Protecting Our Home

by Colton Lively

  But this wasn’t arable land; the small-scale ranching experiments had failed, leaving only odd clearings in the woods and fond memories of calving time. The trees themselves had marginal value, and in any event, the place would have made more money from hunting, fishing, and adventure vacations than destructive logging.

  People could come up for a few days’ respite, Cody thought to himself. Once the EMP crisis had passed, of course. That would be the ideal time to give people the chance to reconnect to nature, to go somewhere they’d hardly ever hear an engine. There was something peaceable and liberating about the non-mechanical life, as though the simple demands of the forest called upon ancient skills, long since woven into the fabric of human behavior by generations of forest-dwellers and nomads. People would respond to this place, he felt. They would love it, as he was quickly learning to. They’d bring their families and marvel at the quiet, healthful change they saw in their children.

  Cody nearly walked straight into the back of Bryce, who restrained a snigger of mirth. Using hand signals, Charlie appeared to be directing the group to spread out, assumedly to maximize their chances of seeing without being seen. The line stretched until Cody found himself twenty yards from each of the others, front and back; the change brought a shift in his attentiveness, and the reverie paused while he scanned the woodland for signs of movement. Or for the barrel of a weapon emerging from behind a tree.

  Their journey took them via Charlie’s old listening outpost to the location of the enemy OP. It seemed abandoned. “They’ve probably reestablished farther in,” Cabot whispered as the seven men paused to look around the OP area briefly. “Either we walked through them without knowing, or they’ve bugged out. But if it were me, I’d get closer to the homestead, not farther away. Gain more intelligence, not less.”

  “If these dipshits had ‘intelligence,’” Del opined, “they wouldn’t have let themselves turn into fuckin’ Nazis.”

  “Amen, brother,” said Bryce. Then he noticed that something about the OP was different: a strange collection of objects had appeared. A crooked, three-legged old schoolroom chair was propped against the tree, and on top was a framed photo of a large man in untidy green camo, with a hunting rifle at his hip and a confident grin in place. Around the edge of the frame was written in thick black lettering, “R.I.P. BIG DOG. NEVER FORGET.” There were three spent shell casings, a rose-scented, mostly melted nightlight candle, and a smattering of extreme literature.

  “Hey, look,” said Charlie, “they were even kind enough to leave us some reading material.” He leafed through the collection. “Some real page-turners here, guys. Check this out: The Hoax of the Twentieth Century.”

  “Holocaust denial,” Cabot summed up, disgusted to be in the book’s presence. “And they’re entitled to mourn this guy, but the dumbass went and fell on his own shotgun. Even the pathologist said so. Case closed.”

  “And The Turner Diaries. I bet there’s a laugh on every page of that one,” Charlie noted.

  “Joke if you want,” Cabot said, tugging his grandson’s sleeve to bring him away, “but Timothy McVeigh read that book’s depiction of bombing a federal building, and thought to himself, ‘Hey, that’s a great idea!’ It’s dangerous claptrap that idiots somehow continue to believe.”

  There was Mein Kampf, of course. “Can’t believe this isn’t banned,” said Max.

  “Banning books was exactly what the Nazis used to do,” Cody reminded him. “Banning or burning. You want to align yourself with censorship and repression, or maybe let people make up their own minds?”

  “But, like Papa Cabot said, this is dangerous stuff, and a lot of folks are gull… I mean, gall-ible, I mean…”

  “Gullible?” Max recommended.

  “Whatever. They’ll believe anything they’re told,” Bryce summed up. “Any idiot can pick up a book.”

  It was a lot like arguing with Jacob—the young man was feeling his way toward an opinion and needed only some respectful opposition to round things out. “So, we make people sit an intelligence test before they’re allowed to read certain books?” Cody countered.

  “Um… no?” said Max.

  “Careful, kid. Once you’ve put rules in place for reading, next might come voting,” Cody warned. “Why should someone be allowed to vote if they can’t demonstrate they understand the choice they’re making?”

  Max felt he had this covered. “Because they’re Americans.”

  “Well said,” Cabot agreed.

  “But people can’t really be trusted,” Cody continued to argue, enjoying this role as devil’s advocate, “to make good, healthy decisions about what they do, see or read without some help, right?”

  “Um…”

  “And isn’t the government the only organ capable of intervening to help them?”

  “No, it is not,” said Cabot with certainty. “There’s a method of training people to be critical of the things they read and to avoid getting hoodwinked by bullshit. You know what it’s called?”

  “College?” Charlie tried.

  “It’s called parenting,” said Cabot. “No well-parented kid ever became a Nazi. No child who grew up surrounded by love and happiness later decides it’s his life’s mission to deny that same happiness to others. Nazis are made, not born. Just like criminals or addicts, in my view. Anyway, enough chattering, dammit,” Cabot decided, stomping away from the amateurish shrine. “Form yourselves up, and let’s move out.”

  Their third spell of marching took them all the way to the road, which they reached about ninety minutes before dusk. “Two by two,” said Cabot, “quick and low, as though you’re dashing toward a waiting helicopter.” The pairs scuttled across the road, with Cody and Del in the third duo and Cabot staying at the rear.

  Just as Cody moved off, he felt an unexpected tangle around his boot. Figuring it was bramble or some kind of particularly sturdy woodland weed, he sharply yanked his foot from the obstacle, and that’s when the bright red trip flare went off. “Down!” yelled Cabot even before the flame ignited. They all hit the dirt, and therefore missed the spectacle of a red emergency flare bursting overhead. For all the world, it was as though they’d called for a rescue.

  “Fuck!” Cody growled into the earth. “Of all the fuckin’ stupid things…”

  “Secure your gums, soldier,” Cabot hissed. “They’re flapping.”

  “Sorry.”

  “Shut it,” Cabot reiterated, then waited in silence to find out how many Nazis might respond to this obvious and embarrassing blunder by their opposition. “Goddammit,” he muttered, apparently to himself. “They know we can’t defend a stretch of road. But they know we’re here, for certain.” They’d have to assume, Cabot reasoned, that the bumbling homesteader patrol was searching for the invaders’ newly relocated observation post. If they had radios, Cabot knew, reinforcements could be sent on the double; although not as fit as the homesteader youngsters, Cabot had to imagine that the Nazis could cover twenty miles in a day if properly motivated. And catching his patrol with its pants down, only three miles from camp, was one hell of a motivation. “They could pin us down here with a coupla rifles while their assault force approaches the camp,” he lamented. Then he turned to Cody, who was still red-faced and furious with himself. “Set it aside, son. My first fuckup in ‘Nam felt a bit like this,” he said. “Only there was more blood.”

  “Great,” Cody sighed. “I’m sorry, John.”

  “Not your fault.”

  Del coughed quietly.

  “All right, not completely your fault.”

  “Thanks, that’s big of you,” said Cody. “Can we get up now?”

  If the enemy’s response was coming, it was late. “I reckon the best course of action is to remove ourselves from the scene,” Cabot decided. “Across the road is a path that follows the stream, then heads off into the woods. We’re gonna double-time it for a mile, all right?”

  “Nine minutes per mile, or eight?” asked Charlie, keen to show off his pro
wess.

  “If we try for either of those,” Cabot almost laughed, “the Nazis won’t have to shoot me. I’ll just keel over. Just keep it moving,” he advised.

  It was a hot, exhausting mile, but each step took Cody farther from the gut-wrenching shame of his screw-up and took the patrol farther into the darkening woods. Once the quick mile was done, all seven men settled into the march at recovery pace but then proceeded a little more urgently as the gloom gathered before sunset.

  “We’re behind,” Cabot informed them. “Probably two or three miles. How’s everyone doing?”

  Spirits were high, except Cody’s, which fluctuated wildly. “Can I get a do-over?” he asked.

  “Ah, forget about it,” said Cabot. “Charlie’s done all kinds of things much dumber than that.”

  “A little bit dumber,” Charlie qualified. “Never trodden on a trip flare before.”

  “Yeah, okay, that’s kinda in a category all of its own,” Cabot said. “Sorry, fella,” he said to Cody. “Not a lot of ways to feel better about it, except put it out of your mind and do the next thing.”

  “Yeah, I guess.” He thought about Mary, imagining the stunned, derisive look on her face if she’d been there to watch him stumble into the tripwire. And the kids… they’d never let him hear the end of it. If obliging Charlie and the others to a vow of silence cost $100, it’d be money well spent.

  By a quarter past seven, darkness was descending with purpose on the close, tangled woodland. Nothing was visible beyond the ranks of trees which pressed upon the path on either side, and the group closed up self-consciously until they slowed, uncertain, trying to peer through the gloom.

  “All right,” said Cabot, setting his rifle against a tree. “We ain’t set any records today, but there’s still just enough light to get the bivouacs up. Everyone get to it.” Cabot sent Bryce and Max on a five-minute patrol of the area while Cody and Del began working on shelter. Simple tarpaulin or plastic sheets pulled over a hastily chopped wooden A-frame, would have to suffice, but at least the early summer temperature had remained above 50F this evening.

  “No fires, keep the noise down, no one goes farther than fifty yards from camp,” said Cabot, explaining their security precautions. “The boys are patrolling now, and we’ll do another sweep in the morning before we leave.”

  “Why?” asked Cody. He was dead tired and very relieved to have put down his rucksack.

  “Because if these bozos have any brains whatsoever, they’ll have tracked us here, and they’ll be waiting to track us again tomorrow. The only question is,” Cabot concluded, ducking under the tarp of his bivouac, “who’ll get the drop on the others?”

  31

  13 miles east of the Russell Homestead The next morning (Day 9)

  “You’re sure?” Cabot asked again, pointing along the trail. “Right down here?”

  “I think so,” said Max tentatively. “It was a group of people talking in English.”

  “Men or women?”

  “All men.”

  “Shit,” Cabot muttered.

  “Could be anyone,” Del cautioned. “Hunters, maybe, or fishermen…”

  “Or people just looking for a place to camp because Flannigan’s on fire,” said Cody; it was a reasonable guess, though he didn’t believe it. From what they could tell, Max had heard The Enemy approach their overnight camp, and then move off again.

  “Max, you’ve got to be sure about the direction they were going,” said Cabot.

  “I know I’ve got to be sure,” he shrugged, “but I ain’t. It was dark, I was sleepy as hell…”

  “Why didn’t you wake one of us?” asked Charlie, who was frustrated that their opponents had apparently come so close, undetected. Again.

  “Because,” Max patiently explained, “that would have required breaking silence, and I was forty yards over there when I heard them.”

  “I don’t like it,” was Cabot’s conclusion. “These characters are amateurs. They shouldn’t be slipping past us.”

  “Well, if they’re shopping, like we are,” said Del, “then they’re heading for Slayton Mill, too, and we’re about to run right into them.”

  Cabot quickly got the group moving again, but the prospect continually nagged at him. This was a supply run, not a reconnaissance or counter-force mission; the intention was not to engage the enemy but to locate and avoid them. And here they were, clumsily negotiating miles of woodland, making noise all the time, as obvious as a freight train among these silent trees. With experienced people and the right equipment, things might have been different, but…

  Charlie had called for a halt. In a whisper, down the line, came the words, “Campsite.”

  Cody and Cabot strode forward to check it out while Max and Bryce covered them. A rough circle of stones formed a fireplace that had only just stopped smoking, by the look and smell of the partly-burned wood. “Reckon they had breakfast here?” Cody asked Cabot.

  “Looks that way. But we shouldn’t hang around. Grab an energy bar and a sip of water, and let’s go.”

  Del poked around the campsite for a moment. “What, no shrine to fallen comrades this time?” he joked.

  “That stuff might sound like bullshit to us,” said Cabot. “A bunch of Nazi idiots rambling on about ‘blood and soil,’ and ‘never forget,’ all of that. But they take it seriously, and we should, too.”

  “They actually think a homesteader murdered their friend?” asked Cody.

  “Boys, you discussed this very issue with our neighbors,” Cabot recalled. “Did they sound serious to you?”

  “Deadly,” said Charlie. “Redbeard and Paleface were ready to build a statue to the late, lamented Big Dog.”

  “They were genuinely angry about it,” confirmed Bryce. “And convinced that we were to blame.”

  With no solutions and a dearth of intelligence, Cabot knew it was best to simply press on. “Keep quiet, keep close, and drop to a knee as soon as you see anything.” He showed Cody the most important signal—enemy contact—accomplished simply by aiming a weapon in the enemy’s direction. “But no shouting until our cover is definitely blown. Capisce?”

  The team found its groove and trekked east amid a slight breeze, which would, Cabot hoped, mask some of their inevitable noise. They passed through areas of newer growth re-planted by the forestry service after logging but then descended into darker, sodden woodland after lunchtime. Two hours later, sweating and ready for a break, Cabot sent Charlie ahead to do some scouting while he assessed options with Cody and Del.

  “Now, these fellas,” the old man explained, “have been hanging around Slayton Mill for years. Your dad said that one or two of them used to live there,” Cabot said to Cody, “but I don’t know if that’s still true. It’s kinda ideal for a bunch of right-wing idiots—small, cheap, uncomplicated, a little closed off from the world. But we don’t want to scare the good townsfolk,” Cabot pointed out. “They might get the wrong impression.”

  “Like, that we’re the Nazis.”

  “What?” Cody sputtered. “That’d be as dumb as paint.”

  “Son,” retorted Cabot, “are you noticing a decrease in general dumbness at the moment?”

  “Quite the reverse.”

  “Exactly. So, we holster and hide our weapons. There’s no use scaring the natives so that they run to the local cops and tell them Slayton Mill is under armed assault.”

  “Roger that.”

  Minutes later, Charlie returned from his scouting foray with very mixed news. “Okay, just help me out here. That’s Slayton Mill over there, right?”

  “Yep,” Cabot confirmed.

  “The little town with the old white-brick courthouse?”

  “That sound right.”

  “Well, not anymore. Someone burned that sucker to the ground.”

  “The courthouse?” Cabot gasped. It was the oldest stone building in the area, a little architectural gem. “Why?”

  “Dunno. But there were random groups of guys, just ki
nda roaming around, causing trouble.”

  “Looting?” Cody guessed.

  “I’m not sure they’re ambitious enough to loot. More like window-smashing and roughing people up. I saw them drag a sleeping dude out of his car and slap him around for no reason.” He caught himself. “Well, actually, I can guess the reason. Apart from the courthouse and the pharmacy, you know what else Slayton Mill has going for it?”

  “Oh, God, don’t tell me…” said Del, already ahead of things.

  “Yep. The largest Anheim-Bolsch brewery in the northeast United States.”

  “Oh, fuck, you’re kidding me,” sighed Cabot. “They’re all hammered on terrible lager?”

  “Sloppy-ass, falling-down drunk,” confirmed Charlie. “Recommend we steer well clear of those assholes.”

  “But no sign of the other assholes?” Cabot asked. “The ones who like Sauerkraut and Goebbels?”

  “Not right now.”

  “Good. Then let’s get our asses down there and do what we came to do.”

  The woods abruptly ended just short of the little town’s outskirts, so the group of homesteaders did their best to look like confused hikers, arriving after a multi-day trek from another town. Rain covers and tarps managed to obscure their weapons, but Cabot knew the group would make for a strange and eye-catching sight. “Just play it cool, fellas,” said Cabot as they strode into town, relaxing their formation.

  Set on its own lot with a large parking area, the pharmacy had been a 24/7 general store in “the beforetimes.” Now, its windows were broken, and a thousand different products were scattered across the floor, down every aisle, and around the check-out counters, which were completely ransacked. The beer and wine aisle was alone in being conspicuously empty.

  But the pharmacy had been securely locked up by some quick-thinking employee, and the shutters remained down and largely undamaged.

  “Holy mackerel,” exclaimed Cabot as they reached the store and tentatively stepped inside. “Okay, boys, use whatever you need to, but let’s get in there and see about the insulin.”