by J. J. Holden
As he finished summarizing those details to his wife, Cassy nodded. “So we’re still focusing on early warning devices from Michael and small sandbagged foxholes to fall back to if we’re in the field when trouble comes?”
“Yep. The hard part is getting them emplaced without taking up good planting space. But we’re going to put one in each of the larger hubs out in the Jungle and among the food forest.”
The Jungle was what they’d started to call the sprawling intercropped intensive agricultural area, with the branching paths and so on. Cassy wasn’t sure when the term had gone from being a joke to being its proper name, with a capital “J.”
“Cool,” Cassy replied. “What’s the status of the chickens program? Did we lose those two chicks that hatched last week?”
“No, with the lightbulb and that nasty herb you soaked into their water bin, they came through. More will hatch any day. At this rate, we’ll have a full flock by winter, but then we’ll have to feed them. I’m going to recommend at the next meeting that we cull all the older ones and most of the hatchlings, keeping only the biggest and healthiest to start anew in the spring.”
“The plant’s called comfrey, Frank. Why can’t you remember that?” She smiled. “Internally, it’s mildly astringent and helps make for healthy lungs and intestines. The loose droppings have stopped since we began adding it, but I’m nervous to try a stronger concoction on little chickens.”
Frank was about to reply, when a deep boom sounded from far into the Jungle, accompanied by a white cloud. One of their trip-wire early warning traps, which were shotgun shells filled with baking soda, had gone off.
Cassy scrambled to her feet, reaching for her rifle that leaned against the wall of the house under construction. Fear shot through her. None of the Clan would have set that off. Someone was out there, but who? The odds were against it being someone friendly. As she looked out over the Jungle, she heard the bang, bang, bang of several rifles being fired, though she couldn’t tell if they were firing at the homestead. No ricochets, no tufts of dirt flying up.
She saw Frank grab Mary and dive over the low wall to take cover, and Cassy did the same. She peered over the wall even as she clicked off the safety of her M4. Once again, she was glad Michael insisted that rifles be issued and in the field at all times, though at the time—before the first Red Locust raid—it seemed like an unnecessary encumbrance. She glanced up at the watch tower, and just then another series of shots was fired by whoever was in the Jungle; the rounds hit the tower, but hit only the sandbags. The guard sensibly ducked behind cover, and she lost sight of him.
There was a pause in the shooting, and Cassy waited anxiously. Then there was movement in the Jungle, just beyond the raised beds right outside the houses, and she took aim. She was about to fire, when Choony burst out of the corn sprinting for the homestead. Had he set off the alarm? Where the hell was his escort, Martinez? As he came closer, she heard him screaming.
“Locusts! Locusts!” he repeated, and then dove over the low, unfinished wall of the house they were building. It was closer to the fields than the original house. He landed spread-eagle in a heap near Cassy.
The thoughts whizzed by like bullets. Choony had set off the alarm, intentionally, to alert the homestead. Martinez wasn’t behind him and was likely dead or injured out there somewhere. Because of the alarm, the Clan was armed and ready to face the threat, when they caught up.
She didn’t have long to wait. In seconds, there was rustling all along the deep strip of corn that fronted the Jungle. She took aim where she thought a person must be and fired. She was rewarded with an agonized scream, but she had no time to relish the small victory as the raiders returned fire. Shots came downrange from seemingly everywhere; there must be a dozen or more raiders, damn it all.
Duck. Rise, fire, duck. Repeat. Apparently, however, the raiders didn’t realize the houses were bulletproof, the sandbag-like construction offering all the protection the Clan needed. Thank God she’d built out of earthbags.
Cassy looked over at Frank, who frowned and nodded. She didn’t know what that meant. Then he rose up, fired a couple of shots, and ducked. To her left, from near the original house, she heard Michael’s clear, strong voice: “Mueller, Sturm, get eyes on our flanks! Tower, verified targets only! Eyes on, mister!” She heard him continue yelling, getting defenses at the house organized. But for now, Cassy, Frank, Mary and Choony were on their own, and only Frank and she had rifles.
Cassy stared at Choony for a long moment. Because of him, they had time to get the children inside the house. They had time to take cover. “Thank you, Choony,” she said with a single, curt nod. The young man had just earned his place.
* * *
1700 HOURS - ZERO DAY +22
Peter rode at the front with Jim, leading the wagons and a trail of people on foot. He had a new bruise over his swollen right eye and ad-hoc stitches in his left bicep. Those had come from attacking the fuckin’ red-clad cannibals, thanks to information Jim had “obtained” from their prisoner. Poor bastard didn’t survive interrogation, or maybe Jim had just killed him after questioning. Peter hadn’t asked about that.
After they’d slaughtered half of those desperate, starving morons—they put their sentries in all the wrong places, and Peter’s people picked ’em off one by one without even raising an alarm—their emaciated leader had called Peter out to single combat. Well, God was on Peter’s side that day, as he knew He would be. Once the Red leader was disemboweled, Peter offered the rest food and life if they joined him. Join or die. They’d all chosen to join. Heh, killing the leader took the starch out of ’em, Peter congratulated himself.
Now, instead of four dozen or so people, Peter had about seventy people under him. And that turned out to be a good thing—divine providence, really—because the Reds had informed him that there was another band of Red Locusts to the west, fucking with some farm. From their description, it sounded remarkably like the homestead the spy had fled to back when Peter tracked her down. The difference now was that the spy’s crew was building a fortified house, had three dozen people, and had just kicked the everliving shit out of the other Red Locust band. His new recruits didn’t know how many Locusts survived that, but they knew it wasn’t many. They couldn’t agree whether the spy’s group had lost one or two people, but either way it was a very lopsided victory. They unanimously blamed an apparently huge collection of early warning traps and alarms the farm people put up all around the property, scattered around for acres in every direction. Hell, that info was worth the couple friends he’d lost “recruiting” this band of Locusts to his team. Team Peter. Ixin’s Immortals? No, too flashy. People of the White Stag… Now that had promise. Peter made a note to find someone who could sew up a banner for him. It’d give him a pretty sweet air of mystery, he reckoned, something to inspire his followers. Hell, they didn’t even really deserve the salvation they’d get from this little modern-day Exodus. But, he needed someone to dig the dirt, because Peter Ixin, Chief of the People of the White Stag, would never have to break his back farming again when this worked out to the finish. How could it not end with victory? God Himself was on Peter’s side.
“I’m coming for you, bitch,” Peter muttered, “and Hell is coming with me.”
Jim smirked. “Ain’t that from a movie, boss? Yeah, that Tombstone movie. Man, I sure do miss movies.”
“Seemed apropos,” Peter said with a chuckle. “Besides, ‘Let my people go’ doesn’t really work in our situation.”
In a couple days, his scouts would return from the farm, and he’d have his people ready to get the revenge the bleeding world needed, realizing his destiny as the man who saved his people. Peter laughed out loud. Destiny was calling.
- 6 -
1000 HOURS - ZERO DAY +23
CASSY WANDERED THE homestead, checking on the work parties tackling various projects and crop harvesting. Frank stood in the shade of the guard tower with Michael, having what looked like a heated convers
ation. She wanted to check in with Frank anyway, so she went over and stood nearby, waiting without interrupting.
“…can’t rely on just one obvious tower. We need a hidden observation post, too,” Michael said.
“I already told you, we don’t have the man-hours available to get that done,” Frank said. “We need houses, we need the outdoor kitchen expanded to feed the new people, we need to tend the farm continuously. Harvest time is on us, and I’m just glad Cassy was smart enough to plant lots of varieties that ripen at different times or we’d be screwed.” He turned to Cassy. “Don’t let that comment about you being smart go to your head,” he said, smiling.
Michael greeted Cassy with a nod, and said, “Why don’t we build a little tree stand on the far side of the houses, away from the tower? That would give concealment to a hidden lookout and won’t take long to set up.”
Frank looked thoughtful and nodded. “That’s true. I’ll tell you what—if the location is okay with Cassy, you and whoever wants to help can build it on your own time. I’ll reserve a couple of lanterns for you, so you’ll have light after it gets dark. You won’t have to stumble around out there. But that’s the best we can do, man. We’re just overloaded with things that need doing and can’t wait.”
“Defending ourselves needs doing, too,” Michael replied, clearly irritated. “But alright, Frank. It’s not what I hoped to hear, but I understand. Thanks for letting me draw on the stockpiles for this. It’ll pay us back with better security for the whole farm.” He turned and nodded to Cassy, then added to Frank, “I’ll see you later. I need to go check in with the guard.”
He left Cassy and Frank alone. Cassy didn’t really like Michael going to Frank with such issues, dammit, because Frank didn’t always have the latest information. She should have been brought into it automatically. They should have either come to her right away or put it on the agenda for the weekly Clan meeting. It was a little frustrating, but she couldn’t manage everything, and Frank was, after all, supporting her. It was nothing to get angry about, so she shook herself mentally and put on a smile.
“Morning, Frank. How are the work projects coming? Have we found jobs for the newcomers?” There were a dozen new faces already this week, some brought in by Cassy and a few who heard about the farm and left their homes to join the Clan for the safety in numbers it could offer.
“Yeah, they’re being productive. We have a couple chopping wood, like you asked, and the rest are either helping to harvest or working on the second house, depending on their skills and age and so on.”
Cassy nodded. “How about the Jepsons—how’re they doing? I was a bit hesitant to bring them in, but I couldn’t just leave them out there to die.”
Frank chuckled. “I get that. Well, Monique is using her skills at yakking and yapping to motivate the workers. She was a politician, after all. She’s also written down a bunch of suggestions to streamline how we do things, which I figured I’d bring up in our next weekly meeting. Some look pretty good. She’ll be an asset.”
Cassy nodded again, a little surprised at Mrs. Jepson’s pitching in like that. Frank continued, “Dean is another story. He’s a damn hard worker, but impatient with the others when they don’t understand his point or what he’s driving at. I think he’s probably a genius, though—his ideas for getting the house built faster all will work as he says. And he knows how to get more done in fewer steps. He got everyone to set one earthbag each time they come in from the fields. If they each put down one bag every time they come in for breakfast, lunch, supper, and the end of the day, that’s around eighty extra bags a day, all without diverting any people or taking much time. I figure we’re more likely to get sixty bags, because people will forget, or be in a rush, or whatever. Still.”
“Wow, that’s pretty smart,” Cassy said. “So tell me, how are the two of them integrating with the rest? They didn’t exactly want to be here, and they don’t much like me being in charge. No surprise, all things considered.” She smiled at him. “By the way, I don’t think I’ve told you how grateful I am for all the support you’ve given me.”
Frank nodded in acknowledgement of the thanks. “I know you have some rough history with them. But they’re integrating fine, other than always coming to me. I finally told them both that you’re the leader here, it’s your farm and they need to accept that or find another Clan to live with. Dean seems fine with it, but he’s the more practical of the two. Monique tried to talk her way around it, but I just kept repeating that it’s your farm and your rules. Don’t get me wrong; I like the two of them. I think they’ll do alright here once they adjust. Like I said, they’re already contributing even if they don’t totally get how you’ve set this place up.”
“Yeah, traditional methods are hard to avoid out here,” Cassy answered. She spent a few more minutes talking to Frank about nothing much. He was easy on the eyes and had a great sense of humor. What wasn’t to like about him? It kind of sucked that he was married, but those were the breaks. After a while, she continued on her rounds, checking the other work parties, patting backs, making suggestions. She never did like managing, but she guessed she could do it okay.
* * *
1200 HOURS - ZERO DAY +23
After everyone else had been served, Cassy filled her own plate with lunch. Today it was rice and kimchi with a little bit of meat from the night before, and hardboiled eggs, all of it served with fresh milk. It smelled good, and normally she would have demolished the plate in record time—everyone in the Clan seemed hungry all the time, with the current dawn-to-dusk workload—but today she didn’t see Michael at lunch, and her uncertainty about the reason lessened her appetite. The three new Marines were also missing, and her anxiety rose.
Whatever those Marines were up to, it was probably important enough, and they could get lunch whenever they came in, so she wasn’t panicking. She’d gained some confidence in them over the past several days, but she still didn’t exactly like their unexplained absence. Michael was good at his job, she reminded herself, and he could handle just about any problem he came up against with the help of the Marines. Whatever kept him from lunch had to be pretty important. He never missed a meal if he had a choice, Cassy thought with a wry smile. A habit he learned the hard way, out in the field, she supposed. She had just eaten her last morsel of food, when the Marine Lance Corporal, Sturm, approached Cassy’s table and sat down.
“There you are,” Cassy said, putting on a friendly smile. “You don’t normally miss lunch. Seen Michael? He missed lunch, too.”
Sturm looked at her, face inscrutable, and said, “Listen, Michael and I found a pair of people on horses, scouting our position with binoculars. We caught one, and Michael needs to talk to you about it. He said to tell only you right away, so you could let the Clan know what you feel they need to know after the two of you talk. If you’re done with lunch, he’s waiting. He said to make sure you come back with me.”
Cassy felt a tingle of anxiety and realized she was fidgeting with her silverware. She forced herself to stop and put her hands in her lap. “Red Locusts?”
“No, something new. Don’t know. Michael can tell you more.” She started to rise. “Shall we go?”
Cassy stood, decided to ignore Sturm’s peremptory manner, and put her dishes in the first of three 55-gallon drums—it was full of hot, soapy water. The cleaning team would scrub each dish in one drum after another, getting the dishes progressively cleaner as they traveled down the line. Dishes cleared, Cassy followed Sturm. Weird that she didn’t know Sturm’s first name, but Michael had said they went entirely by last name in the military, though for some reason Michael was insistent that everyone call him by his first name—something to do with not confusing the Clan. Apparently, the young woman was more comfortable going by her last name. “Okay, Sturm. Let’s get this over with.”
Sturm led Cassy through the maze of raised garden beds, passing the now-empty fields of spring wheat starting to overgrow with clover, flowers, and nettles.
They continued into the food forest that marked the edge of her original property. They had gone deep into the woods when they finally came to Michael and the other Marine, Mueller.
Near them was another man, stripped naked and tied hands-and-feet to a couple of trees, which forced him to stand spread-eagled. The man was unconscious, though still breathing, and covered in cuts and bruises.
“What the fuck is going on here, Michael,” Cassy demanded. She heard her own voice crack, and even to her own ears she sounded almost hysterical. What the hell had Michael done? The man could be just an innocent passerby, for chrissake. And Michael had clearly tortured the guy. She felt a deep revulsion as she looked back to Michael. Michael, her friend. Her companion. Her defender. And now, apparently Michael the Torturer.
“Please, Cassy, keep it together until I’ve told you what I’ve learned. This could be vital to our survival. You can judge me later, but for right now I can only say that these measures were both reasonable and necessary, from a military P-O-V. Point of view. We needed intel fast, and I obtained it. It’s not the most reliable method of getting information, because people will say anything to make the pain stop, but it is the fastest.”
The words “vital to our survival” struck Cassy like a hammer. She winced as he said the rest. Time to calm down. Freaking out could come later, but for now it was time to be the leader the Clan had chosen her to be. Lord be merciful, she wished Frank was still in charge.
“Okay, Michael. I’m calm. See? Deep breaths, voice level. Forgive me if I beat the shit out of you when this is over though. We are not the bad guys, Michael. So, what did you learn from torturing a fellow human being?”
“Well, found out that he’s a scout from a little farming community called ‘White Stag Farms.’ ”
