by Jeff Kirkham
Chad felt a chill. The farmer was stalling. That could mean only one thing.
Chad jumped up and made a dash for the silos, deciding to break contact and end the mission. About half-way across the gravel driveway, something hit him in the chest like a two-pound ball peen hammer. He went flat on his back mid-run and hit the ground, gasping for air. As soon as he hit, he flipped over and crab-crawled to the first grain silo, still sucking air like a Shop-Vac through a pixie stick.
“You best start talking, asshole.” A new voice came from very close, and it wasn’t lost on Chad that the round had hit him in the front plate instead of the back plate. That old codger had sent someone out to flank him. Chad knew the gunfight was three-quarters lost, but he hadn’t made it through BUD/S by being a quitter.
Fighting his way out of this pickle would leave at least one Nebraska farmer dead, assuming he survived himself. Better to talk.
“I’m just looking for gas. I got money to pay.”
“Just stay exactly where you are, buddy. My old man will waste you with that 30-30 of his just as easy as I’ll waste you with my own blaster. You maneuver at all and this conversation’s over.”
What the fuck? Chad thought. The dude talks like an operator. How the hell could that be?
“Hey, bro. Just a wild guess here, but that little love tap you gave me felt like an AR.”
“Yeah,” the voice from the dark replied, “and you must be wearing plates if you’re still breathing.”
“You SOF?” Chad asked.
“75th Rangers. What about you, trespassing asshole?”
“I’m from the Teams. West Coast.”
“That explains why you think you can come in here and take what you want, I guess.”
The old farmer yelled from the porch. “That boy say he’s U.S. military, son?”
“Yeah, Pops. But he’s a SEAL. Fuck him.” He’d said it with a slight lilt in his voice, so Chad eased down to Defcon Two.
“Good thing I’m not a knuckle-dragging redneck asshole, or you’d probably want to make babies with me. Am I right?” Chad fired back.
The Ranger cut loose with a rumbling chuckle. “So, Navy princess, how we gonna back down from this little stand-off? I did shoot you, after all.”
“I wouldn’t get a big head over it. They’re probably not going to put you up for a medal or anything.”
“Yeah, but in a fair world, they would,” the Ranger laughed.
The old guy interrupted. “What are you dumb sons a bitches going on about? We going to shoot this guy or bring him in for a drink?” The farmer didn’t find the jabber as entertaining as the military vets.
“What about it, Navy? You going to put down your gun or are we gonna get to slinging hot rocks at each other?”
Every cell in Chad’s body grated at backing down, but his oversized ego wasn’t worth killing a farmer or a Ranger. Better to swallow a little pride than kill an American on some Nebraska driveway.
“All right, Army, I’m coming out with my rifle hanging.” Without giving him a chance to insist on more, Chad walked out. He flipped his rifle around to his back on his two-point sling and put his hands on his hips. He might be giving in a little, but he wasn’t putting his fucking hands up in the air.
“Put your hands up,” the Ranger commanded as he came around the silo, rifle pointed at Chad’s chest.
“Fuck you,” Chad answered.
The Ranger let it slide. He dropped his AR to the low ready. “Why do you need gas so bad you’d die for it?”
Chad wasn’t about to tell anyone that he had family nearby. He was trained to be more untrusting than that.
“I’m making my way across Hicksville, getting back to friends and family in Nevada,” he lied just to feel like a professional.
The Ranger’s dad came out of the house, shushed the dog, and walked over to the boys.
“Whatcha doing prowling around my spread, son? You look geared up to shoot Bin Laden.”
“I apologize, sir. Frankly, I was planning on borrowing some of your gas and leaving you a couple hundred bucks.”
“Hmpf,” the farmer snorted, “if I had to guess, I’d say you got family somewhere out in the night waiting for you in a car.” He looked Chad in the eyes and Chad did his best to betray nothing.
“Well,” the old man continued, “come up on the porch for a quick snort and I’ll give you some gas. No charge. We got plenty of gas.”
Two hours later, the three men still sat on the front porch, drinking Jameson whiskey and telling lies. The men were bellowing loudly in a heated contest as to who could tell the dirtiest joke when Audrey appeared out of the darkness.
“What in God’s Holy Name are you doing, Chad Wade?” She stood with one hand around a drowsy baby and another hand on her hip.
“Uh-oh. Navy’s in trouble,” the Ranger mumbled into his tumbler of whiskey.
“Sorry, ma’am, we didn’t know our friend here had a missus waiting in the car. Please come sit down.” The old farmer was never too drunk for manners. He stood up and offered his lawn chair.
Chad looked at her from the corner of his eye. “Ex-wife, fellas, ex-wife.”
“Good evening, ma’am,” the Ranger half-stood and reached out with his huge hand. “I’m Reggie Tasker and this is my father, Curtis Tasker.”
“Hello, gentlemen. I’m not sure if it’s evening or morning. But how is it Chad found two friends this far out in… in such a remote area?” Audrey asked.
Ranger led out. “We only just became friends. Earlier I shot him and it didn’t take. So now we’re talking a little story.”
“Pardon me. Did you say you shot him?” she asked, incredulous.
Chad gave Ranger a sideways glance and Ranger squirmed a bit in his chair. “Well, it was more of a love tap, to be quite honest. And that’s before we got to know one another.”
Curtis, with more years of diplomacy under his belt, intervened. “Ma’am, we’ll take care of your traveling companion here and get him all fixed up with gas and grub. Would you like to bring the baby back to the guest room and get some proper sleep?”
Audrey’s face lit up as though she had been offered a first class upgrade.
“Could we please? A little sleep would do us both so much good.”
“Of course. Come on in, ma’am.” Curtis got up and showed Audrey and Samantha inside.
8
[Collapse Plus Seven - Tuesday, Sept. 26th]
Shortwave Radio 7150kHz 2:30am
“THIS IS JT TAYLOR, ALCOHOLIC of the Apocalypse, coming at you with another night of fun and frolic at the end of the world. On a personal note, to the over-achieving Army bastards chasing me around the western United States, this is a pre-recorded show playing at random times. No need to blow up another repeater. Go home, boys. It’s Miller Time. I’m sorry for stealing your shit. Get a hobby.
“Beginning with the bad news first, since California is almost entirely on fire, it looks like the next release of Marvel Comic movies will be delayed by twenty years. On our list of burning cities, we add Seattle, Saint Louis, Atlanta, Des Moines, Las Vegas… I’m not sure why you had to go and burn Vegas, you fascists. What kind of person burns Las Vegas?
“The Saudis, Iranians and Egyptians have shot everything they have so things have quieted down a lot over there due to the fact that they’ve returned to caveman times. But then again, so have we.
“I’m in need of some female companionship and maybe some diesel fuel. If you’re a Drinkin’ Bro in the general area of the four corners region, and you have a hot sister, ring me up on 30 megahertz on the VHF band and I’ll drop by over the next couple of days…”
Ross Homestead
Oakwood, Utah
“You have a guest coming up the driveway,” Jason Ross’ radio squawked. Jason walked out on the colonnade and saw Bishop Decker coming up the drive.
“Good morning, Bishop,” Jason called out. Both Jason and Jenna had left the Mormon Church over ten years earlier, but o
nce a Mormon always a Mormon. Unless a person made it explicitly clear they were leaving the Mormon Church—writing letters and submitting themselves to interviews—the Mormon Church considered them a member for life. For Jason and Jenna, that had been fine. They attended another Christian church but, if the neighbors wanted to count them among their number, Jason and Jenna saw no reason to disagree. Being part of a neighborhood and part of a ward in Utah were pretty much the same thing. With the world falling apart, the Mormon Church might be the closest thing to civilization that still had a pulse. Jason hoped the bishop would organize the surrounding streets, maybe even the surrounding communities. Neighborhood organization, in these times, might be the difference between life and death.
“Morning, Brother Ross.” The bishop smiled. Apparently, he knew using the “brother” moniker was pushing the Mormon thing a bit.
Jason laughed. “It’s good to see you. How’s the neighborhood holding up? Come inside.”
“Well, we know we’re living on borrowed time when it comes to water. We checked the cistern up on Elkwood Street, and we’re down to the last five feet. We expect the faucets to go dry tonight or tomorrow.”
Jason scratched his stubble. “We have our spring up and running. We can’t do anything to provide water pressure to the homes—we only have about fifty gallons a minute—but we can provide drinking water from a spigot. I can have a line extended down to Meadowlark Drive if that’ll help.”
“That would be fantastic,” the bishop said, his face brightening. “You have no idea what a load off my mind that is. What can we do to return the favor?”
Jason hesitated, wondering how to approach the topic. He decided to go step by step. “There are lots of ways we can help one another. First, tell me: how’re you doing with food?”
The bishop looked up and to the left. Jason noticed the glance and assumed the bishop would exaggerate the positive. “We’re pretty good. Most of our member families have at least three months of food storage.”
“What about the families without food?” Jason was thinking of the non-member families, wondering how this ward would handle people starving in their midst.
“We’re thinking about pooling our food… but there’re some members of the ward who aren’t in agreement. They have their year’s supply and they’re not happy with the idea of giving it away.”
“Hmm.” Jason wanted to know who the holdouts were. They might be trouble. They were definitely assets. In truth, Jason wasn’t about to pool Homestead resources with anyone, either. Ward holdouts, on the other hand, were people who had taken preparedness seriously. Every Mormon ward was bound to have a number of such folks―people with food and probably guns.
“Bishop, let’s see how things go. I might be able to scrape together a few hundred pounds of wheat to contribute to the cause, and we might have a couple of extra hand grinders, too, if it comes to that.”
The Homestead had set aside almost ten thousand pounds of wheat for neighborhood relief, but talking about it only seven days after the stock market crash seemed premature.
“Some of the men would like to talk to you about hunting up on the mountain. How’s that sound?”
“Bishop, you probably aren’t aware, but we’re being pushed hard by hunters and trespassers from Tellers Canyon behind the ridge. We have full-time guards and roving patrols every moment of every day and night. If the neighborhood men hike up there, we’ll have no way to prevent an accidental conflict. My security guys won’t know who’s who. That’s just not going to work. Plus, our patrols have probably pushed all the deer out of here by now”
“What do you mean, ‘accidental conflict?’” The bishop looked confused.
“First of all, I’m not counting on this situation getting better.” Jason motioned toward the valley. “In fact, I’m betting on it getting worse. Our patrols have already had to fire warning shots to turn people around.”
Bishop Decker’s eyes widened, and he settled into a chair in Jason’s conference room. “Maybe you better tell me what you think is going to happen here.”
“If we do nothing to stop it, the neighborhood and this property will be overrun by hungry people who will loot our homes, take everything we have, and leave our families to die. I believe that will happen in a matter of days, not weeks.”
“You’ve got to be joking,” the bishop said, his mouth agape. “You’re not planning on shooting people, right?”
Jason preferred to get bad news out front. This approach had served him well in business and it had become his knee-jerk reaction during tough conversations.
“If we haven’t shot and killed someone by the end of the week, I’ll be surprised.”
The bishop sat back with an audible huff. He rubbed his eyes. “It can’t be coming to this…”
“Bishop, we have a powerful shortwave radio. You’ve seen the antennas. Do you know what our ham guys are telling us about the world? They’re telling us that tens of thousands are dying in the big cities. Salt Lake is better off than most, but I don’t think the Church planned for this. They don’t have silos of grain waiting for a catastrophe on this scale. We’re better off here because of the Church, yes, but we’re not safe. We’re not safe at all. What’re you hearing from Church headquarters?”
Bishop Decker looked like someone had gut-punched him. He thought about the question for a moment. “The Brethren are communicating with us through ham radios on the stake level. You remember: a stake is made up of five to ten wards. Each ward is about three hundred members. A stake is about fifteen hundred to three thousand members. The stake president has been talking to Salt Lake City—Church headquarters—every day.”
Jason knew what stakes and wards were. He had spent the first half of his life in the Mormon Church, but he got the bishop’s point. The Mormon Church was at least communicating to some degree.
“Our stake emergency communications coordinator talks with church headquarters, and church headquarters talks to FEMA.”
Jason sat forward. He was particularly interested to know what FEMA was doing. There had long been rumors in the hard-core prepper community that FEMA, the Federal Emergency Management Agency, would be a tool of oppression, used in a crisis to dismantle the Constitution and enslave Americans. Jason didn’t personally buy into that fear of government, but he had been wrong before. If FEMA was becoming a threat, he would like to know.
Bishop Decker continued, “The Church is telling our stake president that FEMA can’t give a definite timeline for when assistance will arrive. Headquarters tells us the same thing each day: “rely on your own food storage, take care of each other, avoid panic.” I wish I had more to tell you, but that’s all we’re getting.”
It was about what Jason expected. Salt Lake City might be the last place FEMA would focus. For one thing, Utah had been a bastion of conservative electoral votes. Few people in the bureaucratic agencies of the federal government cared much for Utah.
More important, perhaps, was that Utah stood a good chance of helping themselves. The state had agriculture, a fairly competent state government, and it had the Mormon Church. The chance of Utah feeding its own was certainly better than Chicago, Baltimore or Atlanta.
If there was some nefarious federal scheme to turn the U.S. into a globalized, Socialist enclave, the odds of Utah submitting to federal authority, given that the state had more guns than pine trees, were long odds indeed. Jason continued, “So nothing new from Church headquarters? Could you please let me know if you hear anything?”
The bishop nodded, obviously wishing the Church would give him more to work with.
Jason turned back to the issue of defense. “My guys can maintain defense up on the ridge behind our neighborhood. Soon, those fifty or so people mulling around in front of the barricade down on Vista View Boulevard are going to become a thousand people, then maybe ten thousand. When that number gets big enough and hungry enough, they’re going to march through us like cockroaches on their way through a cafeteria a
nd they’re going to clean us out.”
“I can’t believe the police would let that happen,” the bishop argued.
“When’s the last time you saw a police officer?”
Decker looked at Jason and nodded, conceding the point. “I need to go talk to my bishopric counselors. I’ll try to reach the stake president and see what he thinks we should do next.”
“Bishop, a couple more things to think about. I can arm and train about a hundred and fifty men if you provide the men. They would answer to the command of our Special Forces leader, Jeff Kirkham. You and I could save a lot of lives if we gathered the entire stake, and maybe the stake down on Parrish Street. If we got the stakes involved, and gathered a hundred more men, we could move our barricade down another half mile and get a lot more neighbors protected behind our security perimeter.”
Jason could tell Bishop Decker was overwhelmed and that too much had been dropped on him too soon. But he needed the Mormon leaders to take security seriously; their help would radically increase everyone’s survivability. Jason wanted to push the line of defense farther down the hill, farther away from the Homestead.
“Bishop, how about you and I meet every morning around this time? Maybe we should include your counselors.”
The bishop nodded, got up and drifted toward the door. “Thank you for the water spigot,” he said over his shoulder as he walked out of the conference room. He pivoted, like he was forgetting something, shook Jason’s hand, and wandered back down the drive.
• • •
Alena was facing a situation she had never considered. On the gurney before her was a grown man who could possibly die in a matter of days just because he had slipped with a knife. Without antibiotics, did people actually die from bad cuts? She knew it to be true, but she had never seen anything like it in her career as a nurse.
“We’ve got to get this man to a hospital,” she said to Doctor Larsen. “He needs to be stitched up and put on a course of Cipro.”
