Bittersweet Homecoming; Surviving the Black--Book 3 of a Post-Apocalyptical Series

by Zack Finley

  "Craig is awake and wonders what the hell is going on," Tom said.

  "How is he doing?"

  "No fever and less seepage from his wounds. The wound looks terrible but no sign of infection," Tom said. "He is on potent antibiotics as a precaution. I'm making him take acetaminophen to keep the swelling down and relieve the pain. He prefers to stay in the galley until we leave on the mission, to avoid missing anything. He also expects to help Kurt protect the boats when we go on tonight's operation."

  "We can carry him to a prepared position at the front of the boat before we go," I said. "Kurt can bring him hot water bottles to stay warm. I wish we kept some of those sandbags from that Memphis barge to provide cover."

  "None of us expects an attack on the boat, but he doesn't want us to assign someone else to babysit him. He thinks Kurt can be his legs, and there is nothing wrong with his shooting ability."

  "I would leave him the machine gun, but I fear we need it more," I said. "Did you hear about our new challenge?"

  "Joel briefed Craig sometime early this morning. Craig filled me in while I changed his dressing. Are you sure about launching this attack tonight? We don't know how many hostiles or even if Andy and his group are the ones being attacked."

  "It is the only thing that makes sense," I said. "I can't imagine going back to Breckinridge Valley without at least trying. We've come too far."

  Tom sighed and slumped into the chair beside me. "No, with children involved we can't walk away. But we have no backup, no medevac. We are lucky Craig is alive. If the bullet was a few inches over it would have ripped out the femoral artery."

  "A medevac wouldn't help that."

  "No, but if Scott was shot on this mission, he would have died," Tom said.

  "What do you want me to do?"

  "Jeremy, I'm not questioning the need to rescue those kids, I just wish it wasn't my friends at risk. They are good, but they aren't invincible," Tom said.

  "Yeah, I thought I created a safe place for my teammates to work and raise their families. I never seriously thought the shit would actually hit the fan."

  "It isn't your fault, every Ranger you recruited knows they are fighting for something worthwhile. Hell, I'm sure every Ranger I ever served with, no matter where they are now, is fighting to help his family or his neighbors survive this. We are better off than most, we can rely on the guy next to us. And we have great weapons and gear. So, I don't know why I'm complaining, except there always seems to be more assholes than good guys."

  "Yep, we can agree on that," I said. "Now, are you okay with us moving Craig?"

  "If we don't, he'll tear his stitches crawling there if we don't," Tom said. "I'll keep watch now if you want a break?"

  I left Tom in the wheelhouse. It was a perfect day for early February. A light breeze, brisk but not cold, and the sun felt warm on my shoulders. The river flowed by our stern, muddy and relentless. No sign of trouble.

  A crowd gathered in the galley, below. Mike was preparing a vat of mac and cheese.

  "I can add another box to this batch if you are interested?" Mike asked.

  "Thanks, why not. It's the new breakfast of champions," I said.

  Allie, Razor, and Craig discussed attack strategies using our sketch of the enemy camp. Kurt sat on the edge of his chair, listening but not taking part.

  "Joel suggested Molotov cocktails to add to the confusion and damage," I said sitting at the table beside Razor. "Kurt, after breakfast, please gather up all the intact beer bottles you can find at the point. Then bring us a sheet from the Jersey Girl we can tear up for wicks."

  "I can help him," Razor said. "My Molotov recipe is a superb blend of diesel and gasoline. How many do we need?"

  "I doubt we can throw more than six before they react, but rig up at least two dozen if you find the bottles," I said. "Put them in two containers that will fit in the ninja trailers. I also want to load the M240b in one of those trailers."

  "I'll help," Allie said. "Making Molotov cocktails is new to me and so is firing a belt-fed machine gun."

  "Ben should take my rifle," Craig said.

  "That is between you and Ben," I replied. "He will wake up soon, and you two should talk. He knows the terrain, too. We aren't leaving until just before dark, except for my high noon meeting on Big Spring Road."

  "Kurt and I will defend the boats," Craig said.

  "So Tom mentioned," I said. "Before we leave, we'll prop you up in a good spot."

  "That all must wait while we dine on this culinary masterpiece, I toiled over a hot stove to prepare just for my team," Mike interrupted. He brandished a large pot of lumpy yellow goo with a huge spoon in it. With an exaggerated flourish, Mike placed the pot on the table, treating it like a presentation to royalty.

  Allie rolled her eyes, fetching a stack of plates and some forks from beside the sink. She grabbed the spoon and dipped out a portion. She splatted it onto a plate and declared to Mike, "I wouldn't quit your day job." She picked up the full plate and took it up to the wheelhouse to Tom.

  Mike looked like he swallowed a lemon.

  "I think she put you in your place, Maestro," Craig said.

  At least the yellow goo was hot.

  After everyone else finished, no one said anything when Kurt wiped the pan clean with his finger.

  Kurt washed the dishes while Allie helped. I went back to my cabin to put on clean underwear. I laid out my poncho and other damp gear to dry. Mike gathered all our spare grenades, smoke canisters, and tear gas. Razor mixed up his favorite Molotov concoction.

  Craig cleaned and reloaded magazines for tonight's mission. At his request, someone brought a stack of salvaged weapons and his gun cleaning tools. He planned to keep busy after he finished topping off the magazines.

  Everyone else showered and washed clothes as part of their preparation for tonight. At 11:30, Ben, Mike, and I piled into one of our acquired pickups for the meeting near the farmhouse. Ben brought his sniper rifle for insurance.

  I left my rifle in the pickup and at noon began my lonely walk to the meeting site. At first, I was the only one in the no-mans-land, but in less than a minute, a man from the farmhouse stepped out. Without a specific meeting spot, I stopped when I felt like it. That seemed acceptable to the other man because he altered course to join me.

  The man was about my height, medium build, with a holstered pistol on his hip. He wore old-style BDUs and hiking boots. A sweat-stained Razorback baseball cap mostly covered his close-cropped brown hair. He looked a little older than me but still in prime condition. His face reflected the leathered look of someone who worked outdoors for a living.

  The man held out his hand as he approached, "Hi, my name is Chuck. Thanks for removing that scum from our hair." His drawl confirmed he was no visitor from Arizona.

  I shook his hand, "My name is Jeremy, glad we could be of assistance. We took out another group of inmates up on Storm Creek Lake."

  "I wondered where this bunch came from. They made it difficult to do anything on the farm this past week. They stayed behind cover after we killed two and creamed their trucks. We thought they were gearing up for something worse, so, thanks for taking care of them for us," Chuck said.

  "A group of about 30 other inmates decided they wanted to live in your house," I said. "They burned out a bunch of your neighbors on Storm Creek Road before they realized camping sucked. The guys here were the warmup band."

  "Glad we missed the main event," Chuck drawled. "Your message said you are looking for someone?"

  "Some family members contacted us via HAM radio a few days ago, needing an assist. They ran into trouble somewhere near Helena. They came all the way from Arizona, and we are looking for them." I waited while Chuck studied me. He then looked toward where Ben and Mike lurked.

  "So, the kid was telling the truth," Chuck said. "We have not hurt him, but we haven't treated him with lovin' kindness, either."

  "What do you mean?"

  "We caught this Hispanic kid creeping th
rough our perimeter three nights ago. He told us this farfetched story about coming from Arizona and needing to leave a message for someone arriving from Tennessee. Half of our group thought the apocalypse made him crazy, but the others thought he was part of that bunch you just killed."

  "Well, we came from Tennessee, and we're meeting up with people from Arizona, so he sounds like someone we want to talk to," I said.

  "He also said he sneaked out of the Johnson place to leave a message but needed to return 'cause an armed horde was shooting that place up. I take it that isn't a lie either?"

  "If the Johnsons are a group of local preppers with a HAM radio, pigs, and chickens, with a compound near the landfill, then I would bet good money he is telling the truth," I said.

  "Is the armed horde the same bunch, you folks, got rid of?" Chuck asked.

  "From the same prison, but we think the new attackers are a part of the inmates who took over Marianna. They were shooting a lot last night. The group we encountered here won't be shooting anyone ever again."

  "If you want to talk with the kid, come with me," Chuck said.

  "Ben, I'm going into the farm to talk with someone who may be from Arizona, stand by for one hour," I radioed. My guys would wait one hour before attempting a rescue. The wording also told them no coercion or immediate danger. I glanced at my watch to make sure I called or appeared before the time ran out.

  "Roger, stand by one hour," Ben radioed.

  I followed Chuck toward the farmhouse.

  "I won't be able to let you come in," Chuck said. "But sit on the porch, and I'll bring you the kid. Give me about 15 minutes."

  "I'm good with that." I sat on the steps and looked around. This section of the ranch-style house was brick. Red brick dust and gnarled bits of dead littered the porch floor. Fresh gouges in the brick facade explained where the dust came from. Dimples and lead splashes marred the armored front door, but no bullets breached it. Splintered holes peppered the gray wooden window shutters. This part of the farmhouse took a beating from the inmates' siege.

  From the road, I noticed the farmhouse likely expanded with subsequent generations. While brick covered the oldest section, different styles of siding indicated where new generations added on. From this vantage point, I couldn't see how those sections fared in the attack.

  The doors and windows of the large barn on my right were closed tight. It lacked the swayback sag of a barn in peril. It might be old, but it looked in sound physical condition. The shiny tin roof probably replaced the original wood shakes.

  The dark brick-red stain of the wooden siding and doors gave the barn a patina of age. The patina was disrupted by about 50 newly splintered holes peppered along the road side of the barn. The bullets kicked up lighter wood from the inside of the boards, making the wounds visible due to the sharp contrast. The shots appeared randomly distributed.

  There was no sign of farm animals although the warm earthy scent of manure assured me, they were nearby. Everything looked buttoned down for my visit. I would have done the same.

  Chuck escorted a young man or old teen around the side of the house to join me at the porch. The young man appeared Hispanic, and while he still didn't need to shave regularly, his eyes had the look of a veteran combat soldier. He wore jeans and a dark hooded sweatshirt. The newcomer rubbed his wrists as he stretched his shoulders and neck. His eyes darted from Chuck to me and then to my team almost hidden behind the abandoned vehicles.

  "This boy says his name is John," Chuck said. Chuck stepped back from the boy but kept his hand on his holstered pistol, unconsciously reacting to the sense of danger John exuded.

  "John, my name is Jeremy. Did Andy send you?"

  "You're here?" John asked. The tensely coiled spring holding the teen upright relaxed suddenly. The edgy, stressed veteran replaced in an instant by a young boy.

  "We've been looking for your group for the last two days," I said. John was not the only person relieved. Confirming Andy was near, removed a great weight from my shoulders. That he sent such a young man into danger brought back my worry in spades.

  My words wiped the relief from John's face. "I'm sorry, I was careless, and these people caught me on my way to leave the message," John said.

  "Not your fault," I said, keeping my voice calm, trying to walk back my previous words. This boy was not at fault. I knew immediately my words fed his guilt. I hadn't meant to bring on a guilt trip, but I now realized that was the net result. "I am just so glad to see you."

  I turned to Chuck. "Is he free to come with us?"

  "As long as he doesn't come back uninvited," Chuck said. "My son is bringing his pistol and other gear."

  "Thank you. Do you have a detailed map of the area I could examine? I appreciate any insight you can provide about how to reach the landfill from this side of the ridge."

  "Yeah, I'll send my son for the map. Mind you, I can't let you keep it," said Chuck.

  "I understand, can I ask Ben to join us? He was on last night's recon of the landfill?"

  "Might as well. Tell him to leave any long guns behind."

  "Ben, these people agreed to provide intel, leave your long gun, and bring our map with you. We also found one of Andy's group," I radioed.

  A squelch was my only acknowledgment. Moments later, Ben trotted over, keeping his hands in plain view and away from his sides.

  I introduced Ben to Chuck and John. Ben spread out our map on the porch to show Chuck the location of the massed force and our estimate about where they were shooting.

  "More must have arrived after I left the compound," John said. "They sound even bigger than the gang who jumped us near the Helena bridge."

  "How did you find the compound?" I asked.

  "Dwayne joined our group somewhere in Texas or Oklahoma. He was on his way home to Helena and promised to help us cross the bridge," John said. "After we got hit, Dwayne led us to his family's property. We lost four men, and Jamie and Joe were wounded. We also lost most of our supplies getting away."

  "How did you reach that location from the bridge?" I asked, seeing no reasonable route on our map, anyway.

  "Dwayne led us on powerline right of ways and on goat tracks to reach his family," John said. "We thought we got away clean. Dwayne's family was pissed, he brought us there, and they sure as hell didn't trust us. They agreed to let us stay overnight and allowed Andy to call home."

  I nodded encouragement.

  John continued, "We planned to leave the next morning for the rendezvous point, but the bad guys showed up at the compound gate. Their small group couldn't break in, but we couldn't take the kids and wounded out past them without getting shot. Sergeant Grady wanted to send out a patrol and kill them, but Dwayne's family wouldn't let us. They thought the bad guys would give up after a while and just go away."

  "The inmates now have a substantial force near Dwayne's compound," Ben said. "What happened next?"

  "Dwayne gave me directions on how to find St. Francis Point, but in the dark, I missed a turn. I should have backtracked and found a better place to cross the fields. Instead, they caught me. I lost so much time going cross country, I was in a hurry," John said. "I wanted to leave the message and return to help defend my family, especially after the murdering scum who ambushed us showed up."

  Chuck's son arrived, dropped off John's gear, and then left to fetch Chuck's map. Chuck confirmed our motor club map was missing a lot of small roads. Which we already knew.

  "I've never been in the Johnson compound," Chuck said, "but you can reach the road it's on from this side of the ridge. We printed some satellite maps of the area after the president's speech. They show some of the tiny unmarked roads, but the trees are thick on Crowley Ridge."

  Once Chuck's son brought the satellite maps, Ben questioned both John and Chuck about the area around the compound. John's knowledge was limited to the immediate compound and the directions he got from Dwayne. Chuck knew nothing about the compound but was very familiar with the ways to navigate around
his town.

  Together they agreed there was no direct route from Chuck's farm across Crowley Ridge to the landfill. The closest route across the ridge involved a backtrail leading from the Maple Hill Cemetery. Chuck thought we would be hard pressed to take a four-wheel-drive pickup through that route as it was more of an ATV and dirt bike trail. A several mile detour, which required entering the city of Helena itself was the only eastern approach for a regular vehicle, according to Chuck.

  "I came in through that cemetery," John said. "Spooky at night but no live people there. That was before I got lost. I thought this farm," pointing on the satellite map at a farming area south of Chuck's farm but north of the cemetery, "was the last residence on Big Spring Road. If I turned there toward the river, I would have avoided this farm." The bitterness in his voice was thick.