Fire From The Sky | Book 8 | Hell Fire

by Reed, N. C.

  “I'll think it over,” she promised.

  “Think what over?” Clem Pickett, newly elected mayor of the newly rebuilt and reorganized town of Jordan asked, appearing as if out of nowhere. “You trying to lure my people away, Holloway?”

  “Just the best ones,” Greg replied with a grin. “Just the best ones.”

  “You know, I was joking about that,” Pickett frowned. “Why are you trying to take people away from us for?”

  “It's a job offer,” Greg told him. “We're always looking for help, good help that is. I have the authority to offer positions to people to serve in our security unit. I was offering Miss Gray a position in that unit, assuming she could pass the training. Which I'm confident she can or I'd not have offered,” he added with a smile to Gray.

  “Ain't you got enough people?” Pickett demanded. “And why someone like her, who is valuable to the town? Pick someone we don't need!”

  “Why would I do that?” Greg laughed. “We're only looking for the best possible people. Just like you were when you hired her,” he nodded at Gray, who remained silent. “Why would we set our standards any lower than you did?”

  “Well,” Pickett muttered. “Reckon that does make sense. Still don't like it,” he added sharply.

  “I'd be shocked if you did,” Greg laughed again. “Remember what I said, Miss Gray,” Greg finished. “It's an open offer if you change your mind.”

  “You turned him down?” Pickett asked, surprised.

  “Well, I just don't know that I'm the right person for that kind of thing,” Gray told the older man pretty much the same thing she'd told Greg.

  “Well, I have to say I'm a bit surprised,” Pickett admitted. “I'd have thought you would jump at the chance. That anyone here would,” he added. “Probably better living than we got here.”

  “Depends on what you mean by better,” Greg shrugged. “I essentially have one room. Most of us do. We do have a few cabins that were purpose built, and each room has an occupant save the central room. We have communal kitchens and baths, just like you folks do. Even the Sanders have opened their homes. Clayton's parents, for example have taken an adult, a teen and two children into their home. All of the others have done likewise.”

  “Huh,” Pickett grunted. “Somehow I just figured you were living higher on the hog than us common folk.”

  “Afraid not,” Greg shrugged. “And with the additions you gained from the raid on that survival compound, you're doing right well, here,” he added. “It's all relative.”

  -

  “Saw you talking to Gray,” Sienna Newell teased as the two met at the Hummer they'd taken to Jordan.

  “Hm,” Greg nodded absently. “Offered her a place at the farm, on the team. She turned it down, but did say she'd think on it.”

  “Oh,” Newell frowned. “I thought maybe you were talking to her about something else.”

  “What else is there?” Greg looked up at that. “Oh, you mean like you want Jake to talk to you?” he added, a twinkle in his eye as she began sputtering.

  “Wh-what are you saying!” she stammered.

  “Please,” Greg snorted. “You're as obvious as a hawk in a chicken house. Face it, you got the hots for old Jake.”

  “Shut up!” Newell's face turned redder still.

  “He's had a hard road,” he turned serious. “Doubt he's said anything, but you know he's got a little girl. Her mother had cancer. Died well before the lights went out. Her parents tried every way under the sun to get her away from him. Never did like him, never approved Katy marrying him and didn't acknowledge him at all unless they had to. Losing her was hard, and the aftermath wasn't any better. Just... keep that in mind, and be patient. He's not always quick on the uptake, either,” he added with a grin. “No matter how obvious you are, he's apt to miss it altogether.”

  “You don't even know what you're talking about,” Sienna tried to recover, but did it poorly.

  “Sure,” Greg smiled. “Just remember. Patience.”

  -

  “I don't know how you have the patience to sit up here like this,” Leanne Tillman sighed as she sat next to her maybe boyfriend, Heath Kelly.

  “It's my job, so I do it,” he shrugged slightly as he surveyed the area with binoculars. “Just like you do your job.” He lowered the glasses and looked at her. “And you have enough patience to keep climbing that ladder, don't you?” he teased.

  “That's entirely different,” she sputtered, her face reddening. “It's almost the only way I can spend time with you!”

  “That is true,” he acknowledged. “Now that the threat from that bag of militia nutjobs is done, I should be able to have more time off the tower. I'm not the only one who does this job when things are normal.”

  “I know,” she nodded. “I see the duty rosters,” she added hastily when he looked at her with a raised eyebrow.

  “I thought for a minute you were checking up on me,” he grinned.

  “Whatever,” she turned her head away to try and hide a smile.

  “I'll see if I can wrangle a day off soon,” he promised. “I deserve it I think, staying here while the rest are getting all the fun jobs. If you can get the day as well, we can maybe have a picnic and just hang out together. How about that?”

  “I think that would be nice,” she nodded, suddenly shy. “Very nice.” She looked at her watch.

  “I have to go,” she stood. “It's almost time for our class to start.”

  “Have a good time,” Heath smirked, then laughed at the look she gave him.

  -

  “It was a good haul,” Jose Juarez noted as he and Clayton Sanders surveyed their plunder from the survivalist compound raid. Most of the material had been given to Jordan, including all of the stolen loot of any real value. Clayton had, however, claimed a few things, among them the large amount of alcohol now stored in Building Two, and the tobacco products that had been in the same room.

  “I know, right?” Clay nodded. “We can open our own version of Deuce's Place with this,” he chuckled.

  “Hadn't thought of that,” Jose admitted. “Has Gary looked at the rifles yet?”

  The armory at the militia compound had mostly contained different variants of the AK-47, all of which had gone to Jordan to supplement the Kalashnikovs they already had. But there had been one rack that had held something entirely different.

  Two dozen new or like-new Ruger Mini-14 ranch rifles, split almost evenly between stainless and Parkerized finishes. Stored below them were a gross of factory made twenty round magazines. Clay had immediately laid claim to them as well as the militia's stock of five point fifty-six and two twenty-three caliber ammunition, ceding all ammunition for the AK platforms to Jordan in return.

  While the Ruger was not generally as accurate as rifles built on the AR platform, they did have one very important attribute for the new times the people of the farm found themselves in; they would 'eat', or feed almost any brand of ammunition of either caliber. While similar, the two twenty-three and five fifty-six rounds were not quite identical. AR rifles tended to be balky about such things, sometimes refusing to even properly chamber anything other than exact five point fifty-six caliber ammunition. The Ruger had no such attitude.

  The Mini-14 was a perfect rifle for the ranch defenders to transition to, especially considering that the farm now had a great deal more ammunition for those rifles than they did the AK rifles currently being carried by the civilians on the farm. Kandi Ledford's efforts before joining Shane on the trip to the east would be paying dividends for a while in all likelihood.

  “He says they're all good,” Clay nodded. “Test fired five rounds with each one to make sure. Did you know that outfit even had a crate of parts and pieces for the Rugers? That on top of all those factory magazines, too. Whatever else that bunch had, money wasn't an issue. He said the rifles, parts, mags, all of it checked out just fine. We might look at transitioning everyone here to the Rugers at some point. I had six of them in storage,
already. I didn't have the factory mags for them, but I have good aftermarket mags. It would eliminate the need to keep two kinds of ammunition in the foxholes.”

  “That's true,” Jose agreed. “Have to go through another round of training. And we've got a new class training on the other rifles now.”

  “Let them finish,” Clay nodded. “Nothing wrong with them knowing how to use two separate rifles. Let them get comfortable with them before we start handing out more complicated rifles. Patience is a virtue, remember.”

  “Yes, Oh Wise One,” Jose made the now almost obligatory hand motion of forehead, lips and heart.

  Clay didn't rise to the bait this time, choosing to ignore it. He had promised himself he would no longer give them the satisfaction.

  “We've been extremely lucky,” Jose continued after a brief pause. Clay nodded slowly.

  “I know,” he admitted. “I think about it every day, wondering how long it can last.”

  “I hate myself for saying this, but the longer it lasts, the worse the impact will be,” Jose all but whispered, not wanting anyone else to hear him say such a thing.

  “I know that, too,” Clay agreed. “I just don't know what I can do about it.”

  “Nothing,” Jose told him flatly. “And you know that, as well. There's nothing you can do to prepare them for any of it. You know that all of us, the team that is, learned this long ago. They accepted it long before the sun fried us. The rest? They will have to learn the same way. And there's not a damn thing you can do to fix that, Clay. Stop trying. It's just wasting your time and winding you up. There's plenty going on that you can fix. Concentrate on that."

  -

  “Come on, pick it up!” Mitchell Nolan shouted as the morning group of 'recruits' went through their physical training. He ignored the groans of complaint that answered his urging them on generated. They had to improve and the only way they would was to be pushed.

  Having divided the class had helped cut then numbers down, but it had also meant they would need more instructors. That meant more people diverted from other jobs to do this one.

  There had also been a delay in their training cycle caused by the combat in town and the surrounding area. That had put this class two weeks behind in the plan, but they were nearing the finish line now, finally. Despite his pushing, Mitchel was very pleased with their performance, especially when he considered how many true teens were in the group.

  He set those thoughts aside as the last member of the group crossed the finish line. None of them were breathing nearly as hard as when they had first started. Now, it was just panting from exertion. Not bad at all, he nodded in satisfaction.

  “Don't just stand there!” he shouted. “Grab your gear and head for the range! Come on, come on!” he clapped his hands. “Get a move on! Double time! Let’s see how well you can shoot when you're out of breath!”

  Each trainee would shoot twenty rounds every day following their run. Familiarity training with the rifles had already been accomplished, with all trainees achieving reasonable scores in marksmanship. This exercise would simply keep their hard-earned knowledge from growing dull while also allowing

  them to grow accustomed to handling their firearms in a less 'sterile' setting, such as simply showing up to the range. It was one thing to just stand and shoot when comfortable. Doing so after running a mile in the heat, heart pumping and lungs straining, would help them learn to shoot well even under less than ideal circumstances.

  Allowing them only twenty rounds to achieve their daily passing grade stressed the importance of accuracy and the fact that their supplies were not bottomless. A solid reminder of the times they lived in.

  -

  “Leanne?” Nate Caudell asked, pointing to a spot on the map.

  “Post Eight,” Leanne replied at once.

  “Millie,” Nate continued, moving his pointed. “Pay attention!” he snapped when someone whispered to another student.

  “Post Four,” Millie replied, fighting the urge to roll her eyes. She and Leanne knew all this from working in communications.

  “I know some of you think this is useless,” Nate told the class. “Allow me to show you why it's not. You will each have three seconds after I call your name to identify the post I'm pointing at. Failure to do so means an extra lap at PT this afternoon. If that's not enough incentive, then a second failure will mean brass duty.”

  Brass duty was the collection, sorting and cleaning of expended shell casings at the range. No one wanted that job if they could avoid it.

  “JJ!” Nate called suddenly.

  “Post Three!” JJ shouted back.

  “Nathan!” Nate chose his nephew next.

  “Post... Post Five!” he barely managed to get in under the wire.

  “Cliff!”

  “Uh... Post... no, Tower One,” the older man replied.

  “Close,” Nate warned. “Just in the nick of time.” He paused and looked at the class.

  “Do you see now how important it is for you to know?” Nate asked them. “Seconds can count for a great deal when you're under attack.”

  “Aren't the numbers posted in the positions?” Anthony Goodrum asked, raising a hand.

  “They are,” Nate nodded.

  “Then why can't we just use that?” the teen asked.

  “If I told you, right now, to grab your gear and report to post Seven, where would you go?” Nate asked, stepping in front of the map.

  “Uh....”

  “Exactly,” Nate nodded, as if his point were made. “We need every person to be able to move immediately to where they're needed without stopping to check a map or ask for directions. Even a few seconds lost can add up. If I have to take the time to hold every hand in here and show you where to go, then I'm two or three minutes behind by the time I'm finished. That means someone is five minutes later getting to their post because of it. Five minutes late pretty much eliminates the advantage we have of people being on watch and sounding the alert when danger is approaching. Understand?”

  “Yes sir,” several voices answered. Good. They're listening. He turned the board around to show a chalk board, complete with a drawn layout of the farm's defenses and buildings.

  “I'm going to give each of you a post to identify,” he told them. “Get into line and be ready to move quickly and then get out of the way. I'm going to provide only three pieces of chalk. That means as soon as you're finished, you need to identify the first person in line without chalk and get the piece you're using to them, in time for them to take their turn at the board. Any questions? Then get in line!”

  It was a simple exercise, designed to make them think ahead and to make quick decisions, while at the same time forcing them to learn the defense layout and identify each post under pressure.

  Nate distributed the chalk and then looked them over. JJ was first in line.

  “Post Three!” he shouted without warning, startling almost everyone. JJ took off like a shot.

  The race was on.

  -

  “So, what does this do, again?”

  Kade Ramsey was carrying Robert Sanders around to each of the in-ground defensive positions on the ranch, standing guard as Robert did... whatever he was doing.

  “This is sulfur,” Robert told the teen. “Mixed with some other ingredients. Essentially,” he paused as he walked back out of the foxhole spreading the mixture, “it's homemade snake repellent,” he finished as he emerged with the canister.

  “Like that snake stay away stuff?” Kade asked, unable to recall the exact name.

  “Just like it,” Robert nodded. “Only better. This mix,” he held up the canister, “will also repel most insects and arachnids, as well as wood scorpions and mosquitoes.”

  “No kidding,” Kade whistled softly. “That stuff would make a mint... well, it would have,” he amended. “Why not sell it to someone? I mean, you know, before the world ended and everything.”

  “Mostly because it's completely illegal to use this stuff
according to the EPA,” Robert smirked. “They don't approve the mixing of certain chemical elements because they deem it harmful to the environment. So, we just use it here and do it quietly,” he held a forefinger to the side of his nose.

  “Oh,” Kade made a single nod of understanding. “One of those remedies.”

  “Exactly,” Robert nodded as he returned the 'illegal' mixture to the bed of the ATV. “We've used it since before I was born,” he told the teen. “No three headed babies as of yet,” he snarked and Kade broke out laughing.

  “So, this will keep the holes all clear of pretty much everything, then?” Kade asked as he slid behind the wheel.

  “That is the plan,” Robert nodded. “We've used it in barns and cribs and hay lofts for generations to keep down critters and what not. King snakes are usually welcome, but if we adjust the mix to let them in then we also have to allow rattlers, copperheads and so on. I'd just as soon not run into one of these holes and meet up with a timber rattler or a diamondback.”

  “Or a copperhead,” Kade added. “Bad business right there.”

  “Hence, we seed them all like this,” Robert agreed.

  “Well that's just awesome!” Kade enthused.

  “I thought you'd like it.”

  -

  Zach didn't mind ground watch, but he didn't care as much for the response watch. It was boring as it could possibly be unless something was happening, and no one wanted anything to happen that would need the response unit called up.

  So, he sat in a chair in front of Building Two and drew his knife down a ceramic rod, honing the blade. While the blade might not actually need sharpening, it passed the time and served a purpose. He'd already cleaned and inspected his rifle, then his pistol, and then the M240 that rode on the ATV assigned to the response team. He had also checked the oil and tire pressure on the ATV and then the safety harnesses, the first aid kit, fire extinguisher and small tool kit on board.

  Nothing was out of place or needed replacing or repairing, so he was down to sharpening knives.

  He could hear Nate calling out post assignments inside, and could hear gunfire from the range in the distance. Both classes were working hard today, close to being finished. Their training was nothing like as hard as what Zach and the others had gone through but that didn't make it easy for them. They would rarely if ever see action away from the foxholes around the farm so their abbreviated training would be more than adequate.