When the UN forces reached Fayetteville, North Carolina, they were not surprised to find that most of the city had burned to the ground. The small military town was always considered a blight by the other neighboring communities anyway. The residents didn’t shed a tear when rows of endless strip clubs, tattoo parlors, and cash advance businesses went up in flames.
However, as the foreign forces drove through the gates of Fort Bragg, they expected a furious resistance given the perceived occupants. None ever materialized.
“Sir, we have a big problem,” the Lieutenant began as he and his Sergeant approached his Commander’s vehicle.
“Explain,” his CO replied tersely.
“I’ve dispatched Recon teams throughout the base and every group not only returned unharmed, but they also reported the exact same thing.”
“And what’s that?”
“Abandonment. All vehicles, munitions, and hardware have vanished. Anything that wasn’t taken was destroyed and burned beyond all recognition. An entire garrison just up and disappeared.”
“Bloody hell! How long?”
The man turned to his Sergeant.
“Based on the amount of damage and ash present, this place cooked for at least a week. Also, if you’ll recall, it rained for several days recently.”
“Yes, I remember. It reminded me of home. What of it?”
“The rain wasn’t needed to put the fires out, sir. I’d say they relocated almost a month ago, few weeks at a minimum.”
“Thank you Sergeant. I have to radio this in. Find them!”
As they departed, the man yanked his comm device out of its cradle. He barely had the handle to his mouth before he said, “Urgent message for Brigadier Smythe.”
“Understood. Patching you through,” was the reply.
After a few seconds of dead silence, he heard, “Smythe here.”
“Sir, this is Major Murphy. We’ve reached Fort Bragg and the post has been abandoned. Do we have any satellite imagery available?”
* * *
Through the clandestine movement of survivors outside of D.C., the network was made aware of the English preoccupation with the FBI’s J. Edgar Hoover Building. Chatter on all bands and channels were rife with speculation for the next several days. Josh was vindicated and angry after his conversation with Sarkes regarding this development.
“All this time… the feds were storing all of the requests for backgrounds checks in a database? I friggin’ knew it!” he stated emphatically.
“It’s the FBI’s dirty little secret. They built it in house using only their people. No contractors, no congressional approval or oversight,” the former POTUS replied candidly.
Dallas and the rest of the gun enthusiasts just sat there dumb founded.
“So what are they storing? It was only a request for a background check. There’s nothing on those forms about what was purchased.”
“Beats me, but you know those ATF guys… technology being what it is, or was. They could have easily made copies of the purchases during their inspections with concealed pocket scanners or even a smart phone with decent resolution.”
“Well, we’re screwed,” Dallas declared as he stood up.
“Meaning?” his friend asked.
“Think about it. The British targeted that building on purpose. They had to have known the server was in there with all that data on it. If I had to make an extremely, yet highly, educated guess, I’d say those guys are about to go on a gun confiscation binge. Hell, I’ve got at least a dozen entries in there.”
“Me too,” James added.
“I guess I drew some sort of lucky straw. Em sold all my gear when she unloaded the house. All of my stuff is now registered in someone else’s name now,” Gregg stated.
“Well, all I can say is that you aren’t in Virginia, Dallas. Those guns, and then some, are here in Ohio or already cached down there. If they go looking for them, more them half are out of state,” Josh offered in rebuttal.
“And when they show up at our doorstep and pull the ol’ Gestapo ‘name and address’ routine, they’re gonna find my ‘McKutcheon, Dallas J.’ in their rolodex of pain and haul my scrawny redneck butt out of here!”
“Theatrics aside,” Gregg interjected. “What are the options? What are you going to do if anything comes of this?”
“I’ll open up my little Stack-On gun locker and give them a tour of the five I bought from the FFL dealer. If they take ‘em, then so be it. They’ll need a metal detector and some informed intuition to find the cache under the barn.”
“And when they roll into the park, what then?” Lt. Stokes asked. “We’ve got so much military ordnance in there it looks like a weapons depot in places.”
Josh thought for a moment and then decided on a course of action.
“Alright ‘BB’, then we’ll just have to hide them in plain sight. You said yourself that it’s Renaissance festival in there. Let’s build that little band of merry minstrels a stage.”
Stokes groaned. “That reminds me. I’d like to make an official request for a call sign change.”
* * *
As the communities and small towns around McArthur continued to assess their assets, an old barn yielded a long forgotten wood burning stove. After much discussion, it was decided that Mama Reni’s would transition from a local pizzeria to an 1800’s era tavern. As a result, the stove was ear-marked and installed at the restaurant. In an effort to keep the beast stocked, Josh gave a training class on how to make charcoal so the establishment would always be well supplied with fuel. Unfortunately, the current owner was beside herself. After spending several days muttering under her breath as she re-learned how to cook, her salvation arrived.
“Mimi? Are you in there?” Layla called out.
“I’m back here,” she answered from the kitchen.
“I have a gift for you.”
“Piece of junk! she exclaimed. “Burned another one!” she moaned as she dropped the heavy cast iron pan on top of the stove. “Be there in a minute.”
Josh’s daughter looked at the former restaurateur turned refugee and said, “Maybe we should come back later. She’s been fighting that stove for weeks.”
“No, no, no, mademoiselle. She shouldn’t be fighting it,” he answered as he peered through the cased opening that served as the order-up window. “There’s no need for introductions. I’ll just go and help her. You’ll see,” he responded.
“Okay, but it’s your funeral,” she replied.
The man swept his way through the worn double doors into the kitchen and proclaimed, “Ma chérie, you needn’t fight with it.” Then he caught sight of the old stove. “C'est magnifique! Where did ever find such a beautiful stove?”
“This piece of junk? Somebody found it in a barn and installed it in here. Now that,” Mimi said, “Is magnificent,” and pointed to her Garland eight burner thirty-three thousand BTU commercial stove. “With the power out,” she continued as she sighed. “The gas won’t make it to my baby without the pressure stations.”
“Perhaps, if you showed the same kind of love and devotion to this old Pittston stove, she would perform for you just as admirably. You only need to listen to her speaking. She will tell you exactly what she needs.”
Mimi had a befuddled look on her face. Who is this crazy man with the wild accent?
“Layla honey, can you come in here please.”
She started laughing before Mimi could say anything more.
“You like your gift? We picked him up this morning.”
Mimi was still confused.
“Meet your new chef, Jacques Boules. We used to supply his high-end French restaurant in Columbus.”
“My what? Mama Reni’s doesn’t need a new chef. What it needs is a new stove! Preferably one that doesn’t talk!”
“Oh no, ma chérie. I will teach you… show you techniques and have you taste things you never thought possible. Come,” he said. “Come, come,” the man cajoled as he turned her and led
her back to her nemesis. “Let me give you your first lesson.”
When the two approached the contraption, Jacques said, “At the outset, release yourself from your previous thinking. This isn’t a pizzeria anymore. Try visualizing a family dinner on Sunday, hearty meals like soups and stews.”
“Crock pot meals then?” Mimi asked.
“Exactement,” he replied in French. “One-pot meals are the order of the day from here on out. Whatever you cook en masse is what everyone eats.”
“What about bread? We need our carbs, Jacques,” Mimi said warming to the Frenchman’s presence.
“In time, ma chérie. I’m sure Mademoiselle Simmons can help us procure the materials needed to build a brick oven, but first, let’s create a dish to make make you swoon. It’s called Pot-au-Feu.”
“Pot a what?”
“It’s a roast that will melt in your mouth and excite your senses in ways that you have never imagined. Now, every good kitchen needs a healthy herb garden,” he continued as he began inventorying the kitchen.
Giggling, Layla backed away. As she was exiting the front door, she heard Jacques exclaim, “Sacrebleu! No fresh herbs. Okay, okay,” he stammered as he calmed himself. “We can fix that. In the meantime, let me show how to make love to your stove.”
Crazy Frenchman.
Chapter 12
April 2023…
When winter started releasing its icy grip on the country, gang activity outside of the cities initiated in earnest. Having exhausted whatever resources they scavenged to survive February and the better part of March, the raiding parties began venturing further and further. The suburbs with their plush homes and gardens, which had managed to avoid the gaze of the downtown clans during the cold months, burned first. Anything that wasn’t nailed down was hauled back to the inner-city. Smaller towns and rural enclaves within a sixty-mile radius of Columbus were deemed fair game. The orgasmic free-for-all was relentless and unabating.
In mid-April, Josh and the rest of the group screamed toward Chillicothe as the marauders attempted to sack it once again. With better defenses in places, by the time they got there the fighting had subsided and the invaders were easily repelled.
However, the second battle only proved to heighten Josh’s state of alert for McArthur. The former state capital was less than an hour from their little Hamlet’s doorstep. Hell’s bloodhounds would be knocking on their collective doors if the town and its neighbors weren’t closed off soon, and he knew it. As a result, Josh and Mayor Cranston gave what amounted to a press conference where they announced the creation of patrols, training, and perimeter defenses. Before Josh was able to even ask for volunteers and finish his announcement, the crowd outside of Mama Reni’s interrupted the message with the calls of ‘where can I volunteer’?
The Sheriff’s office across the street had a line two dozen deep within minutes. When the new recruits entered, they were met with clipboards and paperwork. Sarkes’ initial debrief, and the subsequent leadership planning meetings it spawned, produced questionnaire criteria. In short, those with police, military, or management experience would be grouped together and assigned to the ‘Squad Leader’ training regimen. The survey document completed by each volunteer was merely the first step in trying to assess their individual qualities and characteristics. The rest of the assessment for these volunteers would be observational.
Avid hunters and experienced trackers that had the capacity to quietly observe for hours on end, were placed into ‘Forward Observer’ (FO) training. Anyone completing this course would man and work with the engineers to construct the stations that they would occupy. Any existing or acquired concealment knowledge would be used to aid in this endeavor.
As a result, when plans were being discussed for FO’s, extra scrutiny was being emphasized with the volunteers manning the OP’s (Observation Posts). These sentries would need to observe and assess from a distance and make a judgment call on the fly. Throughout the training and construction of the OP structures, stragglers continued to arrive in pairs and family groups as word spread of the safe haven located in southeastern Ohio.
As each site location came online, it was inserted into the list of available placements. The posted sentries immediately began paying dividends. This was in no small part some due to the training received from the like of James, Hoplite, and Gregg, who were working wonders. As each group of refugees passed the concealed earthen structures, the headcount and description was radioed ahead. Welcoming committees intercepted the foot draggers before they ever came within sight of the park entrance. Before entry was permitted, questions were posed and answered and skillsets were reviewed. Any suspicious activity was reported and could result in the person or the entire group being turned away.
So far, no one needed to be.
By and large, if a potential resident had a tradable knowledge base, they were directed toward that endeavor. Useless abilities like computer programmer and software tester made up the bulk of the water and firewood committees until new skills could be acquired.
As the camp neared the end of the third month, they had accumulated an interesting cross-section of American industry. Iron and steel workers, coupled with carpenters, formed the ‘Construction Battalion’, while analysts of all persuasions, accountants, and the mathematically inclined were placed in ‘Intelligence’ and “Communication’ groups. Bow hunters with their gear were in high demand as ammunition was relegated for defensive purposes only.
Commodities like water purification tablets and iodine tincture liquid were being reserved for patrols and a potential guerilla campaign. The raiding parties and small unit teams would need it more as building fires while encamped was not a good idea. As a result, all of the lake water and the rain collected in barrels at the park had to be boiled. The entire point of the encampment wasn’t to coddle and provide a safe haven. To Josh, and the rest of the people responsible for its use, the single overriding purpose was to simply give residents time to acquire or reacquire skills needed to survive on their own.
The state park eventually came under the control of an electorate known as the ‘Board of Governors’. Each of the committee’s had one representative and all had equal voice during discussions. The only expressed military presence in the park was represented by Gregg and Hoplite. At the insistence of President Sarkes, Lieutenant Stokes and his men were assimilated into the park population posing as civilians and dispersed throughout the camp’s working groups.
* * *
“Okay, I think the wind speed is good, Katherine. The wiring looks right. Go ahead and release the break,” Scott said from atop the windmill.
“Climb down a little bit first, sweetie. I don’t want you to get hit if it rotates.”
The young inventor looked around at his surroundings and realized he was standing on the upper platform.
Dummy, he thought. “Sorry,” he called back down.
When he was a little over half way down the structure, the youngest of the Simmons daughters released the break holding the blades of the wind pump in place.
Once he was finally on terra firma, he explained to Josh and the rest of the Tin Hatters what he and Katherine had done.
“I know how you like to have back-ups for your back-ups, Mr. Simmons, so I installed a motor salvaged from an old treadmill behind the rotor. This way, if the solar powered well-pump you and the Tin Hatters protected ever goes out, we’ll still be able to use wind energy for water.”
“So what’s the upgrade for?” Josh asked confused.
Chester stepped in and explained, “What the lad here is trying to explain is that when the blades rotate, everything spins, including the wellhead. The newly installed part is being used to push an electrical current down the wiring apparatus to these batteries.”
“He built you an 1800’s version of a battery charger, Daddy,” Katherine gushed.
“Right! What they said!” Scott exclaimed nervously.
Josh looked the agitated man up and d
own and shook his head.
“Son, come here,” he stated reassuringly as he placed his hand on his shoulder and turned him away from the others.
“Oh, umm… okay?” he replied while flinching and hunching to the paternal gesture.
When they moved off a couple dozen feet, Josh said, “I’m not sure what you’re so nervous about, Scott, but you’re doing wonderful work out here. The things you’ve built and conjured from thin air have made a huge difference.”
“Really?”
“Yes, really. You’re inventive, driven, creative, intelligent, and a whole host of other descriptors. So what’s the problem?”
The young man kicked at the dirt as he contemplated his response.
When none came, Josh sighed and stated somewhat forcefully, “Spill it, son.”
Before he even knew what he was saying, Scott blurted, “Fear of God, sir.”
The father of three actually chuckled his reply, “I’m sorry?”
“I went to school with Katherine and Layla for six years and every boy in that place lived in fear of you. You’ve always been so protective of them, and for good reason now that we know what happened in Columbus, but that’s not what I’m saying,” the boy began in a rambling response.
“When I’m in my workshop, I feel like a genius. I am the smartest, most clever person alive. Katherine will come in and tell me how proud of me she is. Then I leave that protective bubble and I see just how much I don’t know when I speak with Chester, Bryan, even Dallas and James. It’s just that – you’re very intimidating to be around. I mean –, it’s…” the boy stammered and then paused.
“Oh, don’t stop, you’re on a roll.”
By the Dawn's Early Light Page 15
