“It is kind of funny,” said Cory.
Lonnie weighed in with “It’s good to see you brought your smartassedness halfway across the country with you, Lance.”
“Payback!” I said, laughing.
“Back to the tours,” said Mac, shaking his head back and forth but smiling just a bit. “Take the ones with your families this afternoon, and tomorrow morning we will give you two security tours. Those will be on four-wheelers, which I see you have, and we will ride the perimeter, meet all of the guards on duty, and get your take on our defense plans already under way,” he added, pointing outside to a truck passing by with three old cars on a trailer.
“What are they up to?” asked Jake.
“Fortifying the barricades,” said Mac. “They may come over the Rimrock, probably will, but we can’t have them busting through the barricades and bringing trucks or heavy artillery right up our paved road from either direction.”
“Makes sense,” I said. “They will come, but we can pick their path if we’re lucky.”
“Exactly,” replied Mac. “I’m glad we’re all on the same page here.”
* * * *
That afternoon Joy and I picked the first tour, hoping to get some rest in the afternoon and visit with my parents and brother, knowing it would be a long time before we had another afternoon off.
Most main areas and structures looked nearly the same as when I was a kid, with a facelift here and there. I remembered something my grandfather would say, probably they all said it: “They just don’t make things like they used to.” I vowed to show my boys the campsite I made up on Green Mountain more than thirty years ago, with a rock fireplace I built with my own hands that had taken 30 harsh winters and still looked like it was built yesterday.
Everything here was like that—every building, from the Pavilion to the Chapel to the homes. It’s why this Valley hadn’t seemed to change for decades, always maintaining its rugged beauty.
It was a good place to call home growing up, and it was a good place now to raise our children. I wondered about the rest of our family as we walked the property. What of my father and siblings in Louisiana, or Joy’s mom on her ranch? The families of everyone traveling with us—what of them? Would they survive? Have they done so?
I snapped back into focus, with the canal being the last stop, warning the kids to stay far away.
“A man not long ago fell in on the front side of the canal siphon,” said the guide dramatically, “and got sucked underground only to barely survive and be hospitalized for more than a day.”
I knew the man, and he looked fine to me today, although he was the only one I ever heard of to come out the other side alive. But the boys were scared to death of it, and it was one less thing I hoped not to worry about.
We didn’t eat dinner in the Pavilion this night. Like most of us weary travelers, Joy, the boys and I stayed in, heating up a can of this or that and taking turns with the stoves. I was asleep by 9 p.m., a rarity back in the day unless reserved for sick days or an early bedtime following a romantic dinner with my wife.
* * * *
The sunrise woke me early but feeling refreshed and as close to a hundred percent as you can get, not having bathed for several days. Thanks to Mac’s generator magic, I did get my first almost-hot shower since I could remember. I awoke on the first real day of our new life. The first day at a new job, the first day back at school, or joining a sports team. It was all the same, but this time, the prize for doing a good job wasn’t my own parking spot, a Christmas bonus, or an A on my report card. It was a life—mine and everyone else’s. Those I called family, those I cared about, and those residing in this Valley that I had not yet met. This job was to be the hardest and most rewarding, next to being a father, that I’ve ever known. I couldn’t wait to get started.
* * * *
“You eat like this every morning?” I asked again, after yesterday’s breakfast.
“Yep—eggs over easy, a biscuit, ham or bacon, and oatmeal,” replied Mac.
“I’m pretty sure I’m never missing breakfast!” I announced.
“We can always use another chef-in-training,” called Rico, overhearing the conversation from across the room.
“I’ll check with our group; there may be some interest. I’ll bet my wife Joy would love to learn how you feed all these people every day.”
“We have systems. That is the secret,” said Rico.
“How do you do it?” I asked, genuinely interested. “I mean, I’ve heard of you from before. You were a big deal in food, I remember.”
“Well, thank you,” Rico replied, pulling up a chair. “Chefs are like musicians, I think. They all make music but the specifics are different.”
“What does that mean?” asked Lonnie, joining the conversation.
“The words, they are different. So are the instruments, the rhythm, the tone, vocals, and presentation, but at the end of the day they all make music. Everyone assumes I would go into a kitchen like Dirty Harry, just shooting a meal together with a random pinch of this and a dollop of that, and I know many chefs who can do it masterfully. I am not one of those but was blessed with a photographic mind. It helps in school—kind of cheating, really, when you can literally see in your mind’s eye what you already read; but for my work, it makes all the difference. I simply see a recipe for, let’s say, Linguine Bolognese or Spaghetti with Meat Sauce. I make it exactly as written and I tweak the recipe each time, always marking the exact changes. After a few experiments, I have the perfect recipe that could win a contest most anywhere in the world.”
“Then what?” I asked, surprisingly interested now, having never thought of cooking that way.
“That’s the easy part,” he continued. “Then I go into the next recipe and the one after that. Unless some scientist discovers a new ingredient or spice, there is no need to change the recipe once perfected. I repeated this for ten years in dive kitchens, and finally in high-end restaurants, before becoming an overnight sensation.”
“Isn’t that how fast-food burger joints do it?” asked Lonnie.
“The same concept, yes, but on a whole other level. ‘Chefs in training!’” he called out. “We have a challenge for tonight’s supper. We will make our best hamburgers, myself included, and see if we may rival the ‘fast-food joints,’ as they say. The winner picks a bottle of wine from my private collection!”
“Any bottle?” asked one of the chefs.
“Any bottle you wish.”
Excitement wafted through the kitchen like wildfire, making Rico wonder why he didn’t have a contest every day. Because it wouldn’t be special he heard in his head, reminding him of a post-apocalyptic movie where the young girl’s parents let her release a giant bubble—and I mean the size of four basketballs touching—off the family’s front deck. She asked why she could only do one a day, and they replied that it wouldn’t be special anymore if she did more. “Enjoy your day—and don’t forget, lunch is at noon,” Rico added.
“He’s a good guy,” said Mac, “and it never hurts to be in good with the Head Chef. Let’s get going,” he added. “We will run the entire perimeter of the property twice. The first time, just observe and let’s keep moving. In the second round, I’m looking for feedback. I want to know what’s good, what’s not, and how to fix it. Let’s find any chinks in the armor today, so we can get them fixed tomorrow.”
* * * *
We headed out for the grand tour. I had walked the property many times over as a kid and teenager, although never in one shot. My dirt bike had done it more than once, but I was looking for jumps and bumps back then and not security breaches. Either way, it was good to be out riding and feel safe while doing so. Every tree, bush, and open field brought back a specific memory of my childhood and a friend I would never see again in this lifetime.
Mac and Cory pointed out specific areas needing attention, or at least discussion on our second loop around. I made a mental note to add a few areas I thought could be vuln
erable to an advancing army. Each place identified was marked clearly with orange construction tape and numbered 1-14.
Once we returned to the shop, Mac put each location on the Valley map with the corresponding number.
Whitney offered to use her experience in art to draw the Valley in detail and make a legend for each location, so anyone at all familiar with the property could head towards a spot needing repair at a moment’s notice. The Council offered to pay her but she refused, citing helping her grandparents get their home back was more than she could ever repay. She worked long hours on the drawing and met with Mac and Cory to make sure everything was included and to scale.
* * * * * * *
Chapter Three
Lake Trinidad ~ Colorado
Sheriff Johnson left out early with his girlfriend, Kate, pulling the borrowed Airstream trailer behind his truck.
“Well?” she asked as soon as they had pulled out of town.
“Well, what?” he replied.
“I just want you to say I was right about getting away for a few days. It’s nice, right?”
“I guess, and thank you before you ask me.”
“What’s going on with you? You’ve been kind of a jerk lately,” she replied.
“I have a lot on my mind is all. Maybe we’ll catch up to Judge Lowry walking down the road and run him straight over with the truck and trailer. Then maybe I would feel better.”
“Who cares about him anymore? It was him or you, and one of you had to go. All I want you to do is think about me and fishing for the next three days. Can you do that?” asked Kate.
“I’ll try,” he replied.
* * * *
Judge Lowry woke up early, packing his fly-fishing pole and waders for the half-mile walk down to the lake. He wished he had bought a property on the Trinidad side, instead of the Weston side. Even twenty miles out from the Courthouse, he still felt too close. Staying towards the side of the road, he was not worried about other people milling around but more concerned with running into a “Westoner,” as the citizens were called by out-of-town folk. Technically he was still just inside the border he himself declared as part of the town he ran singlehandedly for all those years. He stopped often, scanning in all directions, looking for a familiar face to hide from. After all, if he was discovered this close to town, he would hang for sure.
This side of the lake wasn’t too busy. Some people camped on the lake’s rocky shore, and only a few of those were trying to fish.
“Amateurs,” he said aloud, watching a few spend more time trying to untangle their line than actually fish.
Judge Lowry didn’t care that they were fishing to feed their families. He had a cabin fully stocked with his favorite food, and fish was not included.
Any luck?” he called out, wading past two men with their children looking hopeful for something to eat today.
“Nope,” one called back. “I’m starting to think there aren’t any fish in this whole lake.”
Judge Lowry continued wading out, not responding and blocking out the children’s cries of hunger. It’s getting to be so a man can’t even fish without being bothered anymore, he thought.
Trying out a new fly that everyone had been talking about before the day, the answer would soon be clear. He had to go up to Pueblo a couple of months back and wait in line at the Sportsman’s Warehouse for a mandatory four-flies-per-person buying frenzy. Going once in the morning and again that afternoon after changing clothes, including a baseball cap, the Judge grabbed eight flies in all.
His third cast got a strike. “Fish on!” he said aloud, as he always did.
He smiled, thinking he may just forget about getting revenge on the Sheriff and settle into a fishing retirement. The Judge fished alone, always had, and abhorred anything above complete silence on the water.
“Daddy, we’re hungry,” he heard behind him. “Daddy! Daddy, catch a fish,” they continued. “Catch a fish,” they chanted. “Catch a fish! Catch a fish!”
The Judge was seething but wouldn’t turn around. Those brats are exactly why I never had kids, he thought.
He concentrated on his trout. “Not bad sized,” he said, holding the nearly two-pounder out of the water for all to see before tossing it back into the lake.
A smile crossed his thin lips, getting screams out of the kids on shore. “Daddy, Daddy, that man just threw the fish back in!”
“I don’t eat fish,” he called out without turning around.
“Sir, please, if you catch another, can we have it?” asked one of the dads respectfully.
“There are plenty of fish in this lake,” the Judge replied. “You will just have to try harder… Fish on!” he called out only minutes later, laughing almost uncontrollably as he took a three-pounder off the line, tossing it back, the same as before.
The men glared at him without saying a word as he waded back towards shore with the pistol clearly visible in his waistband. “I’ll leave the rest for you, at least for this morning! My reeling arm is getting a bit tired,” he said, with a smirk. He looked back to see both men wading into his same spot in the lake.
“It’s not where you fish here, boys; it’s what you have for bait!” he called out.
“You’re mean!” screamed a little girl.
“You have no idea, missy.”
“I’ll be back after lunch; I’m starved,” the Judge called out. There was a certain expectation in town that one might call acting as a particular personality, which was not quite his real self. The Judge enjoyed the few times he could be a complete jerk and not have to answer for it later. Of course, he would trade it in a second to have his old job back.
“I’ll be back, Sheriff—maybe not tomorrow, next month, or even next year. But I will be back for my town,” he shouted to no one.
* * * *
Halfway back to his cabin, he ducked into the trees after seeing a truck and silver trailer come around the bend. Road visibility was almost a mile here, and he scrambled for his binoculars to verify what he thought he saw.
“There’s no way on earth!” he mumbled, waiting for the vehicle to come clear of the trees.
Following a moving vehicle was harder than he thought, catching only glimpses of a fender, trailer tire and hitch. Leading the truck, his quick glimpse of the driver’s side door confirmed his suspicions. “Re-elect Sheriff Johnson” it said on the door, now heading straight for him a half-mile away. Judge Lowry scrambled into the bushes, covering himself with a fallen branch, and heard Charlie Daniels out the open windows. He wasn’t much of a Country fan but knew this particular song well. He sang the tune, forgetting some of the words and belting the parts he did know—like that somehow made him a true fan… He never liked the part about the weak judge letting the drug dealer go, so just skipped it.
The Judge saw his old friend, clear as a summer day, as he passed. “Time for a showdown, cowboy,” he said aloud.
He looked into the moving house with mixed emotions. “I’ll leave it to fate,” he said aloud. “Go on around the lake, and we part ways here. Stop on my side, and we’ll dance.” It sounded tough, hearing it out of his own mouth, though he knew he would never fight the Sheriff man-to-man.
He put his right hand on the butt of his pistol as the Sheriff and his girl pulled over thirty yards from where he fished and secured the trailer with blocks.
“You always were dumber than you looked,” Judge Lowry said, ducking back off the road when a little girl talking to Sheriff Johnson pointed up the road towards him. “How nice of you to be so generous,” he said, watching Kate hand the girl something that looked like food. “Kick an old friend out of town and feed a perfect stranger…I see.” I’ll let him get comfortable, he thought.
* * * *
Back in his cabin, the seething Judge stomped around, growing angrier by the second. “You’re going to kick me out of my town?” he screamed. “My town! You were nothing when I found you. You couldn’t win an election without my help the first time, and I c
arried you all the way this time. Now you come out to fish my lake! Tell you what, you ungrateful imbecile! I have an idea—you stay here and I’ll run Weston. How about that?”
“Hey, keep it down over there!” came the voice of a longtime cabin neighbor he had never even said hello to before.
* * * *
He loaded his pistol with shaking hands, put on a baseball cap and sunglasses, and headed down the road. He briefly thought about shooting his loud-mouthed neighbor but dismissed it as distracting to his real purpose today.
Families First: A Post-Apocalyptic Next-World Series Volume 6 Battle Grounds Page 3