Black Autumn: A Post Apocalyptic Saga

by Jeff Kirkham

  “Damnit. I’m so sorry, Alena. I’m so sorry.”

  “It wasn’t your fault. I don’t blame you. He died the man he wanted to be. He protected his family.” A tear spilled down her cheek.

  “He protected all our families,” Jeff added, then changed the subject, not sure how to navigate her grief. “Where’s my handgun?”

  Alena pointed to a plastic table on the side of the room. “I put all your equipment over there.”

  “Did I see you waving my gun around last night?”

  “Oh, that.” She looked away. “I sort of used it to motivate Doctor Hodges.”

  “Don’t go picking up guns until you know how to use them. Get me out of here and I’ll teach you.” Jeff shifted in his bed, trying to get comfortable.

  “I believe I used your gun just fine, Mr. Kirkham.”

  “I suppose you did,” Jeff agreed as a wave of exhaustion pulled him back toward sleep.

  • • •

  Chad, Pacheco, Audrey and Samantha hadn’t reached the Homestead until late in the afternoon—the battle long over. It had taken them hours to cross the perilous town on foot.

  Chad sat in Jason’s office, his feet up on the desk, sipping the dark French Roast coffee that he and Jason traditionally shared first thing in the morning.

  Jason worked the French press, depressing the plunger and squeezing the tawny oil from the last of his coffee. His head still throbbed like a son of a bitch. “I guess we won’t have this for much longer.”

  “How much coffee did you squirrel away? How long’s it going to last?”

  “That depends on whether or not we share it with anyone else.” Jason smiled. “We’re nearly out of the good stuff. One of the great tragedies of the Apocalypse: coffee doesn’t keep. We’ll need shipping from Central America to come back before we see fresh coffee again.”

  Considering the hundreds of dead bodies being laid to rest, joking about coffee seemed inappropriate, even between friends. “I can’t believe you got in a shooting fight without me.” Chad turned the conversation to the thing weighing on both their hearts. “How’d you do? Your first combat experience?”

  “Hmm.” Jason thought about how lucky he was to be alive, and he avoided Chad’s question. “We could’ve used you. It was a close thing.”

  “When I flew overhead and saw the hordes coming up the road… I thought you guys would be ashes by the time we got here.”

  “That was a distinct possibility,” Jason said somberly.

  “But you didn’t answer my question. How did you do in combat? It’s a big deal. First blood. You know some things about yourself that you couldn’t have learned any other way. I’m asking you straight up: how did you do?”

  Jason didn’t want to talk about it but, if he couldn’t talk to Chad right now, he would probably never speak of it. And it was rare for Chad to be so direct and garrulous.

  “I killed a lot of guys. I almost got killed. I got angry and lost my temper and probably killed a bunch of guys that didn’t need to be killed. Then I had a hard time not falling to pieces. How’s that sound?” Jason had exhausted his words on the subject.

  Chad looked him in the eye. “That sounds about right. So you’re not a pussy and you still have a soul. All the other stuff is par for the course. You won’t forget about the killing any time soon. You will lose some sleep. Get used to it.”

  Jason sat in his chair, silent. He didn’t know what to do with his hands.

  The office door burst open and Tommy Stewart, Jason’s brother-in-law, barged in. He must have been on guard duty because he wore full camo with armor plates and a Kevlar helmet. He and his family had arrived from Phoenix right behind the carnage left by the gangbangers. Tommy had wasted no time joining the corps of armed men protecting the neighborhood.

  “Jason, there’s someone at the barricade named Sal, and he’s asking for you. He won’t tell me, but he says he knows something about my brother Cameron.”

  Jason and Chad jumped up, snatching their coats and rifles from the silver coat hanger and headed out behind Tommy.

  • • •

  As soon as the OHVs rolled up to the barricade, Tommy jumped out, breech-checked his rifle, slung it, and made a beeline for a man wearing a California Angels cap.

  “Jason, Chad. This is Sal.”

  Sal shook Jason’s hand and then Chad’s. He reached into a backpack and pulled out a plastic gun case. “I believe this is yours.”

  Jason recognized the Kimber .45 from his Las Vegas house. He popped the plastic case open and examined the handgun.

  Jason looked up at Sal. “Where are Cameron, Anna and the kids? We haven’t heard from them in more than a week.”

  Sal shifted his gaze down and to the right. It wasn’t going to be good news. “I saw them get shot outside Fredonia, Arizona by a band of polygamists. You know—those crazy fanatics from the reality TV show? Anna and the kids were alive last I saw. I circled back around on foot, and I watched the polygamists drag them back to town—Colorado City, I think.

  “Your brother Cameron… he looked dead to me when they pulled him out of the driver’s seat. They were crucifying any man they found alive, so maybe it was a mercy he was dead.”

  Tommy looked like he might throw up. He turned away, staring off in the distance, hands on his hips.

  “You sure?” Jason asked the man. The gun in Jason’s hands confirmed the man’s connection to Cameron and Anna without a doubt.

  “I’m very sorry. Your brother seemed like a cool guy. He loaned me your gun and some ammo to help me make it to Idaho. I’ve got people up there. I had to use most of the ammo to get here. Sorry about that.”

  “No worries.” Jason closed the gun case and handed it back to Sal. “Why don’t you keep this?”

  “Seriously? Thanks, man.” Sal reverently put the gun back in his backpack, almost as though he were handling Cameron’s remains. In a way, he was.

  Jason shook Sal’s hand. “Good travels, friend.” Sal turned away and headed toward a big truck parked on the road outside the tent city.

  Tommy came back around and stood beside Jason and Chad.

  “We’re going to go get them, right?” Tommy asked.

  “Indeed we are,” Jason answered.

  • • •

  Salt Lake County Fairgrounds

  Salt Lake City, Utah

  “Francisco, where is my Gabriel?” His mother hovered over him. Francisco sat at the dinette in the luxury RV. His mama refused to take a seat. His sister stood beside her. Both of them were thick around the middle and both struck an angry pose. Hands on the hips. Heads jutting forward.

  Right now, Francisco despised this RV. The rope lighting, stone countertops and fancy woodwork condemned him as the leader he now knew he was, a cheap imitation of greatness.

  So much had gone wrong. Yesterday he hadn’t seen any way he could lose. He shook his head with the mystery of it. How could fifteen hundred men be defeated by forty? Maybe there had been more white people than forty but, even with ten times that many, how could they have defeated his army and his armored tanks? Almost the entire battle had taken place where he couldn’t see, and the radio communication with his men had broken down almost as soon as the shooting started. Worst of all, he didn’t have a clue where his brother was. He had been lucky to get out of Oakwood with his own skin. Actual military tanks had suddenly appeared from behind him on the mountain. Where the pinche madre had they come from?

  “Mama, I don’t know where Gabriel went. I told him to stay out of the fight yesterday. He might be on his way back home right now,” more a lie than wishful thinking and Francisco suspected his mother knew it.

  “Pancho, I’m going home to Rose Park. Maybe Gabriel will return to me there. I don’t want your big homes or your big talk anymore. I want my son.”

  Francisco noticed she had said “son” singular, not plural. And he had no illusion she meant his younger brother. She had just invited him out of her life.

  Afte
r losing a fight, especially one so costly, Francisco would be lucky to survive the day. It wasn’t the gangbanger way—to lose and then keep on as captain. One or more of his lieutenants would come for him. Maybe Crudo would be the one to slit his throat or shoot him in the back. Francisco wasn’t sure Crudo had even returned alive from the battle.

  He couldn’t afford to grieve the loss of his brother or worry about his mother’s disdain. Once again, his own survival would come first.

  • • •

  Ross Homestead

  Oakwood, Utah

  Jason smelled Doc Eric before he saw him coming up the steps to the office colonnade. Back in the days of his youth, when Jason had been an Eagle Scout, one of his Boy Scout advisors smoked the cherry-blend Swisher Sweet cigars and now they reminded Jason of the outdoors. Even though he could easily afford Cuban cigars, Jason had taken to smoking Swisher Sweets when fly fishing in the backcountry of Yellowstone.

  Days were shorter now that October had overtaken the Oakwood hills. The Homestead was festooned in a red-and-yellow patchwork of changing oaks and maples, the trees steeling themselves for another winter. The last of the day’s light faded as Jason watched one of the big oil refineries in the valley burning with flames so massive they could be mistaken for the doorway to Hades.

  “That’s one big-ass fire,” Doc took another drag of his little cigar.

  “You got another one of those, Doc?”

  Doc Eric pulled out a pack and handed it over. Jason fished one out and leaned toward Doc, completing the ritual. Doc cupped his lighter around the end of the cigar while Jason pulled on it, igniting the tip and releasing the fruity aroma.

  Doc had been single long enough to forget how to live with family. Even so, Doc Eric took good care of his friends.

  “Your daughter’s in need of some consideration,” Doc Eric said gingerly.

  “Why?” Jason’s reverie broke with a jolt.

  “For one thing, she’s downstairs right now doing surgery on a man, alone.”

  The words made sense, but Jason couldn’t grasp the meaning. “I’m not following you.”

  “Emily brought back an enemy combatant and snuck him into the surgical suite. She’s up to her elbows in the dude’s guts and nobody’s around. I just went in to check on Jeff’s kid and caught her operating… solo… she’s just a med student. I have no idea how she figured out the anesthesia without killing the guy already. Kirkham made it clear: nobody but Homesteaders and the neighbors were to be treated in the infirmary. We aren’t supposed to be providing medical care to enemy combatants. What do you want me to do?”

  Jason thought about it for a second. “Give me the rest of your cigar and get down there and help her.”

  “I was hoping you’d say that.”

  Doc handed over his half-smoked Swisher Sweet and walked away. Jason carefully scraped the cinders off onto the ground and slipped the remainder of Doc’s cigar into his pocket for later.

  17

  [Collapse Plus Sixteen - Tuesday, Oct. 5th]

  Shortwave Radio 7150kHz 1:00am CST

  “…I CAUGHT A CALL FROM a Drinkin’ Bro in Boston, Massachusetts. He’s hiding out at the top of his dorm building at Boston University. He’s surrounded by co-eds, but that’s the only good news. Boston is completely ransacked and full of looters. Being trapped with a bunch of co-eds would’ve sounded like a porno flick to me before this. I’m guessing the fun goes out of that proposition in about what? Four days without a shower?

  “Sounds like my Drinkin’ Bro Zach outside of Salt Lake City, Utah is giving me the invite to join them there, so I’ll be working my way north to join their group. I got plenty of ammo but I’m running low on food. I still haven’t figured out if they’ll let me into Utah without multiple wives, but I guess I’ll find out soon enough…”

  Ross Homestead

  Oakwood, Utah

  For whatever reason, the meeting reminded Jason of one of those historical military surrenders where one general hands another general his sword.

  “Jason Ross, I’d like you to meet Don Tobler, head of security at the Maverick Oil Refinery.”

  The men shook hands.

  “What can I do for you, Don?” Jason wanted a friendship, not a surrender.

  “I’d like to turn my refinery over to you in exchange for a seventy percent cut of the profits. We’re seventy; you’re thirty.”

  Jason knew he was being worked. The refinery would have been overrun yesterday by the gangbanger army without the help of the Homestead Special Forces garrisoned there. Nearly a hundred Latinos had approached the refinery, which apparently had been a target of opportunity. Between the three security guards and Jeff’s men, working together, they had fought off the attack.

  The refinery guards wouldn’t have been able to defend against fifteen gangbangers, much less fifteen hundred, without the help of the Homestead. The refinery would have burned just like the Chevron refinery had been burning for the last two days.

  “I’m sorry, Don, but you’re barking up the wrong tree. I’m not interested in being business partners with you and your two men.” Jason pushed back. “I’d rather be family. So how about this: we protect the refinery together, we share our food and conviviality together and we benefit from the refinery together?”

  Don thought about it for a long minute. He reached out his hand. “Family it is.”

  Jason gloated a bit to himself and wished Jeff had been there to see him finally take down the refinery. Jason would have loved to rub it in: diplomacy can win wars too.

  • • •

  Jacquelyn carried Tom’s M&P 9mm handgun now. She had her own gun, but it was a compact—a smaller pistol designed for concealed carry or for women with smaller hands. She liked Tom’s gun better. It was easier to hit targets with the longer barrel, and the bigger magazine meant more bullets in a fight. She pulled his holster off his belt the morning after he died and slipped it onto her own belt.

  All the magazines had been empty except one. That meant Tom had been fighting when he died. Even though he had been killed by friendly fire, Tom had given his life to protect those he loved. Somehow, that made it a little better.

  Tom would like being the guy who died with an empty gun. In fact, he would think that was perfect.

  Jacquelyn smiled, remembering what a good man he had been.

  The kids were hurting. They were hurting bad, but she had seen Kayla smiling a little this morning while she played with the other Homestead kids. Many of them had lost parents in the big battle too. Everyone had lost someone they cared about. That didn’t make it better, but it made it easier. Everyone shared grief, and it showed up in a hundred ways.

  Jacquelyn walked toward the cook shed with a bucket of dried milk. They were going to make brownies for dinner. Jason had stashed a bunch of freeze-dried brownie mix, and the cooks wanted to make something special tonight.

  This afternoon, they had buried their dead up on the knoll overlooking the Homestead. The view of the Homestead and the valley below was stunning from there. Those who had died could look over their loved ones eternally, continuing to protect them. The rest of the memorial service would happen after dinner. It was time to move on and celebrate the victory they had bought with the lives of their dear ones.

  Jenna Ross joined Jacquelyn and helped her with the bucket, each woman with one hand on the wire handle. “How’re you doing, sister? Anything you need?”

  “You don’t happen to have an extra husband around you can spare? I’m a little short this month.” They both chuckled.

  “Who needs ’em?” Jenna shot back.

  “Right now, I definitely need ’em.” Jacquelyn smiled, her eyes welling up.

  “Yeah… I guess I need mine, too,” Jenna said. “Tom was a good egg… Well, sis, we’re in this together for the long haul, come what may. You and your precious ones can count on us—all of us. We’re family and it’ll take hellfire to pull us apart. You get me? Mi casa es su casa. My food is your food
. My man is your man.”

  Jacquelyn stopped walking and turned to Jenna. “Thank you. That means a lot. Right now, my biggest fear is that Tom left me to protect our kids alone. I was counting on him to stand between us and the mayhem.” Jacquelyn looked toward the valley, the endless smoke rising from hundreds of fires.

  “After what’s happened, I don’t think any of us thinks like that,” Jenna said. “I don’t think we’ll be tearing the group apart with our big opinions or petty rivalries anymore. I think we’re a family now. We all live or we all die. End of story.”

  The two women started walking again. “Well, thank God for that,” Jacquelyn said.

  “God?” Jenna smirked.

  “Maybe,” Jacquelyn said with a smile, knowing she had been caught with her emotions showing.

  Jenna pointed at Jacquelyn’s big handgun. “Do you know how to shoot that hog’s leg?”

  “Yes, ma’am, I surely do.”

  “Teach me how.”

  “Jason never taught you?” Jacquelyn asked.

  “Maybe once upon a time, but I need to start from scratch. I always had too much going on. I suppose even us gals should know how to shoot a gun now.”

  “Especially us gals.” Jacquelyn adjusted the M&P with her free hand.

  Jenna quieted for a moment, obviously thinking about the possibility of living without her husband. “I just about lost my guy, too.”

  “I heard. How’s he doing?”

  “He got his bell rung pretty good. The headaches are going away little by little. I know it sounds bizarre, but I would trade a lifetime of Gucci handbags and Four Seasons vacations for this feeling. We’re together in a way I’ve never known outside of my immediate family. We work together. We fight together. We love together—as a family, all two hundred of us.”

  “I know what you mean. We’re part of something bigger…” Jacquelyn trailed off, knowing she was neck-deep in feelings she might never understand. “And every last one of those couple of hundred folks is hurting for a chocolate brownie.”