by Kyle Pratt
Thinking of the manpower needed to protect all the warehouses and the base, Franklin shook his head.
“I brought you this information so we could feed the city,” Burton’s eyes narrowed. “We should be setting up food distribution centers.”
“We’ll be able to feed more people when we have these supplies,” the general said.
“But with your plan, most people won’t be fed.” Burton turned and walked several steps away. “Thousands will starve.”
“This base is the only island of law and order in northern Oregon,” Franklin said in frustration. “What would you have us do?”
“Feed everyone while you fix the power grid and restore order.”
“For the foreseeable future, that’s impossible.” Poole’s eyes narrowed.
“Then what sort of future do you foresee?” Burton asked.
“Over the next year?” Poole shook his head. “Death—on a massive scale.”
Franklin cringed at the words but had reached the same conclusion.
“No!” Burton rested his head on his hands. “I refuse to believe that.”
“Most crops can’t be planted until spring and nothing is being imported, but millions of people are in need of food.” Poole scowled at Burton. “If we survive until spring, we’ll need fuel for farm equipment and large areas of farmland. Do you know how to raise crops on the scale we need? Do you know how to restore the power grid? Do you—”
General Sattler held up his hand. “Thank you, Lieutenant, for that accurate but grim assessment. We need time—time to gather equipment and people together while we learn the needed skills to restore civilization.”
“Millions will die while you learn. What kind of people are you that you can accept this level of catastrophe?” Burton asked.
The general stared at Burton with a stone-cold face. “While we are learning how to restore civilization, just remember that your family was brought inside the perimeter in exchange for this information. You and your family will be fed, while we struggle to establish a viable community.”
“But in the meantime, who decides who lives and who dies?”
“For now, I do,” Sattler turned to Franklin. “You have your orders.”
* * *
An hour later, Franklin was back at home, packing the last few items he would need. When he finished, he set the Bible on top.
“How long will you be gone?” Carol asked.
Franklin locked the duffel bag. “Not long. A week maybe.”
She pulled him close and rested her head on his chest. “I remember when short deployments passed so quickly, but that last one dragged on so very long.”
At the sound of a vehicle, Franklin glanced out the window.
Logan ran past the open bedroom door. “A Humvee just turned onto our street.” He thundered down the stairs.
“You really think Dad doesn’t know?” James asked as he walked past.
The vehicle stopped in front of Franklin’s home. He threw his bag over a shoulder, kissed Carol, hugged the boys, and joined Sergeant Keller in the Humvee for the ride back to the operations center.
“Lieutenant Poole had us pack a lot of gear.” Keller turned onto the main road. “Are you expecting more trouble on this mission?”
“No, but I want to be overprepared. Look what happened last time on our information-gathering jaunt to the airport and Salem.”
“Okay.” Keller nodded. “We have night-vision gear and plenty of ammo.”
At the operations center on base, soldiers stood in formation in front of two Humvees, three deuces, and a fueler parked to one side. On the other end of the lot, a dozen additional trucks, both military and civilian, waited.
“Attention,” Poole ordered.
Franklin stepped from the Humvee. “At ease.” He moved to the front of the formation. “Our mission is simple, secure a distribution center so the food inside can be transported back here. Those of you who have been with me in the past know that events can turn violent in a second. So, move quickly but stay sharp.” He pointed to a dozen trucks parked nearby that ranged in size from three semi-trucks down to large vans. “When we’ve finished transporting the food back here, I want all of us home safe.”
“Hooah,” the soldiers shouted.
The platoon pulled out with Keller again driving the deuce with a plow blade. Franklin followed in a Humvee with Private Thomas and other soldiers.
Recalling the wound Thomas endured at the armory, Franklin asked, “How’s your leg?”
“It’s in a brace. I can walk—slowly.”
Normally the walking wounded wouldn’t be sent on missions, but they were short of soldiers and Thomas could sit and drive. Franklin would have preferred a company of soldiers for this operation, but at least the platoon stood at full strength, two squads of fifteen soldiers each. Most were combat veterans, having fought with him in Salem and south of Lebanon, with a few new people mixed in.
The lead deuce turned right and Keller slammed his first abandoned vehicle of the day to the side of the road. Three hours later, the convoy rumbled down a lonely two-lane road through rolling hills and farmland. Low in the sky, the sun shone on Franklin’s face. A man riding a horse with a rifle slung over his back waved as they passed.
“Where is this place we’re going?” a soldier asked. “I don’t see anything that looks like a warehouse?”
“Yeah, aren’t we supposed to be there by now?” another asked.
“Enjoy the ride.” Franklin looked over his shoulder at the soldiers in the rear seat. “When we secure the place, you’ll be loading trucks for days.”
“How will we tell the other trucks we’re ready for them to come?” Thomas asked. “We’re out of radio range.”
“You’re going to tell the base.” Franklin smiled at his driver.
“Huh, sir?”
“When we’ve found and secured the center, we’ll load up the three deuces we have. You’ll lead them back to base and return with all the other trucks. Meanwhile, we’ll try to get any of the trucks there to work.”
Thomas nodded. “Sounds like a good plan.”
“I’m glad you approve.” Franklin grinned.
Minutes later, the radio crackled. “I think I see a warehouse on the south side of the road ahead.”
The land all around him looked the same, flat and largely empty, but Franklin pulled out his binoculars and looked where Keller had indicated. There, at the edge of the horizon, a mammoth gray structure seemed to emerge from the Earth.
As they grew closer, a stone wall obscured the lower part of the two-or three-story building, but the upper portion of the structure was now visible. During the meeting, Burton had described the place as a large distribution center, but the side of this structure wasn’t large—it was huge, possibly more than a thousand feet long.
“We’re going to need a lot of trucks,” a soldier said.
Franklin agreed.
When the convoy cleared the stone wall, a smaller building, closer to the road, came into view, with a parking area along the front and far side. A sign over the door read, “Personnel and Employment Office.”
“Pull into the parking lot,” he ordered over the radio. “We’ll recon the area from there.”
The vehicles rolled off the road and into the lot. Two of the deuces pulled ahead and parked near the side of the building. Franklin stepped from the Humvee. A hint of wood smoke reached his nose along with distant voices.
The driver of one of the Humvees pointed toward the main building. “What’s going on there?”
Franklin strode to the corner of the office. Someone had placed a bench under an awning at the side of the building. But his gaze shifted almost at once to the warehouse, still a quarter mile away, but now fully in view. Using binoculars for a better view, he scanned the area. In the meadow between them and the warehouse, hundreds, perhaps thousands of people circulated among tents, tarps, campfires and a few old trucks and cars. The tents ranged from small t
wo-person pup tents to large family and army surplus types. Between the camp and the warehouse was a wide swath of empty grassland. As Franklin watched, some in the camp pointed in his direction. Then, like stampeding cattle, they ran toward him.
“Back in the vehicles!” Franklin ran toward his Humvee. “Go back the way we came until I say stop.”
As the convoy pulled away, Franklin looked over his shoulder. Most of the mob had slowed to a walk. Although they were now less threatening, memories of the airport shooting compelled him to leave. He unfolded his map and looked for a good location to set up camp and recon the situation.
Franklin decided to rendezvous at a gas station about a mile from the warehouse. After passing the information to Keller, Franklin leaned back in his seat. Why did the crowd just linger near the fence? They had the numbers to tear it down and take the food. Why had they run at the convoy?
* * *
Later that day, Franklin divided the soldiers into Alpha and Bravo Troops, with Lieutenant Poole in charge of Bravo. Then, after dark, Franklin took Alpha on a hike across the fields to the rear of the distribution center. He led the squad into a gully where he and Keller donned night-vision gear. A hundred yards of level ground stood between them and the warehouse, but both darkness and waist-high pasture grass might hide them as they approached the complex.
“Keller, stay on my left. Everyone else spread out along the back of the building as we approach,” Franklin whispered as he peered into the green-tinted darkness. “Report back if you see anything.”
For nearly a minute, they crept closer.
Franklin gazed along the fence but saw no one.
“I see movement on the roof,” Keller pointed.
Lifting his gaze, Franklin spotted three people. Then a flash, like a bright new star, lit his goggle.
Keller swore and fell to the ground.
Day Ten
Rural Oregon, Tuesday, September 13th
Franklin glanced through his night-vision gear. “Snipers on the roof!” Then he grabbed Keller by the jacket. A sticky wetness dampened his hand. “Return fire,” he shouted to the squad.
Keller staggered to his feet.
With his M4 in one hand, Franklin wrapped the other arm around his wounded comrade. The metallic smell of blood prickled his nostrils. “Are you okay?”
“Not sure…think so.” Keller’s words were slurred.
Several soldiers fired blindly into the dark. All of them remained exposed. “Regroup at the gully.”
Holding tight to Keller, Franklin ran to the ravine. “Medic! Everyone hold your fire.”
Bickel arrived and hovered over Keller as she examined him with a red penlight.
Through the binoculars of his night-vision gear, Franklin focused on the warehouse. Four people knelt in separate positions along the back wall. Another person walked from one spot to the next. Franklin steadied the M4 on a rock. This wasn’t a sniper rifle, but if two people were close and he fired a three-round burst, he might, even at this distance, hit one of them. “How’s Keller?”
Bickel’s voice was barely a whisper. “He has a deep laceration along the—”
“I’ll be okay, sir.”
Keller’s words were still muddled, but Franklin nodded. “Good.” Then he turned his attention back to the warehouse. As he stared through the scope, the walker on the roof drew close to one of the snipers. When they were beside each other, Franklin fired.
Both dropped out of sight.
Franklin took a deep breath. He wasn’t sure he had killed or even wounded anyone, but those on the roof now hunkered low. Satisfied he had made his point and bought the squad a few moments to evade, he led Alpha Troop back to the convoy.
* * *
In the glow of early morning light, Franklin watched as Corporal Bickel removed the bandage on Keller’s face. A cut ran deep along his right cheek. “You’re going to have a scar and a great story to tell your kid.”
Bickel removed scissors, forceps, thread, and needle from her bag. “Hop onto the truck tailgate and lie down.” Keller did as directed and the medic gave him a shot. “In a minute, you won’t feel any pain. You were lucky. If the bullet had been a little bit to the left, you’d be dead.”
Keller winced. “Little to the right…it would’ve missed.”
A moment later, Lieutenant Poole approached with his gaze on Keller. “Nasty cut.”
A lopsided grin spread across Keller’s face.
“Hold still. Don’t talk and try not to grin.” Bickel stitched.
Franklin motioned for Poole to step away. “Send Private Thomas and Rankin back to base in one of the Humvees with my report.”
Poole nodded. “Do you want to send Keller back also?”
“No. His wound isn’t serious and we’re going to need him when we attack the warehouse. “I’m asking the general to send reinforcements, sniper rifles, and more breaching equipment. Until we take the warehouse, I plan to keep whoever is in there pinned down and afraid to go out.”
“Could the people inside be military or police?”
“I don’t think so. They were quick to shoot and willing to watch those outside the perimeter fence starve.”
“What are you going to do about all those civilians, sir?”
Franklin sighed. “We need to talk with them.” His orders were to bring the food back, which would leave the civilians to starve. A lot of people were going to die of hunger. There was little he could do about the world, but if they seized the warehouse, he might be able to help these people—a little.
* * *
James Franklin sat hiding in a cluster of bushes with Emma. The only sound was the splash of water from the nearby creek that ran through the small park. The world might be falling apart, but in a few ways, his life had turned for the better. School hadn’t reopened and his new home inside the base perimeter was only a couple of blocks from Emma’s house. He had seen her nearly every day this week. Times like this, alone together, were the best part of his day. Sometimes they talked and sometimes, like now, they just sat and smiled at each other. He drank water from a canteen and passed her the last of his late afternoon cracker-and-cheese lunch.
Several moments passed as she finished every morsel. “I should probably get back before Dad hunts me down.”
Looking at the crumb-free plate, he frowned. “Are you getting enough to eat?”
“Is anyone?”
James shook his head. “But you live on the base. Your dad is a police officer. Don’t you get food?”
“Some.” She looked at him with sad eyes. “They say that most of it is kept by the military.”
James raised an eyebrow. “No, I don’t believe that. Things are getting back to normal. They say school will restart soon.” He grinned. “You said you wanted to be a cheerleader.”
“That was a silly dream. I’m not that girl anymore.” Her eyes flared wide and her voice rose. “They talk about reopening school, but it hasn’t happened, and even if it does, do you really think they’ll have a football or basketball team? Do you think there will be cheerleaders? Let’s face it. I’m never going to be a veterinarian and you won’t be a pilot.”
They would need vets for farm animals. James thought she had a good chance to become one, but with almost all electronics fried by the EMP the chances of him becoming a fighter pilot were slim. Their silence hung heavy between them for a moment. “Thinking about the future is pointless right now. My parents try to plan, but really they just want to make it through each day.”
“How can we live like that?”
“We just do, I guess.” James shrugged.
Gunfire erupted nearby. A woman screamed.
James held Emma down with his arm as he peered over the bush. “Stay down. Stay quiet.”
* * *
Later that afternoon, Dirk Franklin took a squad of soldiers with him in a Humvee and headed toward the employment office near the warehouse.
Along the way, one soldier asked, “Sir, what
are the rules of engagement if shooting starts?”
“Return fire and protect yourselves as you retreat to the Humvee, but I want to try and talk with them.”
“They didn’t seem very talkative the last time we were there, sir,” another soldier said.
Franklin nodded. It had spooked him when the crowd surged toward them yesterday. “Deploy in a line facing them with rifles at the ready.”
“Hooah,” rippled through the Humvee.
They arrived and deployed as ordered with Franklin standing in the middle, facing the warehouse more than four hundred yards away. Was it possible that today even more people were encamped in the meadow? His gut wrenched. This would go well only if the people were willing to talk and listen. Any other response and the situation could turn ugly very quickly.
A roar erupted from the crowd about a hundred yards away and, like cattle, they stampeded in Franklin’s direction. Taking a deep breath, he strode forward and held out one hand in a stop gesture. The other hand rested on his holster. “Stop and we can talk.” This is useless. I’m going to get myself and these soldiers killed.
“Stop! Let’s talk,” he repeated, wishing he had a megaphone.
The soldiers stepped forward and stiffened, ready to fire.
The crowd slowed and came to a restless halt about twenty yards from the line of soldiers. More than a hundred men stood along the front of the throng. Most were armed and many had their weapons aimed in his direction. Behind them were women and children. Every one of them looked anxious, afraid, and desperate.
One man stepped forward. “Are you here to help us or them?”
Franklin wasn’t there to help either group. His orders were clear and simple: secure the food and transport it back to the base. But as he gazed at the hungry and desperate crowd, an idea formed. “Perhaps we can help each other.”
The man pointed to the bench beside the employment office. There, far enough away for a private conversation but still in sight of both soldiers and civilians, they sat.
“I’m Major Dirk Franklin.”
“Ryan Hill.” They shook hands. “So are you with the real army or a militia group?”
