by G. R. Carter
The Raptor lined up the brush pile with its nose, then orange bursts leapt from the wing tubes that Sam made note of earlier. He could see intermittent flashes streak out towards the brush pile. Most went high and low, left and right, and quickly Sam understood why the target was so far away. Clearly this wasn’t like sighting a rifle, fired by taking a deep breath and squeezing a trigger.
Though the Air Tractor provided a very stable platform to make a Raptor from, it looked like there was still a lot of flying the pilot needed to do in addition to aiming a weapons system. The slightest extra movement of the wings resulted in shots missing the target by yards after taking distance into account.
“Still too durn inaccurate,” Delbert murmured in disgust. “The angle just screws us up.”
“Don’t be too hard on yourself, Delbert,” Fredericks said.
“Me? I wasn’t talking about me, big-time army man. The gun sights aren’t right and the pilot is a farmer, not an ace,” Delbert grunted.
“Okay, okay,” Fredericks said, laughing at the old man. “Don’t be too hard on them either. Most of the ditchmen we’ll be facing in the near term aren’t really soldiers at all. Those cannon shells start landing around them, and I mean anywhere close, and they’ll be trying to surrender to the Creator Himself!”
As the ungainly bird climbed again to take another pass, the older men heard Sam blurt out an unfamiliar word.
“Stuka,” Sam said louder as they craned their heads to hear his voice.
“You taught us about the Stuka dive bomber when we discussed Blitzkrieg tactics. Using airborne artillery as an armored fist to punch through an entrenched enemy. Then you break out to get deep behind his lines. Make him lose his discipline and then he has to stop you on your terms,” Sam repeated like a walking military encyclopedia. “If we attack from above, at a sharper angle, the accuracy of our weapons will increase.”
He continued: “I remember the lesson because we all laughed at the thought of having an air force to help us and our little farm truck army. Now I understand why you were teaching us all this. You knew someday we’d develop more advanced weapons and tactics.”
“I'd like to think that’s true, Sam,” Fredericks said. “Although most of the time it just seems like survival day to day. But to build a warrior culture, we have to start teaching our future leaders early.”
I want in,” Sam blurted out, stone-faced and looking back and forth at the crusty old Wizard and the SDC Commander with the confidence only a leader’s son can convey.
Fredericks looked shocked, but not Delbert. “I had a feeling you’d see it that way, Prince,” Delbert snorted.
“I can’t believe it, Sam,” Fredericks interjected. “The farm has always been your focus. I thought your dream was to keep building the original Fortress Farm into its own commerce center, then teaching others to do the same.”
“I know, Commander. But just think about all the possibilities this opens for the Cooperative! With you and Alex leading the Mark 3s and the ground forces, and me being up in the air with these beautiful birds, there’s no way the Americans will mess with us,” Sam said, beginning to raise his voice again.
The two older men winced, still sensitive to hearing the name of their former country used harshly.
“Sammy, it’s just not that simple. There are months of training that form tactics and strategy. I agree this is a game-changer, that’s why we wanted you to see them. But you’ve been groomed to run the farming side of our county. Our food and diesel production is the most important task for all our survival. The SDC exists to safeguard food production and our people. With more people streaming into our School Shelters every week, we can’t afford to miss our production targets by one bushel,” Fredericks insisted, using Sam’s own reports against him.
Delbert stood smiling, watching the young bull strain against his duties to home. Sam had evidently caught the flying bug; Delbert and Fredericks had seen it before. There were just some guys who lived and breathed it.
“Commander, I understand what my duties are to my country,” Sam insisted. The emphasized use of Frederick’s proper title startled both the older men. “But if those farms are burning because of the Americans, or the ditchmen, or any other group of crazies that go rampaging across our vast territories, there won’t be any food production. There won’t be anything to feed to the people, or any diesel to feed our generators or tractors. You know as well as I do the defensive challenges we’re facing. If we don’t figure out a way to fight back against much larger enemies, we won’t survive as a free people. Or even survive at all,” Sam concluded.
Fredericks stood proud of the young man, remembering him as a scrawny teenager when he first met him. No, not just a young man, but a warrior, and a leader among warriors. A warrior with a completely different mindset than the teenagers Fredericks first went into the Service with years before. Young people coming of age after the trauma of the last couple of years seemed to live by their own code of ethics; one that demanded time in harm’s way. They weren’t doing it for a paycheck or free college. They didn’t even do it for some misplaced sense of duty to an empire that barely knew they existed. This was more primal, or maybe better described as tribal. The duty felt by a young knight to defend his home and family from dangers real or imagined.
Fredericks sighed, “Well, you know it’s your Dad you have to convince at the end of this. Or more importantly, your Mom.”
Rural Virginia
Charlotte Jenkins was dreaming again. Back onto the rural country roads of her childhood home. But this time, her husband walked with her. They were both full grown, Lamar’s muscle defined with sweat in the sun, bulging underneath a tight t-shirt. He looked so fine with the week old beard on his jaw, a real man looking at her with eyes somehow full of love and fire at the same time.
She stopped and decided to kiss him. As she rose up on her toes to close the six inch difference in their height, he put his hand up and stopped her.
She couldn’t speak in this dream, but her facial expressions would tell him her emotion. Why would you turn down my kisses, love? I see the fire, I know you love me…
A tear rolled slowly out of her man’s eye, down his cheek and into the whiskers that now seem to hold a little more gray. He touched her face with the back of his finger and gave such a sad smile.
Not yet, my love. Not yet.
He didn’t say the words, but she heard them clear as a prayer.
Lamar began to drift away. She could still see him, not quite so distinctly now. What was happening. She reached out to grab his hand, but flesh turned to mist. His face lingered, gazing into her eyes until all that was left of him was the tear…and then nothing.
She realized she was coughing, for real this time. She gasped for breath, then felt strong hands hold her down as her body wracked with convulsions.
“It’s going to be okay, mama. Just hold on. You’re gonna be okay.”
Lamar? Lamar is that you? She still couldn’t speak, could he hear her?
“It’s going to be okay, mama,” the voice repeated.
My son she remembered. I have to be okay for my son.
Charlotte forced her eyes open, letting in the dimmest of light. Shadows rippled across cold gray stone above her.
“Where?” was all she could force out of her parched lips.
Someone put a cup of water to her lips and the cool liquid fell over her teeth on to her parched tongue. “More,” she gasped.
“Not yet, Charlotte. A little at a time, okay?” The voice belonged to the Roanoke doctor they’d saved. Charlotte struggled to remember her name through the fog enveloping mind.
“Where?” Charlotte asked again.
“We’re in the caves, Charlotte. The soldiers came back, just like you said they might. We evacuated everyone up here,” the doctor said. Doctor Trina, that was her name, Charlotte didn’t bother to try and remember her last name.
The soldiers came back…those words rattled around in h
er mind, breaking loose memories she’d rather forget. The day started peaceful, she remembered that much. Then the Congregation’s sentries came running back to the farm, yelling about soldiers headed their way.
By the time those green trucks with the circle painted on the side arrived, Charlotte thought the sentries were imagining things. But the soldiers had taken their time, stopping in every town and visiting every farm that still stood. Thorough in their task they were, unrushed and unafraid.
They were polite young men and women, Charlotte remembered that clearly. Not like the ones they’d fought on their way out of DC. Peace and safety, that was the carrot this group offered. Plenty of food, warm shelter…
When Charlotte and the Elders politely refused, the young officer in charge appealed to their patriotism. Wouldn’t they please join President Marburg in rebuilding the United States after such a terrible disaster?
A couple of the Elders were swayed by that, she knew several others in the Congregation would be, too. She remembered the argument now; should it be free choice to return to DC with the soldiers? They needed the labor here on the farm, but a few less mouths to feed might make the difference. The old and weak would be safer in DC, some argued. The children would have a chance at an education, others believed.
The problems started when the invitation was clarified by the officer in charge. Only the healthiest were to join the rebuilding efforts. There were no resources available for the elderly or ill, no spare time to teach the children. All but the able needed to stay behind, everyone was making sacrifices for the greater good the young man claimed. The Congregation’s answer, save for a couple of the Newcomers, was a resounding no.
“Why…like…this?” Charlotte labored to ask.
“You don’t remember?” Doctor Trina asked sweetly. “Oh… well, maybe that’s for the best. The last group of Newcomers that arrived brought some sort of nasty virus. We eventually had to kick them out because of their lack of hygiene, but I guess it was too late.”
“I…got…sick?”
“Not at first, but we couldn’t keep you from tending the ill. Said I was too valuable to get sick, and you were too old and ornery to catch the bug. You were wrong about both.”
“How…how long?”
“You really don’t remember, do you? Charlotte, you’ve been in and out of consciousness for almost two weeks. We thought we were going to lose you a couple of times. Frankly I have no idea how we didn’t. Between fever and dehydration…”
Doctor Trina smiled down at her as Charlotte slowly raised her hand and pointed towards the roof, up towards where she imagined a bright blue sky. “Yes, it was a miracle. Not everyone was quite so blessed, unfortunately.”
Panic struck Charlotte. “Lamar?” she asked. Her dry scratchy eyes ached as they tried to form tears.
“He’s just fine,” Dr. Trina reassured her. “The bug never even touched him.”
The doctor raised the cup to Charlotte’s mouth again, allowing her a bigger sip.
“I need to see him,” she said, still struggling to form the words.
The look on Dr. Trina’s face told her something was wrong. “When the soldiers came back, they had a conscription order. All able bodied men and women were to come with them. There must have been a hundred soldiers with them this time. Our sentries saw them coming, so Lamar ordered everyone up to the caves. When they got to the farm, no one was there to take.”
The doctor had her own tears now. One rolled off her cheek onto Charlotte’s blanket. She wiped it away with her hand and continued. “They burned the farm, Charlotte. Every building. They did the same to the surrounding towns…they took the strongest people in the first trucks. When they were gone, another batch of soldiers showed up. They destroyed everything.”
Charlotte tried to pat her arm, to give comfort despite her own pain. The doctor smiled through her tears and grasped Charlotte’s hand. “When he found out what happened, Lamar took a few of the men and went after the trucks. Said he was going to try and rescue as many as he could. That was two days ago.”
Charlotte felt trapped in her body, the weight of weakness pressing her down into the blankets. Concern flooded her mind, but in her heart, she knew he was okay. Lamar was fighting back, like his dad would have. She wasn’t mad at him for it, just frustrated she wasn’t out there helping him. She didn’t want to lose him, he was everything to her. But she also couldn’t stop him from doing the right thing. He was a man grown now, he’d have to steer his own course.
She did know one thing about her people, they would never quit. Whoever these soldiers were, they’d not have such easy prey out here amongst the little folk. The Congregation would show them God’s truth. Charlotte held tight to the doctor’s hand, praying her boy would be okay. She also prayed another petition today; victory over evil.
Old Main
“That’s the soldiers, Mr. Hamilton. Same ones who were at Old Main yesterday,” the young militia man said. Phil smiled inwardly at the teenager, sporting a football helmet with the face mask removed. Instead of being the red and white colors of the football team, the plastic bell was now a mottled green and gray.
He couldn’t laugh at anyone’s appearance too much; he himself wore a car racing fire suit died in similar colors to the young militiaman’s helmet. His own full-face motorcycle helmet sat beside him; there was no way to look through his binoculars while the helmet covered his head. He had five Okaw SDC men around him, each dressed in a similar uniform, all Turtle commanders awaiting his orders. The fire-resistant overalls they wore spoke to the nature of the vehicles they drove, armored trucks that drove into dangerous areas. The rest of their crews stayed with the hulking vehicles concealed in a tree line of a former park now overgrown with brush.
Phil watched carefully as the soldiers approached the site of the former Mattoon National Guard armory. Previous Okaw salvage trips had yielded little there. Apparently, the Grays had removed every useful piece of equipment and sent it back to their own headquarters
“I thought if Julia told them we knew where the ditchmen were hiding they’d go and flush them out for us. They’ve been getting supplied from somewhere. Doesn’t explain where the attacks from our western areas are coming from. But it sure does explain where yours originate,” Phil had said to Coach Moseley.
Moseley had become the default leader of the Old Main militia since the original nucleus of the defense group formed around his football team. He had grown and expanded the force to include every able-bodied man and woman capable of a medium-difficulty physical endurance test. Once you passed, you became part of the duty roster. Twenty of the force accompanied the coach today, the largest number he felt comfortable taking from the campus defenses. Phil intended for none of them to see action, but it was important for the Old Main psyche that they be doing something to avenge the awful crimes happening around them.
“You think if we get rid of these guys, the attacks will stop?” Moseley asked.
“No. But at least there won’t be any organized efforts to hurt you. Just random starving savages,” Phil said with a sarcastic grin.
“Great. Thanks for the pep talk. What’s our next step?”
“We wait and see what the Grays do with these guys. Either they take them back to New America with them or they kill them all and burn the evidence,” Phil replied, continuing to scan the buildings ahead with the field glasses.
Moseley shuddered. Phil and his Okaw SDC members seemed to be very comfortable with the violence going on, or at least resigned to the fact that more people were going to die in a very short time, either by the Grays’ hands or their own.
“Showtime,” Phil said with a grin.
Moseley raised his own binoculars in time to watch an argument between a tall well-uniformed soldier in gray fatigues and a tattooed figure in what had once been a policeman’s uniform. The argument was mostly one-sided, with the former cop doing most of the yelling and pointing and the soldier standing with one hand on his sidea
rm. Within moments, approximately twenty more tattered figures surrounded the soldier and three of his comrades now out of their Humvees with weapons drawn.
“Amateurs,” Phil said. “He made the ditchmen focus on the threat in front of them. I’m guessing Mr. America has a surprise planned for them.”
Just as he finished the words, gunfire erupted from behind two burnt-out houses on either side of the armory. The soldiers lured all the ditchmen out to support their leader instead of having to force their way into their well-fortified hideout. The four surrounded Grays ducked to their Humvees, running for a quick getaway. Several ditchmen fell clutching their damaged bodies. Others simply recoiled to the ground, motionless except for the occasional involuntary twitch of a mortal wound. The remaining bandits split up, half ducking their way back into the armory, the other half in a life-or-death sprint around to the back side of the armory.
Phil lowered his binoculars from the scene for a moment, considering the next course of action. From this range, his regular sight could see Humvees circle back around to the front door of the armory joining their comrades breaking cover and trotting towards them. A brief discussion took place, and two of the gray-clad men went to the back of the lead Humvee to retrieve something.
He raised his glasses to see flares being lit and carried to the broken windows of the once-proud building. Phil counted twenty, then another trip back and another twenty white-hot burning flares get tossed into every open window and door of the block and wood structure. As smoke began to billow out, Phil leapt up and turned to his waiting SDC officers.
“Grays got this part covered, folks. But it looks like they’ve decided to let the others get away. I’m pretty sure that wannabe cop was one of the ones that escaped. I don’t want to let that happen. Get to your vehicles. I’ve got a hunch they’ll try to head out into the fields and keep going north for a while. We’ll take the old interstate a couple miles north and then head west. I bet we can catch them there,” he shouted as he ran to his vehicle.
