered the city be emptied for one thing.” The withered old man became more animated as he went on. “Who’s he to say I have to leave my home?” He was also becoming more agitated too. “At first they’re feeding us that ‘stay calm and remain in your homes, order will be restored’ bull. Then a few days later they’re telling us to abandon our homes. They’re driving down the street with a big bullhorn day and night telling us to get out of town. Go wherever we want to, or if we’ve got nowhere to go they’re saying we have to go to some camp close to Fort Knox. But either way they don’t want to see you around here anymore.”

  “Did people get out?” This was all new to the man.

  “One family did … but most stayed. You got to remember that none of the riots ever got this far south. I wasn’t leaving and neither were most of my neighbors, including your parents.” Mr. Ackermann stopped for a drink of water from a canteen hanging on the bedpost. “Want some? Please have a seat.” With his canteen he gestured to the seat next to the man.

  After taking the container and a rather large swallow, the man sat down on the stiff metal chair. He completely forgot about the pistol in his front pocket. “Please, go on.”

  “Well, let me tell you something, nearly the whole street decided to all stand together. I’m proud of that.” The man could actually hear the pride swelling in Mr. Ackermann’s voice. “We had a meeting at your parent’s house and all of us except the Welchels decided we weren’t leaving for nothing. We weren’t going to be pushed out. They left in their RV the next day for who knows where and the rest of us stayed right here and planned out what we would do … if the government or those rioters tried to force their way in here. First thing we did was take several old cars and trucks and we blocked the entrance to the street. We ran a line of them from the corner of that house on the end, across both yards and blocking the street in. You’ve probably seen what was left of them when you got here yesterday. We let the air out of the tires so they couldn’t be pushed out of the way. We saved a big old Cadillac the Welchels gave us when they left. Just like the rest it was out of gas, but we could roll it out of the way kind of like a gate if we needed to. We also had a couple of running cars we could have used to reinforce our barricade, if it came to that. We also blocked the doors and windows of our homes too.”

  He took another large gulp of water and then the man offered it back. “Please go on.”

  “That’s all right, I’ve got several.” He grabbed another canteen hanging from the opposite side of the bed. “That same day I decided to ruin my upstairs. It’s a good thing my wife is dead, she wouldn’t have allowed me to do that to ‘her’ home. That didn’t sound very good did it?”

  The man wasn’t sure which of the two he was asking.

  His ex-neighbor went on without an answer. “We’d probably both be dead now, butchered like your parents …” Mr. Ackermann paused, considering what he said only after he said it. “I’m sorry … your parents were good people.”

  “It’s all right Mister Ackermann, please tell me the rest.”

  “We had a couple cars full of people drive through once. They got a look at our barricade and kept on going.” He said it with a good laugh but then just as quickly became serious again. “Then a couple days later it all went downhill. That‘s when the trucks I was talking about starting coming.”

  “What trucks?” The man’s was trying to keep up with the conversation but his mind was lagging.

  “Big army trucks, had some kind speakers on the back. Kept broadcasting some BS about how we were ordered to leave our homes … how it was official orders from the governor … something like that. Damn trucks were giving me a headache, came through here every few hours for over two days.” He took another swallow of water from his own canteen. “Then that next morning a group of people came walking through the neighborhood. They had guns and at first we thought we had looters but it turned out they were only trying to escape the city. Good thing we talked to them though.”

  “Yeah, why’s that?”

  “Well you know that old saying, ‘news spreads fast but rumors faster.’ These people had heard that the camp at Fort Knox the government was telling all of us to go to was more like a prison. They took away any food you had, guns or ammo too, and once you were there they wouldn’t let you leave. Hearing that only made us dig our heels in deeper.”

  The man felt exhausted and this story was far from ending, “Mister Ackermann, those were my parents in the driveway?”

  “Yes … I’m sorry. You didn’t know that?”

  “I was fairly certain. I couldn’t say for sure though. Sir, who was the man there with them?”

  “You didn’t know him?”

  “Sir, I wasn’t even completely sure those were my parents, they were so decomposed. As for the man, I might have known him but I couldn’t tell yesterday. I couldn’t find any identification on them either, so if you don’t know who he was I guess no one will ever know.”

  “I’m sure he was related to your mother, I think. We were introduced just before … but it’s hard to remember.” The old man sat there scratching his balding head considering the question. “His name might have been Terry … or maybe Jerry … um, Somerville?”

  An old familiar surname got the man’s attention again. “Larry Somerville? Is that it?”

  “Yes, that is it. Who is he?”

  “He’s my uncle, my mom’s younger brother. He lived in Louisville. Maybe he lost his home in the riots over there?”

  “Maybe … was he married?”

  “He had a wife, my Aunt Sissy, but she died eight years ago from cancer. I don’t know why he would come here. Maybe he wanted to be with the only family he had left.”

  “I don’t know why he came, but he came at just the wrong time.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “The very day he got here, that night is when the army came to get us, actually it was about two that next morning before they really started. That night, the night of the fourteenth, about ten thirty, another one of those trucks came but this time it brought friends, five of them all together. Besides the speaker truck there were two other large trucks. You know the kind? Big, three axle army trucks with the back covered. There were also two little armored cars that came with them too. They had tracks like a tank but without the big gun on top. They broadcast that stupid recorded message again for about twenty minutes and then after that there was someone actually talking. He said we were …” the old man had to stop and think about it a moment, “‘willfully in violation of government orders’ and that we were hoarders and our property was being seized for the ‘public good.’ He then said we had ten minutes to be in front of our houses and waiting to go to the ‘relocation center’ he called it. The guy said those that surrendered could leave and take one small suitcase or bag with them, but only with clothes, shoes, stuff like that. No weapons or food of any kind, not even water. He said if we didn’t come out they would come in to get us. He said they couldn’t ‘guarantee our safety’ if they had to come in by force, people would probably be killed … and that’s just what happened.” The old man stopped to wipe the tears now in his eyes.

  “Please go on.”

  “Well, we waited hours, let me tell you it was nerve-racking. Every little sound you heard … you know, you thought it was them coming to get you. I reme
mber it was sometime after two, I noticed some army men taking position in that field behind our backyards on this side. I just assumed they were doing the same on the other side. I thought that’s where the attacks would be coming from, but they never even shot at us. It turns out those guys were there just to make sure nobody escaped out the back. The real attack came a few minutes later. Those two little tanks started their engines and come through first, our barricade barely slowed them down. There were two groups of soldiers that came up right behind them. What they would do, they would come down the street side by side stopping at each house, one tank on the left and one on the right. They would stop at each house and shoot some kind of grenade through a window, tear gas or something, and they usually shot more than one. Then those soldiers would run for the house, real close together. The one in front had some kind of bulletproof shield he was holding in front of them. You know, so the people in the house couldn’t shoot them all down. The tanks had these small gun ports. The one closest to the house would just pepper it with gunfire … I guess to keep the heads down of anyone inside.” The old man was really crying now. “Then the one on the far side would fire on any of the others houses that were shooting at them or their friends.”

  “Did you shoot back?”

  “We did, each of us from our own houses, but our guns wouldn’t stop them, the bullets were just bouncing off those little tanks … and because of the tanks we couldn’t get much of a shot at the soldiers. The soldiers would enter the house in two teams, usually one through the front door and the other in a side window. They cleared the whole street that way, one house at a time. I got lucky, they must have thought my house had been cleaned out beforehand, like the Clawsons’. They looked it over for just a few minutes.” The weepy old man stopped for another drink of water and another wipe of his tender eyes. “Once the shooting was over the first thing they did was back one of those big cargo trucks up in the driveway. They would drag out anything of value, guns, jewelry, food, whatever else they could find and put it in the truck. They descended on our homes like locust … the whole thing was disgusting. They did mine too. I hid while they were here. They weren’t up stairs very long because I already dragged all my good stuff down here and there wasn’t much left for them. Most of the houses had fires too, I guess started by those grenades … I don’t know. I do know they never did try to put any of them out. I guess you saw a couple of houses got burned really bad, the rest … I guess the fires burned themselves out before they did much damage. Afterwards the soldiers dragged the bodies to the end of each driveway. Maybe someone was supposed to come and pick them up but they never did. The very last thing they would do was take some orange spray paint and put a big ‘X’ on the front of the house somewhere.”

  Though the man found it all fantastic he knew this nightmare had to be true. “Was everyone killed?”

  “Nearly everyone, I saw two or three being forced into one of those trucks … couldn’t see who it was.”

  “None of them told about this place?”

  The old man paused and thought about the question as he rubbed his eyes and then his nose with the back of his hand again. “No, none of them turned me in. Your parents were the only people that knew for sure, I showed it to them two years ago. I guess the whole street knew though. It was hard to keep it a secret when I had those windows blocked in. No one told the soldiers about me, I’m sure your parents didn’t tell. They were good people. As for the others they were either good people, or maybe they never had the chance to tell.”

  “You say that was the fourteenth? That was over a month ago, what’s happened since then?”

  “It’s been quiet since then … for the most part. A lot of people came drifting through at first, trying to get away from the fires downtown I guess. I’ll still see a few every day or two. Stragglers, probably looking for food, these days I mostly just see soldiers on patrol. I don’t know what they’re up to now and I don’t want to know.”

  With the man’s hunger and this demanding conversation his mind was exhausted again. As he once more looked around at the shelves teeming over with nearly anything he could imagine, on a top shelf he noticed a familiar sight. In the corner of the tall shelf just below the ceiling he saw a water filter identical to the one that was stolen from him. The man had a small scrap of hope come to his mind. “Mister Ackermann … I’ve been needing some things, maybe I could buy them from you, or maybe you’re up to some trading?”

  “Maybe …” The brittle looking old man stared at him, curious but cautious. “First of all, what do you want?”

  The man pointed out what he needed. “I want that water filter.” The man was sure of that most of all.

  The older man didn’t seem so sure. “I don’t know, that’s a backup … maybe. Is that all you want?”

  He stood there staring at all the abundance, his mind racing trying to decide what he needed most, and what he wanted. “Food, I want food. Bread … I want some bread, or vegetables … eggs, you got eggs? Salt, I need salt. Toothpaste.” He struggled trying to find words for all the things he desired, but his thoughts weren’t in focus. Even so he recognized it was the influence of slow starvation that continued to muddle his thoughts. Then another problem, the result of eating nearly nothing but meat for two months came to his mind, “Laxatives … I definitely need laxatives.”

  Mr. Ackermann straightened up on the bed. The tears were gone and suddenly he seemed full of life again. “We might be able to do some trading. What’ve you got?”

  “Silver, I’ve got a lot of silver.”

  “I don’t need silver, what else you got?”

  At that moment silver was all the man could think of. “You don’t want silver? I don’t have any gold …”

  “No, I don’t want silver … and I don’t want gold either.” A suggestion of agitation could now be heard in the old man’s voice.

  The man continued to stare at him, waiting for his mind to catch up.

  Mr. Ackermann soon got tired of waiting, “Look around, I don’t need silver or gold. What would I do with it, take it down to the grocery store? What I need is things I can use. You got anything I can use?”

  “Like what?” The man was struggling to make his brain work again.

  “I don’t know.” The odd little man was trying to make his mind work too. “Let’s see. Guns or other tools, ammo … I can always use ammo.”

  The man’s thinking was slow, but working. “I’ve got guns and some ammo too. I’ve got a Colt .32 and a Taurus .38. No ammo for the Taurus and only four rounds for the Colt. I’ve got some Heckler and Koch magazines in .45 auto and 118 rounds of ammo for it. I also have fifty rounds of .22 Magnum. How about some Vicodin? I’ve got some … a few anyway.”

  Now the old man seemed interested in what the man had to offer. “Okay, I can definitely use the .22 Magnum and the .45 auto. Can’t use the magazines though. I can always use another .38 special, I’ve got plenty of ammo for that.” Mr. Ackermann sat there stroking his bald head, working out the deal in his mind. “I guess it wouldn’t hurt to have some Vicodin around, that’s a pain killer right?”

  “Right.”

  “I don’t have much use for the Colt, no ammunition for it. I guess I could take it … just in case I get some later on. What else you got?”

  At first the man thought to say silver but quickly shut his mouth again. He just stood there trying to think, but the man knew everything else he had would be needed to keep him alive.

  Mr. Ackermann had ideas of his own. “Okay, I’ll give you the water filter, salt, toothpaste, five MREs and …”

  “Laxatives, I definitely need laxatives,” the man interrupted again.

  “Okay … and a box of laxatives. I’ll trade you all that for what you said, the Vicodin, the two guns and ammunition, and …” Mr. Ackermann started rubbing his head again.

  “I don’t have anything else.”

  The old man sat there, the gears still turning. “I’ll also take two, no, t
hree ounces of silver. Mind you I don’t need it, not really. I’m just taking it because I knew you and your parents … and I feel sorry for you.”

  The two of them made their deal on top of the desk and both parties seemed extremely satisfied. Especially Mr. Ackermann, who spent some time admiring his shiny new nickel plated Colt.

  He gave the man a meal of beans, rice and a stale old roll “on the house” and said he could sleep on his floor that night. Before going to bed Mr. Ackermann gave the man a piece of scrap lumber left over from his remodeling. Into the board the man carved “In Memory” and the names of all the victims, as best as the old man could remember, and then with his hand axe he sharpened the end to a point.

  The next morning Mr. Ackermann said he couldn’t stay any longer but did let him wash up and trim his hair and beard before he went. This was the first time the man had really seen himself in almost two months. As he trimmed his beard by the faint candlelight he stared into the mirror and hardly recognized the gaunt, haunted face staring back at him.

  The man had cleaned up and checked his gear and was now ready to go. Hesitantly, the old man approached him. It was obvious something serious was on his mind. “I want to give you something.” He pressed into the man’s hand a small glass bottle with a clear liquid inside. It looked like water but appeared thicker.