by John Grit
“Dad and I are doing okay.”
Nate kept his eyes on the men at the roadblock. “Just do what I told you.”
Ramiro said, “I will talk to them.”
Nate spoke to Ramiro. “Don’t do anything to make them nervous. If they won’t let us pass, they will probably let us turn around and leave in peace. If they were trigger happy, they would have already started shooting.”
“Yes, that is what I was thinking,” Ramiro said.
Nate put his hands up. “Let’s go.” As they approached the roadblock and got close enough to see the men’s faces, Nate looked them over, trying to determine which one was in charge. The last man on the left worried him. He could see hate in his eyes.
Ramiro’ eyes lingered on the same man. He licked his lips and kept walking. He whispered, “I have seen hatred for my people before. I see it now on the face of the man on the left.”
“Yes,” Nate whispered. “But I’m not so sure it’s about race. I get the same uncomfortable feeling when he looks at me.”
“Trust me; I have experience in such matters.”
“I understand.” They were too close for him to say more.
A tall, thin man wearing a white Stetson, blue denim jeans, and jacket lifted his rifle barrel and pointed it skyward. His weathered face appeared to Nate to be fifty years old. The man’s rough voice cut through the crisp air. “That’s far enough.”
Ramiro spoke in his best confident-sounding voice, “We are from Mrs. MacKay’s horse farm. None of us have been to town since the plague hit, and we thought it was time to come in and see what the government has done to help the people.”
The hard-faced man on the left laughed but said nothing.
“Mrs. MacKay still alive?” the tall man asked.
“Yes,” Ramiro answered. I have been her foreman for many years now, and I can tell you with great pleasure that she is well.” Ramiro smiled.
“I thought I recognized you.” The tall man, who looked every bit the part of a cowboy in a Western movie, took his hat off and then put it back on with the front higher on his head and the back lower. “You men point your guns in a safe direction. I know this man.” They did as he said, including the hard-faced man on the left. The tall man balanced his rifle on his hip. “Come on over.”
Ramiro and Nate stopped at the wall of old tires.
The tall man nodded toward Nate. “How about the big man there, can he talk?”
Ramiro looked at Nate.
“Certainly,” Nate said. “It’s as Ramiro says. I’m more of a guest at her farm, though. My son and I have not decided if we are joining up with them or not. We are basically on a scavenger hunt. We have no intention of harming anyone or stealing, but thought there would be a few things left to rot after the die-off. If the owners are dead, what’s the point in leaving things we need go to waste? For one thing, I need a good pair of boots. Mrs. MacKay has taken in a lot of orphaned children, and many of her employees have children who are going hungry. They are not starving and probably won’t, but they are hungry.”
“What’s your name?” the tall man asked.
“Nate Williams. I own a farm farther south of Mrs. MacKay’s place.”
The tall man smiled and pushed his hat back farther. “There were some soldiers came through more than a month ago, some of them were talking about you. They said you and your boy stopped some raiders coming up from the south.”
“Brian and I had help from a few friends. Some of them died in that mess.”
The tall man nodded, looking Nate up and down. “Okay, you can come on in to town. Follow the signs to the warehouse and they’ll give you some food, but it’s not likely to be as much as you want. There’s a lot of hungry people with their hands out, and that warehouse is already two-thirds empty.”
“What about the other two warehouses?” Nate asked. “We were hoping to get some hardware supplies.”
“Hardware?” The tall man leaned back on his heels. “There’s plenty of wide open hardware stores right on Main Street. Help yourself. The owners are dead. They’ve been picked clean of the stuff people need, but there might be something you can use.”
“Thanks,” Nate said. “What’s your name?”
“Chesty Johnson.”
Nate stepped closer and reached his hand over the wall of tires and Chesty took it. “Come to me if you need anything or have any trouble with the town folk,” Chesty said. “I was town marshal when the world went to hell. It wasn’t really about law enforcement; we relied on the sheriff department for that. It didn’t pay anything either. The soldiers that came through a while back told me there was a new county sheriff of a sort. But they had to kill him.”
“Yeah, that idiot is dead all right,” Nate said.
Chesty’s eyes lit up. “It’s a shame the plague took so many good people and spared so many idiots.”
“That’s true,” Nate said. “Well, we better get moving.” He did not want to waste daylight talking. They had a long list of things they needed, and he planned to gather what they could and get back to the farm as soon as possible.
Ramiro and Nate were met by worried faces back at the trucks. “It’s okay,” Ramiro told the others. “We will go on into town. Keep your guns pointed up and act friendly. Do not make them nervous.”
Nate climbed in the back of the pickup and put his pack on. “You two stand next to me,” he told Brian and Kendell. “If I tell you to bail, that means jump out and hit the ground running for the nearest cover. Hear?”
They both answered, “Yes.”
“What do you think?” Brian asked. “Does it look like they mean to cause trouble?”
“No,” Nate answered. “But stay alert and do what I tell you.”
They passed through a gap in the wall of old tires after two pickups were pushed out of the way by several men. “They must be short on running vehicles,” Brian said.
“That ain’t good.” Kendell bit his lower lip.
“You feel sorry for them?” Brian asked.
Kendell waited until they were down the road far enough that the men at the roadblock could not hear. “No. But if they want our trucks, they might make us feel sorry for ourselves.”
Brian raised his eyebrows. “Hmm, you’re right. We might have something they don’t have.”
Nate broke in. “That’s good thinking from both of you. But I doubt they are as short on running vehicles as we are. Before the plague, there were several car lots, including one new car dealership, in town. Then there are all the cars victims of the plague left behind. I doubt they are short on cars or diesel fuel. Gas is a different matter. I haven’t been in this town in years because it’s farther away than the one south of our place, but I know a little about it. I bought my last truck here ten years ago.”
Brian looked at Kendell and shrugged. “He’s right. They should have plenty of cars and trucks.”
They passed signs made from scrap plywood every few miles that were crudely painted with directions to a ‘food station.’ The arrows always pointed the same way they were going.
They traveled eight blocks farther and came to a sign with a painted arrow pointing to the right. Ramiro stopped, and the rest of the caravan stopped behind him. He stuck his head out of the window and asked Nate, “What do you think? Food is our first priority.”
Nate leaned closer. “I always try not to be where potential enemies expect me to be.”
Ramiro thought for a few seconds. “So we should go for the other items on our list first?”
“I think we should look for one of those big do-it-yourself stores, then a smaller hardware store if we don’t find what we need at the first place.”
Ramiro nodded. “Okay.” He drove on, staying on the main street.
They had yet to see a single person, but there were plenty of signs of the looting that took place during the early days of the plague. Not a single store or home was untouched by vandalism and break-ins. Trash covered the streets on both sides,
including the sidewalk, but someone had used a dozer to clear the streets so vehicles could get through. Many disabled cars and pickups had been pushed to the side and onto the sidewalk. They saw no skeletons, but Nate expected many of the homes contained the remains of victims of the plague. There were too many bodies to be buried by too few people.
The driver of the last truck in the caravan blew his horn three times. Ramiro checked the side mirror on his door and did a double-take. Nate looked behind them but could not see because of the other trucks following.
A four wheel drive pickup with oversized, deep-treaded tires sped past them, its horn blaring. Three teenage boys rode in the cab. The boy on the passenger side kept a shotgun barrel pointed out the window. His voice carried over the blaring horn. “Pull over asshole!” Five more teenage boys rode in the back, all screaming obscenities and threats and menacing with their guns.
Ramiro did not stop. The boys kept screaming. Nate worried that shooting could start any second, and he knew that he would have no choice but to kill as many of the teens has he could. He dare not take his eyes off the boys. He feared the men he rode with were seconds away from starting a firefight with the boys, if one of the teens did not start shooting first. His heart pounded.
The teen driving the pickup sped ahead and swerved to his right, cutting Ramiro off. Nate, Brian, and Kendell braced themselves against the back of the cab and managed not to fall when Ramiro plowed into the side of the teens’ pickup, caving in the right door with the heavy bumper and brush guard. Several men riding in the back of their pickup flew forward and slammed into them, knocking the breath from Brian. Everyone in Nate’s pickup piled out, rifles ready. Brian managed to jump out only seconds behind his father, despite the heavy blow he received. Those in the following trucks did the same. Three of the teens were thrown out of their pickup and onto the asphalt. By the time the other boys were able to recover from the impact, they found themselves looking down the barrel of two dozen rifles and shotguns.
The standoff lasted several seconds, Nate fearing for his son and friends and not sure if he could stomach killing a dozen teenagers. Brian stood by his father, carbine pointed at the nearest boy. Kendell stood next to Brian, his rifle aimed at a boy’s chest. Another truck sped up with its horn blaring as the driver brought the pickup to a tire-screeching halt. The driver was alone. Nate recognized Chesty, the tall man at the roadblock.
One of the boys blurted, “We got looters, Mr. Johnson!”
Chesty held his hands up, palms out, “Everyone relax and point your guns skyward. The human race is small enough as it is. We don’t need any killing here today.” He pointed at the teens standing in the road and in a commanding voice said, “Put those guns on the asphalt right now.” He pointed at the others. “You in the truck put the guns down and get out. I want all of you standing right here in front of me.”
The sixteen-year-old boy who was the driver of the 4x4 pickup held onto his shotgun and gave Chesty a defiant, hard stare. “They’re raiders. Hell, half of them are spics.”
Chesty rushed up to the boy and snatched the shotgun out of his hands. “Not another word, Billy.” He bent down and got in the boy’s face, their noses only inches from each other. The boy wilted and stepped back. He looked down and said nothing.
Chesty glanced at Nate, Ramiro, and the rest of their group, relieved to see all guns pointing skyward. Several of the boys talked at once, hurling obscenities at Ramiro for ramming their pickup. “I said shut up!” Chesty’s voice bounced off a nearby building and echoed down the empty street. “I told you boys before about being too quick to look for trouble.”
“Look at what that orange picker did to my truck.” Spittle sprayed from Billy’s mouth as he threw his words at Ramiro like wild punches.
Chesty pointed threateningly. “Billy. For the last time, shut your mouth. A loose tongue and a hot head can lead to loose guns and hot lead. You boys need to think about how close you came to dying here today, and you can’t think right while you’re running your mouth.” He put his hands on his hips and gave them a silent dressing-down with his eyes. “If you boys expect to survive much longer, you better grow up…fast.” He gave them another disgusted look. They examined the cracks in the road. Chesty turned to Ramiro. “Back your truck off theirs a few feet so they can get out of here.”
The engine quit when Ramiro rammed them. He got in and stepped on the clutch. Several men pushed the truck back five feet. One boy tried the caved-in passenger side door and found it jammed. He ran around to the other side and got in. Billy climbed up and slid behind the wheel while all the other boys got in the back. He cranked the engine and black smoke billowed out of the exhaust pipes. The rattle of the rough-running diesel faded as they drove down the street and turned left.
“Well, that was interesting.” Nate glanced at Brian and caught him mopping his forehead.
Some of the men whispered in Spanish. Ramiro shook his head, shrugged, and answered in Spanish, “It was nothing.”
Chesty stepped closer to Ramiro. “I apologize for Billy’s disrespectful mouth.” He looked the other men in the eye. “I apologize to all of you. Most of those boys had good parents, but they were lost in the plague, and there’s no one to finish raising them. We have our problems with parentless girls too. The pregnancy rate is sky high. We’re lucky enough to have a couple doctors and a dozen nurses in town, but they can only do so much without drugs and medical equipment. We’ve warned the girls over and over that they do not want to get pregnant right now. We lost a girl a few weeks ago. There was some kind of complication.” He looked away. “We had nothing but out-of-date Aspirin. Her last hours of agony put enough fear into the girls they have suddenly learned how to say no again. Who knows how long that will last?”
“It’s been about a year since I thought about those kinds of problems,” Nate said. “We’ve been worrying about starving and getting shot.”
Chesty smiled. “Yes, well you’ve been out in the sticks. You’re in the big city now. We have a thriving population of over two hundred citizens. That’s not an official number, just a wild guess on my part.”
“How are they feeding themselves?” Ramiro asked.
“There’s still food left in the warehouse,” Chesty answered. “All the stores have been picked clean, though.”
Nate spoke up. “Before the plague, there were three big corporate distribution centers on the other side of town.”
Chesty took his hat off and ran his hand over his short-cropped black and pepper hair. “One of them has been taken over by a gang that moved in on us before the town had a chance to organize. Not that we’re organized all that well now. One is not a food warehouse and has only merchandise. We control that one and the other food warehouse. Anyone who shows up gets a small allotment of food once a week.” He looked down at Nate’s toes poking through holes in his boots. “They should have boots that will fit you. I expected you to go to the food warehouse first. Word has gotten around about the food handouts, and I thought that’s why you were here.”
“No,” Nate said. “We had no idea what to expect when we got here.” He took his list of wants out of a jacket pocket and handed it to Chesty. “That’s what I’m looking for. Ramiro has his own list.”
Chesty scanned the note paper. “Electrical wiring; deep cycle batteries; twelve volt light bulbs; fuses and fuse receptacles…” He handed the list back to Nate. “You going into the construction business?”
“My son and I are wiring our little home for twelve volt power.” He nodded to Ramiro. “So are his people. They have a waterwheel-powered twelve-volt generator.”
“All the comforts of home, huh?” Chesty asked. “You people are industrious. We could use a lot more of that around here. When the food in the warehouse runs out, there’s going to be a lot of hungry people.” He stepped backward toward his pickup. “Follow me. I’ll take you to a big do-it-yourself store. I doubt many have been as resourceful as you, so there should be plenty of wire a
nd other electrical supplies.”
Ramiro’s pickup would not start. He cranked until the battery was almost dead. The driver in the flatbed truck behind gave him a push, taking several inches of paint off both bumpers. Once the engine cranked, it ran well enough, and the caravan was soon following Chesty down the street. Chesty took several backstreets, cutting across town. After pulling onto a four-lane road and traveling less than a mile, he pulled into the parking lot of a home supply center.
Chapter 12
“Dad, look.” Brian pointed to two dogs on the other end of the parking lot having a tug of war with a human leg bone.
Kendell’s eyes rounded for a second, then he seemed to accept what he saw and turned away to scan the area for threats.
“Keep your eyes, ears, and brain working,” Nate warned Brian and Kendell.
“Any dogs you run across ain’t likely to be looking for a friend,” Kendell said. “They’ll be looking to eat you. They’re hungrier than us people.”
Chesty drove right up to the front of the building, near the entrance but left enough room for a truck to be backed up to the door. He got out, a rifle in his hands. He watched the dogs fight over the bone, shaking his head, but he did not try to scare them off.
Everyone in the other trucks jumped off and walked to the building.
Chesty kept his pickup between him and the broken windows. “I doubt there’s anyone in there, but it’s possible. We’re not far from gang territory, so watch yourself in there. Keep guards on watch out here, or your trucks might not be here when you come out. Watch for dog packs too. They’ve run out of dead people to eat long ago, and have eaten a few live ones lately.”
“I don’t like shooting dogs,” Brian said.
Nate gave his son a grim look. “I’m not going to let them chew on us, so shoot if you have to.”
Brian let out a lung full of air and nodded. “Yeah. I don’t like shooting people either, but that went out the window a long time ago.”
Nate put his hand on Brian’s shoulder. “It will get better. People are starting to come together and organize a little now.” They wasted no more time and made their way through the debris left by the panic of the early days of the plague, grabbing shopping carts and making a beeline for the electrical supply aisles.
